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HANDBOUND 
AT  THE 


GADSHILL  EDITION. 

The  Works  of  Charles  Dickens 

In  Thirty-two  Volumes. 

WITH  INTRODUCTIONS,  GENERAL  ESSAY,  AND  NOTES 
BY  ANDREW  LANG. 

VOL,    XV. 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

VOL   II. 


Printed  from  the  Edition  that  ivas  carefully  corrected  by  the  Autho, 
in  1867  and  1868. 


CONTENTS    OF    VOL.    II. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

PAGE 

A  Loss  .  1 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 
A  greater  Loss       ....... 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

The  Beginning  of  a  long  Journey  .... 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
Blissful 45 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

My  Aunt  astonishes  me .65 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
Depression 76 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Enthusiasm   .  101 


vi  CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

PAGE 

A  little  Cold  Water  122 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

A  Dissolution  of  Partnership 132 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
Wickfield  and  Keep .152 

CHAPTER  XL. 
The  Wanderer       ....  175 

CHAPTER  XLI. 

Dora's  Aunts 185 

CHAPTER  XLII. 
Mischief 205 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Another  Retrospect       ....  .         .  ,     229 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 

Our  Housekeeping  .  .  239 

CHAPTER  XLV. 
Mr.  Dick  fulfils  my  Aunt's  Predictions 257 

CHAPTER  XLVI. 
Intelligence 276 


CONTENTS.  vii 

CHAPTER  XLVII. 

PAGE 

Martha 292 

CHAPTER  XLVIII. 
Domestic       ...........     305 

CHAPTER  XLIX. 
I  am  involved  in  Mystery 319 

CHAPTER  L. 

Mr.  Peggotty's  Dream  comes  true 334 

CHAPTER  LI. 

The  Beginning  of  a  longer  Journey        .  ...     34f> 

CHAPTER  LIL 
I  assist  at  an  Explosion 367 

CHAPTER  LIU. 

Another  Retrospect 395 

CHAPTER  LIV. 
Mr.  Micawber's  Transactions 402 

CHAPTER  LV. 
Tempest 421 

CHAPTER  LVI. 

The  New  Wound,  and  the  Old       .         .  435 


tiii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  LVII. 

PAGE 

The  Emigrants       .  .  .     443 

CHAPTER  LVI11. 
Absence 456 

CHAPTER  LIX. 

Return  .  ...  .  .  4(54 

CHAPTER  LX. 

Agnes    .  ...     484 

CHAPTER  LX1. 

I  am  shown  Two  Interesting  Penitents  .         .  .     495 

CHAPTER  LXII. 
A  Light  shines  on  my  Way    ...  .  .     510 

CHAPTER   LXIII. 
A  Visitor       ...  ...  .     520 

CHAPTER  LXIV. 

A  Last  Retrospect          .  .  .  .     530 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

VOL.   II. 


PAGE 

A  STRANGER  CALLS  TO  SEE  ME      ....        Frontispiece 

I  FIND  MR.  BARKIS  GOING  OUT  WITH  THE  TIDE  ....  10 

MR.  PEGGOTTY  AND  MRS.  STEERFORTH 38 

MY  AUNT  ASTONISHES  ME 72 

MR.  WlCKFIELD  AND  HIS  PARTNER  WAIT  UPON  MY  AUNT    .        .  9G 

MR.  MlCAWBER  DELIVERS  SOME  VALEDICTORY  REMARKS      .        .  120 

TRADDLES  MAKES  A  FIGURE  IN  PARLIAMENT,  AND  I  REPORT  HTM  134 

THE  WANDERER 178 

TRADDLES  AND  I  IN  CONFERENCE  WITH  THE  MISSES  SPENLOW     .  190 

I  AM  MARRIED 23G 

OUR  HOUSEKEEPING 248 

MR.  DICK  FULFILS  MY  AUNT'S  PREDICTION 266 

THE  RIVER 294 

MR.  PEGGOTTY'S  DREAM  COMES  TRUE 344 

RESTORATION  OF  MUTUAL  CONFIDENCE  BETWEEN  MR.  AND  MRS. 

MICAWBER 300 

Mv  CHILD- WIFE'S  OLD  COMPANION       ...                  .  400 

I  AM  THE  BEARER  OF  EVIL  TIDINGS 436 

THE  EMIGRANTS 454 

I  AM  SHOWN  Two  INTERESTING  PENITENTS  .  504 


THE 
PERSONAL  HISTORY  AND  EXPERIENCE 

OF 

DAVID  COPPERFIELD  THE  YOUNGER, 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

A    LOSS. 

I  GOT  down  to  Yarmouth  in  the  evening,  and  went  to  the 
inn.  I  knew  that  Peggotty's  spare  room — my  room — was 
likely  to  have  occupation  enough  in  a  little  while,  if  that 
great  Visitor,  before  whose  presence  all  the  living  must  give 
place,  were  not  already  in  the  house;  so  I  betook  myself  to 
the  inn,  and  dined  there,  and  engaged  my  bed. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  I  went  out.  Many  of  the  shops 
were  shut,  and  the  town  was  dull.  When  I  came  to  Omer 
and  Joram's,  I  found  the  shutters  up,  but  the  shop  door 
standing  open.  As  I  could  obtain  a  perspective  view  of  Mr. 
Omer  inside,  smoking  his  pipe  by  the  parlour-door,  I  entered, 
and  asked  him  how  he  was. 

"  Why,  bless  my  life  and  soul ! "  said  Mr.  Omer,  "  how  do 
you  find  yourself?  Take  a  seat. — Smoke  not  disagreeable, 
I  hope?" 

"By  no  means,"  said  I.  "I  like  it — in  somebody  else's 
pipe." 

"What,    not   in    your    own,    eh?r    Mr.    Omer    returned, 

VOL.   II.  B 


2  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

laughing.  "  All  the  better,  sir.  Bad  habit  for  a  young  man.' 
Take  a  seat.  I  smoke,  myself,  for  the  asthma." 

Mr.  Omer  had  made  room  for  me,  and  placed  a  chair. 
He  now  sat  down  again  very  much  out  of  breath,  gasping 
at  his  pipe  as  if  it  contained  a  supply  of  that  necessary, 
without  which  he  must  perish. 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  heard  bad  news  of  Mr.  Barkis," 
said  I. 

Mr.  Omer  looked  at  me,  with  a  steady  countenance,  and 
shook  his  head. 

"Do  you  know  how  he  is  to-night?"  I  asked. 

"  The  very  question  I  should  have  put  to  you,  sir,"  returned 
Mr.  Omer,  "but  on  account  of  delicacy.  It's  one  of  the 
drawbacks  of  our  line  of  business.  When  a  party's  ill,  we 
can't  ask  how  the  party  is." 

The  difficulty  had  not  occurred  to  me;  though  I  had  had 
my  apprehensions  too,  when  I  went  in,  of  hearing  the  old 
tune.  On  its  being  mentioned,  I  recognised  it,  however,  and 
said  as  much. 

"Yes,  yes,  you  understand,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  nodding  his 
head.  "We  dursn't  do  it.  Bless  you,  it  would  be  a  shock 
that  the  generality  of  parties  mightn't  recover,  to  say  '  Omer 
and  Joram's  compliments,  and  how  do  you  find  yourself  this 
morning?1 — or  this  afternoon — as  it  may  be." 

Mr.  Omer  and  I  nodded  at  each  other,  and  Mr.  Omer 
recruited  his  wind  by  the  aid  of  his  pipe. 

"  It's  one  of  the  things  that  cut  the  trade  off  from  atten 
tions  they  could  often  wish  to  show,"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "  Take 
myself.  If  I  have  known  Barkis  a  year,  to  move  to  as  he 
went  by,  I  have  known  him  forty  year.  But  /  can't  go  and 
say,  « how  is  he  ? ' " 

I  felt  it  was  rather  hard  on  Mr.  Omer,  and  I  told  him  so. 

"I'm  not  more  self-interested,  I  hope,  than  another  man," 
said  Mr.  Omer.  "Look  at  me!  My  wind  may  fail  me  at 
any  moment,  and  it  ain't  likely  that,  to  my  own  knowledge, 
I'd  be  self-interested  under  such  circumstances.  I  say  it  ain't 


NEWS  OF  LITTLE  EMILY.  3 

likely,  in  a  man  who  knows  his  wind  will  go,  when  it  does 
go,  as  if  a  pair  of  bellows  was  cut  open;  and  that  man  a 
grandfather,"  said  Mr.  Omer. 

I  said,  "  Not  at  all.1' 

"  It  ain't  that  I  complain  of  my  line  of  business,"  said  Mr. 
Omer.  "It  ain't  that.  Some  good  and  some  bad  goes,  no 
doubt,  to  all  callings.  What  I  wish  is,  that  parties  was 
brought  up  stronger-minded." 

Mr.  Omer,  with  a  very  complacent  and  amiable  face,  took 
several  puffs  in  silence;  and  then  said,  resuming  his  first 
point : 

"Accordingly  we're  obleeged,  in  ascertaining  how  Barkis 
goes  on,  to  limit  ourselves  to  Em'ly.  She  knows  what  our 
real  objects  are,  and  she  don't  have  any  more  alarms  or 
suspicions  about  us,  than  if  we  was  so  many  lambs.  Minnie 
and  Joram  have  just  stepped  down  to  the  house,  in  fact 
(she's  there,  after  hours,  helping  her  aunt  a  bit),  to  ask  her 
how  he  is  to-night;  and  if  you  was  to  please  to  wait  till 
they  come  back,  they'd  give  you  full  partic'lers.  Will  you 
take  something  ?  A  glass  of  srub  and  water,  now  ?  I  smoke 
on  srub  and  water,  myself,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  taking  up  his 
glass,  "because  it's  considered  softening  to  the  passages,  by 
which  this  troublesome  breath  of  mine  gets  into  action.  But, 
Lord  bless  you,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  huskily,  "it  ain't  the 
passages  that's  out  of  order !  '  Give  me  breath  enough,'  says 
I  to  my  daughter  Minnie,  'and  7'11  find  passages,  my  dear.'" 

He  really  had  no  breath  to  spare,  and  it  was  very  alarm 
ing  to  see  him  laugh.  When  he  was  again  in  a  condition 
to  be  talked  to,  I  thanked  him  for  the  proffered  refreshment, 
which  I  declined,  as  I  had  just  had  dinner;  and,  observing 
that  I  would  wait,  since  he  was  so  good  as  to  invite  me, 
until  his  daughter  and  his  son-in-law  came  back,  I  inquired 
how  little  Emily  was? 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  removing  his  pipe,  that  he 
might  rub  his  chin ;  "  I  tell  you  truly,  I  shall  be  glad  when 
her  marriage  has  taken  place." 


4  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Why  so  ? "  I  inquired. 

"Well,  she's  unsettled  at  present,"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "It 
ain't  that  she's  not  as  pretty  as  ever,  for  she's  prettier — I 
do  assure  you,  she  is  prettier.  It  ain't  that  she  don't  work 
as  well  as  ever,  for  she  does.  She  was  worth  any  six,  and 
she  is  worth  any  six.  But  somehow  she  wants  heart.  If 
you  understand,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  after  rubbing  his  chin 
again,  and  smoking  a  little,  "  what  I  mean  in  a  general  way 
by  the  expression,  'A  long  pull,  and  a  strong  pull,  and  a 
pull  altogether,  my  hearties,  hurrah ! '  I  should  say  to 
you,  that  that  was — in  a  general  way — what  I  miss  in 
Em'ly." 

Mr.  Omer's  face  and  manner  went  for  so  much,  that  I 
could  conscientiously  nod  my  head,  as  divining  his  meaning. 
My  quickness  of  apprehension  seemed  to  please  him,  and  he 
went  on : 

"  Now,  I  consider  this  is  principally  on  account  of  her  being 
in  an  unsettled  state,  you  see.  We  have  talked  it  over  a 
good  deal,  her  uncle  and  myself,  and  her  sweetheart  and 
myself,  after  business ;  and  I  consider  it  is  principally  on  ac 
count  of  her  being  unsettled.  You  must  always  recollect  of 
Em'ly,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  shaking  his  head  gently,  "  that  she's 
a  most  extraordinary  affectionate  little  thing.  The  proverb 
says, '  You  can't  make  a  silk  purse  out  of  a  sow's  ear.'  Well, 
I  don't  know  about  that.  I  rather  think  you  may,  if  you 
begin  early  in  life.  She  has  made  a  home  out  of  that  old 
boat,  sir,  that  stone  and  marble  couldn't  beat." 

"  I  am  sure  she  has  !  "  said  I. 

"To  see  the  clinging  of  that  pretty  little  thing  to  her 
uncle,"  said  Mr.  Omer ;  "  to  see  the  way  she  holds  on  to  him, 
tighter  and  tighter,  and  closer  and  closer,  every  day,  is  to  see 
a  sight.  Now,  you  know,  there's  a  struggle  going  on  when 
that's  the  case.  Why  should  it  be  made  a  longer  one  than 
is  needful?" 

I  listened  attentively  to  the  good  old  fellow,  and  acquiesced, 
with  all  my  heart,  in  what  he  said. 


THE  LITTLE   HOUSE  FURNISHED.  5 

"Therefore,  I  mentioned  to  them,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  in  a 
comfortable,  easy-going  tone,  "  this.  I  said,  '  Now,  don't  con 
sider  Em'ly  nailed  down  in  point  of  time,  at  all.  Make  it 
your  own  time.  Her  services  have  been  more  valuable  than 
was  supposed;  her  learning  has  been  quicker  than  was 
supposed ;  Omer  and  Joram  can  run  their  pen  through  what 
remains ;  and  she's  free  when  you  wish.  If  she  likes  to  make 
any  little  arrangement,  afterwards,  in  the  way  of  doing  any 
little  thing  for  us  at  home,  very  well.  If  she  don't,  very  well 
still.  We're  no  losers,  anyhow.1*  For — don't  you  see,"  said 
Mr.  Omer,  touching  me  with  his  pipe,  "  it  ain't  likely  that  a 
man  so  short  of  breath  as  myself,  and  a  grandfather  too, 
would  go  and  strain  points  with  a  little  bit  of  a  blue-eyed 
blossom,  like  her  ?  " 

"Not  at  all,  I  am  certain,"  said  I. 

"Not  at  all!  You're  right!"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "Well, 
sir,  her  cousin — you  know  it's  a  cousin  she's  going  to  be 
married  to?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  I  replied.     "  I  know  him  well." 

"  Of  course  you  do,"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "  Well,  sir !  Her 
cousin  being,  as  it  appears,  in  good  work,  and  well  to  do, 
thanked  me  in  a  very  manly  sort  of  manner  for  this  (conduct 
ing  himself  altogether,  I  must  say,  in  a  way  that  gives  me  a 
high  opinion  of  him),  and  went  and  took  as  comfortable  a 
little  house  as  you  or  I  could  wish  to  clap  eyes  on.  That 
little  house  is  now  furnished,  right  through,  as  neat  and  com 
plete  as  a  doll's  parlour ;  and  but  for  Barkis's  illness  having 
taken  this  bad  turn,  poor  fellow,  they  would  have  been  man 
and  wife — I  dare  say,  by  this  time.  As  it  is,  there's  a  post 
ponement." 

"  And  Emily,  Mr.  Omer  ?  "  I  inquired.  "  Has  she  become 
more  settled?" 

"Why  that,  you  know,"  he  returned,  rubbing  his  double 
chin  again,  "  can't  naturally  be  expected.  The  prospect  of 
the  change  and  separation,  and  all  that,  is,  as  one  may  say, 
close  to  her  and  far  away  from  her,  both  at  once.  Barkis's 


6  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

death  needn't  put  it  off  much,  but  his  lingering  might. 
Anyway,  it's  an  uncertain  state  of  matters,  you  see." 

"I  see,"  said  I. 

"  Consequently,"  pursued  Mr.  Omer,  "  Emily's  still  a  little 
down  and  a  little  fluttered;  perhaps,  upon  the  whole,  she's 
more  so  than  she  was.  Every  day  she  seems  to  get  fonder 
and  fonder  of  her  uncle,  and  more  loth  to  part  from  all  of 
us.  A  kind  word  from  me  brings  the  tears  into  her  eyes; 
and  if  you  was  to  see  her  with  my  daughter  Minnie's  little 
girl,  you'd  never  forget  it.  Bless  my  heart  alive ! "  said  Mr. 
Omer,  pondering,  "  how  she  loves  that  child ! " 

Having  so  favourable  an  opportunity,  it  occurred  to  me  to 
ask  Mr.  Omer,  before  our  conversation  should  be  interrupted 
by  the  return  of  his  daughter  and  her  husband,  whether  he 
knew  anything  of  Martha. 

"Ah!"  he  rejoined,  shaking  his  head,  and  looking  very 
much  dejected.  u  No  good.  A  sad  story,  sir,  however  you 
corne  to  know  it.  I  never  thought  there  was  harm  in  the 
girl.  I  wouldn't  wish  to  mention  it  before  my  daughter 
Minnie — for  she'd  take  me  up  directly — but  I  never  did. 
None  of  us  ever  did." 

Mr.  Omer,  hearing  his  daughter's  footstep  before  I  heard  it, 
touched  me  with  his  pipe,  and  shut  up  one  eye,  as  a  caution. 
She  and  her  husband  came  in  immediately  afterwards. 

Their  report  was,  that  Mr.  Barkis  was  "  as  bad  as  bad 
could  be ; "  that  he  was  quite  unconscious ;  and  that  Mr. 
Chilli p  had  mournfully  said  in  the  kitchen,  on  going  away 
just  now,  that  the  College  of  Physicians,  the  College  of 
Surgeons,  and  Apothecaries'  Hall,  if  they  were  all  called  in 
together,  couldn't  help  him.  He  was  past  both  Colleges, 
Mr.  Chillip  said,  and  the  Hall  could  only  poison  him. 

Hearing  this,  and  learning  that  Mr.  Peggotty  was  there,  I 
determined  to  go  to  the  house  at  once.  I  bade  good-night 
to  Mr.  Omer,  and  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Joram  ;  and  directed  my 
steps  thither,  with  a  solemn  feeling,  which  made  Mr.  Barkis 
quite  a  new  and  different  creature. 


LITTLE  EMILY   HERSELF.  7 

My  low  tap  at  the  door  was  answered  by  Mr.  Peggotty. 
He  was  not  so  much  surprised  to  see  me  as  I  had  expected.  I 
remarked  this  in  Peggotty,  too,  when  she  came  down ;  and  I 
have  seen  it  since ;  and  I  think,  in  the  expectation  of  that 
dread  surprise,  all  other  changes  and  surprises  dwindle  into 
nothing. 

I  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Peggotty,  and  passed  into  the 
kitchen,  while  he  softly  closed  the  door.  Little  Emily  was 
sitting  by  the  fire,  with  her  hands  before  her  face.  Ham  was 
standing  near  her. 

We  spoke  in  whispers;  listening,  between  whiles,  for  any 
sound  in  the  room  above.  I  had  not  thought  of  it  on  the 
occasion  of  my  last  visit,  but  how  strange  it  was  to  me  now, 
to  miss  Mr.  Barkis  out  of  the  kitchen  ! 

"  This  is  very  kind  of  you,  Mas'r  Davy,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"  It's  oncommon  kind,"  said  Ham. 

"  Em'ly,  my  dear,"  cried  Mr.  Peggotty.  "  See  here  !  Here's 
Mas'r  Davy  come !  What,  cheer  up,  pretty !  Not  a  wured 
to  Mas'r  Davy  ?  " 

There  was  a  trembling  upon  her,  that  I  can  see  now.  The 
coldness  of  her  hand  when  I  touched  it,  I  can  feel  yet.  Its 
only  sign  of  animation  was  to  shrink  from  mine ;  and  then 
she  glided  from  the  chair,  and,  creeping  to  the  other  side  of 
her  uncle,  bowed  herself,  silently  and  trembling  still,  upon 
his  breast. 

"  It's  such  a  loving  art,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  smoothing 
her  rich  hair  with  his  great  hard  hand,  "  that  it  can't  abear 
the  sorrer  of  this.  It's  nat'ral  in  young  folk,  Mas'r  Davy, 
when  they're  new  to  these  here  trials,  and  timid,  like  my  little 
bird,— it's  nat'ral." 

She  clung  the  closer  to  him,  but  neither  lifted  up  her  face, 
nor  spoke  a  word. 

"  It's  getting  late,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "  and 
here's  Ham  come  fur  to  take  you  home.  Theer !  Go 
along  with  t'  other  loving  art !  What,  Em'ly  ?  Eh,  my 
pretty?" 


8  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

The  sound  of  her  voice  had  not  reached  me,  but  he  bent 
his  head  as  if  he  listened  to  her,  and  then  said  : 

"  Let  you  stay  with  your  uncle  ?  Why,  you  doen't  mean 
to  ask  me  that !  Stay  with  your  uncle,  Moppet  ?  When 
your  husband  that'll  be  so  soon,  is  here  fur  to  take  you 
home  ?  Now  a  person  wouldn't  think  it,  fur  to  see  this  little 
thing  alongside  a  rough-weather  chap  like  me,"  said  Mr. 
Peggotty,  looking  round  at  both  of  us,  with  infinite  pride; 
"  but  the  sea  ain't  more  salt  in  it  than  she  has  fondness  in 
her  for  her  uncle — a  foolish  little  Em'ly  ! " 

"  Em'ly's  in  the  right  in  that,  Mas'r  Davy  ! "  said  Ham. 
"  Lookee  here  !  As  Em'ly  wishes  of  it,  and  as  she's  hurried 
and  frightened,  like,  besides,  I'll  leave  her  till  morning.  Let 
me  stay  too  ! " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  "  You  doen't  ought — a 
married  man  like  you — or  what's  as  good — to  take  and  hull 
away  a  day's  work.  And  you  doen't  ought  to  watch  and 
work  both.  That  won't  do.  You  go  home  and  turn  in. 
You  ain't  afeerd  of  Em'ly  not  being  took  good  care  on,  / 
know.' 

Ham  yielded  to  this  persuasion,  and  took  his  hat  to  go. 
Even  when  he  kissed  her, — and  I  never  saw  him  approach 
her,  but  I  felt  that  nature  had  given  him  the  soul  of  a 
gentleman, — she  seemed  to  cling  closer  to  her  uncle,  even  to 
the  avoidance  of  her  chosen  husband.  I  shut  the  door  after 
him,  that  it  might  cause  no  disturbance  of  the  quiet  that 
prevailed ;  and  when  I  turned  back,  I  found  Mr.  Peggotty 
still  talking  to  her. 

"  Now,  Fm  a  going  up-stairs  to  tell  your  aunt  as  Mas'r 
Davy's  here,  and  that'll  cheer  her  up  a  bit,"  he  said.  "  Sit 
ye  down  by  the  fire,  the  while,  my  dear,  and  warm  these 
mortal  cold  hands.  You  doen't  need  to  be  so  fearsome,  and 
take  on  so  much.  What?  You'll  go  along  with  me?— 
Well  !  come  along  with  me— come  !  If  her  uncle  was  turned 
out  of  house  and  home,  and  forced  to  lay  down  in  a  dyke, 
Mas'r  Davy,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  no  less  pride  than 


BARKIS  PASSING  AWAY.  9 

before,  "it's  my  belief  she'd  go  along  with  him,  now!  But 
there'll  be  some  one  else,  soon, — some  one  else,  soon,  Em'ly  ! " 

Afterwards,  when  I  went  up-stairs,  as  I  passed  the  door  of 
my  little  chamber,  which  was  dark,  I  had  an  indistinct  im 
pression  of  her  being  within  it,  cast  down  upon  the  floor. 
But,  whether  it  was  really  she,  or  whether  it  was  a  confusion 
of  the  shadows  in  the  room,  I  don't  know  now. 

I  had  leisure  to  think,  before  the  kitchen-fire,  of  pretty 
little  Em'ly's  dread  of  death — which,  added  to  what  Mr. 
Omer  had  told  me,  I  took  to  be  the  cause  of  her  being  so 
unlike  herself — and  I  had  leisure,  before  Peggotty  came  down, 
even  to  think  more  leniently  of  the  weakness  of  it :  as  I  sat 
counting  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  and  deepening  my  sense  of 
the  solemn  hush  around  me.  Peggotty  took  me  in  her  arms, 
and  blessed  and  thanked  me  over  and  over  again  for  being 
such  a  comfort  to  her  (that  was  what  she  said)  in  her  distress. 
She  then  entreated  me  to  come  up-stairs,  sobbing  that  Mr. 
Barkis  had  always  liked  me  and  admired  me;  that  he  had 
often  talked  of  me,  before  he  fell  into  a  stupor ;  and  that  she 
believed,  in  case  of  his  coming  to  himself  again,  he  would 
brighten  up  at  sight  of  me,  if  he  could  brighten  up  at  any 
earthly  thing. 

The  probability  of  his  ever  doing  so,  appeared  to  me,  when 
I  saw  him,  to  be  very  small.  He  was  lying  with  his  head 
and  shoulders  out  of  bed,  in  an  uncomfortable  attitude,  half 
resting  on  the  box  which  had  cost  him  so  much  pain  and 
trouble.  I  learned,  that,  when  he  was  past  creeping  out  of 
bed  to  open  it,  and  past  assuring  himself  of  its  safety  by 
means  of  the  divining  rod  I  had  seen  him  use,  he  had  required 
to  have  it  placed  on  the  chair  at  the  bedside,  where  he  had 
ever  since  embraced  it,  night  and  day.  His  arm  lay  on  it 
now.  Time  and  the  world  were  slipping  from  beneath  him, 
but  the  box  was  there ;  and  the  last  words  he  had  uttered 
were  (in  an  explanatory  tone)  "  Old  clothes  ! " 

"  Barkis,  my  dear ! "  said  Peggotty,  almost  cheerfully : 
bending  over  him,  while  her  brother  and  I  stood  at  the  bed's 


10  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

foot.  "Here's  my  dear  boy— my  dear  boy,  Master  Davy, 
who  brought  us  together,  Barkis !  That  you  sent  messages 
by,  you  know !  Won't  you  speak  to  Master  Davy  ?  " 

He  was  as  mute  and  senseless  as  the  box,  from  which  his 
form  derived  the  only  expression  it  had. 

"  He's  a  going  out  with  the  tide,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty  to 
me,  behind  his  hand. 

My  eyes  were  dim,  and  so  were  Mr.  Peggotty's ;  but  I 
repeated  in  a  whisper,  "  With  the  tide  ?  " 

"People  can't  die,  along  the  coast,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty, 
"except  when  the  tide's  pretty  nigh  out.  They  can't  be 
born,  unless  it's  pretty  nigh  in — not  properly  born,  till  flood. 
He's  a  going  out  with  the  tide.  It's  ebb  at  half-arter  three, 
slack  water  half-an-hour.  If  he  lives  'till  it  turns,  he'll  hold 
his  own  till  past  the  flood,  and  go  out  with  the  next  tide." 

We  remained  there,  watching  him,  a  long  time — hours. 
What  mysterious  influence  my  presence  had  upon  him  in  that 
state  of  his  senses,  I  shall  not  pretend  to  say ;  but  when  he 
at  last  began  to  wander  feebly,  it  is  certain  he  was  muttering 
about  driving  me  to  school. 

"  He's  coming  to  himself,"  said  Peggotty. 

Mr.  Peggotty  touched  me,  and  whispered  with  much  awe 
and  reverence,  "  They  are  both  a  going  out  fast." 

"  Barkis,  my  dear ! "  said  Peggotty. 

"C.  P.  Barkis,"  he  cried  faintly.  "No  better  woman 
anywhere  ! " 

"  Look  !  Here's  Master  Davy  ! "  said  Peggotty.  For  he 
now  opened  his  eyes. 

I  was  on  the  point  of  asking  him  if  he  knew  me,  when  he 
tried  to  stretch  out  his  arm,  and  said  to  me,  distinctly,  with 
a  pleasant  smile : 

"  Barkis  is  willin' ! " 

And,  it  being  low  water,  he  went  out  with  the  tide. 


12  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

half-guineas ;  two  hundred  and  ten  pounds,  in  perfectly  clean 
Bank  notes ;  certain  receipts  for  Bank  of  England  stock ;  an 
old  horse-shoe,  a  bad  shilling,  a  piece  of  camphor,  and  an 
oyster-shell.  From  the  circumstance  of  the  latter  article 
having  been  much  polished,  and  displaying  prismatic  colours 
on  the  inside,  I  conclude  that  Mr.  Barkis  had  some  general 
ideas  about  pearls,  which  never  resolved  themselves  into  any 
thing  definite. 

For  years  and  years,  Mr.  Barkis  had  carried  this  box,  on 
all  his  journeys,  every  day.  That  it  might  the  better  escape 
notice,  he  had  invented  a  fiction  that  it  belonged  to  "Mr. 
Blackboy,"  and  was  "to  be  left  with  Barkis  till  called  for;" 
a  fable  he  had  elaborately  written  on  the  lid,  in  characters 
now  scarcely  legible. 

He  had  hoarded,  all  these  years,  I  found,  to  good  purpose. 
His  property  in  money  amounted  to  nearly  three  thousand 
pounds.  Of  this  he  bequeathed  the  interest  of  one  thousand 
to  Mr.  Peggotty  for  his  life ;  on  his  decease,  the  principal  to 
be  equally  divided  between  Peggotty,  little  Emily,  and  me, 
or  the  survivor  or  survivors  of  us,  share  and  share  alike. 
All  the  rest  he  died  possessed  of,  he  bequeathed  to  Peggotty ; 
whom  he  left  residuary  legatee,  and  sole  executrix  of  that  his 
last  will  and  testament. 

I  felt  myself  quite  a  proctor  when  I  read  this  document 
aloud  with  all  possible  ceremony,  and  set  forth  its  provisions, 
any  number  of  times,  to  those  whom  they  concerned.  I 
began  to  think  there  was  more  in  the  Commons  than  I  had 
supposed.  I  examined  the  will  with  the  deepest  attention, 
pronounced  it  perfectly  formal  in  all  respects,  made  a  pencil- 
mark  or  so  in  the  margin,  and  thought  it  rather  extra 
ordinary  that  I  knew  so  much. 

In  this  abstruse  pursuit ;  in  making  an  account  for  Peggotty, 
of  all  the  property  into  which  she  had  come;  in  arranging 
all  the  affairs  in  an  orderly  manner ;  and  in  being  her  referee 
and  adviser  on  every  point,  to  our  joint  delight;  I  passed 
the  week  before  the  funeral.  I  did  not  see  little  Emily  in 


HARRIS'S  FUNERAL.  13 

that  interval,  but  they  told  me  she  was  to  be  quietly 
married  in  a  fortnight. 

I  did  not  attend  the  funeral  in  character,  if  I  may  venture 
to  say  so.  I  mean  I  was  not  dressed  up  in  a  black  cloak  and 
a  streamer,  to  frighten  the  birds;  but  I  walked  over  to 
Blunderstone  early  in  the  morning,  and  was  in  the  church 
yard  when  it  came,  attended  only  by  Peggotty  and  her 
brother.  The  mad  gentleman  looked  on,  out  of  my  little 
window;  Mr.  Chillip's  baby  wagged  its  heavy  head,  and 
rolled  its  goggle  eyes,  at  the  clergyman,  over  its  nurse's 
shoulder;  Mr.  Omer  breathed  short  in  the  background;  no 
one  else  was  there;  and  it  was  very  quiet.  We  walked 
about  the  churchyard  for  an  hour,  after  all  was  over;  and 
pulled  some  young  leaves  from  the  tree  above  my  mother's 
grave. 

A  dread  falls  on  me  here.  A  cloud  is  lowering  on  the 
distant  town,  towards  which  I  retraced  my  solitary  steps. 
I  fear  to  approach  it.  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  what  did 
come,  upon  that  memorable  night ;  of  what  must  come 
again,  if  I  go  on. 

It  is  no  worse,  because  I  write  of  it.  It  would  be  no  better, 
if  I  stopped  my  most  unwilling  hand.  It  is  done.  Nothing 
can  undo  it ;  nothing  can  make  it  otherwise  than  as  it  was. 

My  old  nurse  was  to  go  to  London  with  me  next  day,  on 
the  business  of  the  will.  Little  Emily  was  passing  that  day 
at  Mr.  Omer's.  We  were  all  to  meet  in  the  old  boathouse 
that  night.  Ham  would  bring  Emily  at  the  usual  hour.  I 
would  walk  back  at  my  leisure.  The  brother  and  sister 
would  return  as  they  had  come,  and  be  expecting  us,  when 
the  day  closed  in,  at  the  fireside. 

I  parted  from  them  at  the  wicket-gate,  where  visionary 
Straps  had  rested  with  Roderick  Random's  knapsack  in  the 
days  of  yore ;  and,  instead  of  going  straight  back,  walked  a 
little  distance  on  the  road  to  Lowestoft.  Then  I  turned, 
and  walked  back  towards  Yarmouth.  I  stayed  to  dine  at  a 
decent  alehouse,  some  mile  pr  two  from  the  Ferry  I  have 


14  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

mentioned  before ;  and  thus  the  day  wore  away,  and  it  was 
evening  when  I  reached  it.  Rain  was  falling  heavily  by  that 
time,  and  it  was  a  wild  night ;  but  there  was  a  moon  behind 
the  clouds,  and  it  was  not  dark. 

I  was  soon  within  sight  of  Mr.  Peggotty's  house,  and  of 
the  light  within  it  shining  through  the  window.  A  little 
floundering  across  the  sand,  which  was  heavy,  brought  me 
to  the  door,  and  I  went  in. 

It  looked  very  comfortable  indeed.  Mr.  Peggotty  had 
smoked  his  evening  pipe,  and  there  were  preparations  for 
some  supper  by-and-by.  The  fire  was  bright,  the  ashes  were 
thrown  up,  the  locker  was  ready  for  little  Emily  in  her  old 
place.  In  her  own  old  place  sat  Peggotty,  once  more,  looking 
(but  for  her  dress)  as  if  she  had  never  left  it.  She  had  fallen 
back,  already,  on  the  society  of  the  work-box  with  Saint 
Paul's  upon  the  lid,  the  yard-measure  in  the  cottage,  and  the 
bit  of  wax  candle :  and  there  they  all  were,  just  as  if  they 
had  never  been  disturbed.  Mrs.  Gummidge  appeared  to  be 
fretting  a  little,  in  her  old  corner;  and  consequently  looked 
quite  natural,  too. 

"  You're  first  of  the  lot,  Mas'r  Davy ! "  said  Mr.  Peggotty, 
with  a  happy  face.  "Doen't  keep  in  that  coat,  sir,  if 
it's  wet." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Peggotty,"  said  I,  giving  him  my  outer 
coat  to  hang  up.  "It's  quite  dry." 

"  So  'tis  ! "  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  feeling  my  shoulders.  "  As 
a  chip !  Sit  ye  down,  sir.  It  ain't  o'  no  use  saying  welcome 
to  you,  but  you're  welcome,  kind  and  hearty." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Peggotty,  I  am  sure  of  that.  Well, 
Peggotty!"  said  I,  giving  her  a  kiss.  "And  how  are  you, 
old  woman?" 

"Ha,  ha!"  laughed  Mr.  Peggotty,  sitting  down  beside  us, 
and  rubbing  his  hands  in  his  sense   of  relief  from  recent 
trouble,  and  in  the  genuine  heartiness  of  his  nature;  "there's 
not  a  woman  in  the  wureld,  sir— as  I  tell  her— that  need  to , 
feel  more  easy  in  her  mind  tlian  her !     She  done  her  dooty 


A  LIGHT  IN  THE  WINDOW.  15 

by  the  departed,  and  the  departed  know'd  it;  and  the 
departed  done  what  was  right  by  her,  as  she  done  what  was 
right  by  the  departed  ; — and — and — and  it's  all  right ! " 

Mrs.  Gummidge  groaned. 

"Cheer  up,  my  pretty  mawtherl"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 
(But  he  shook  his  head  aside  at  us,  evidently  sensible  of  the 
tendency  of  the  late  occurrences  to  recall  the  memory  of  the 
old  one.)  "  Doen't  be  down !  Cheer  up,  for  your  own  self, 
on'y  a  little  bit,  and  see  if  a  good  deal  more  doen't  come 
natural!" 

"  Not  to  me,  Dan'l,"  returned  Mrs.  Gummidge.  "  Nothings 
nat'ral  to  me  but  to  be  lone  and  lorn." 

"No,  no,1'  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  soothing  her  sorrows. 

"  Yes,  yes,  Dan'l ! "  said  Mrs.  Gummidge.  "  I  ain't  a 
person  to  live  with  them  as  has  had  money  left.  Thinks 
go  too  contrairy  with  me.  I  had  better  be  a  riddance." 

"Why,  how  should  I  ever  spend  it  without  you?"  said 
Mr.  Peggotty,  with  an  air  of  serious  remonstrance.  "What 
are  you  a  talking  on?  Doen't  I  want  you  more  now,  than 
ever  I  did  ?  " 

"  I  know'd  I  was  never  wanted  before ! "  cried  Mrs.  Gum 
midge,  with  a  pitiable  whimper,  "  and  now  I'm  told  so  t 
How  could  I  expect  to  be  wanted,  being  so  lone  and  lorn, 
and  so  contrairy  !  " 

Mr.  Peggotty  seemed  very  much  shocked  at  himself  for 
having  made  a  speech  capable  of  this  unfeeling  construction, 
but  was  prevented  from  replying,  by  Peggotty's  pulling  his 
sleeve,  and  shaking  her  head.  After  looking  at  Mrs. 
Gummidge  for  some  moments,  in  sore  distress  of  mind,  he 
glanced  at  the  Dutch  clock,  rose,  snuffed  the  candle,  and  put 
it  in  the  window. 

"Theer!"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  cheerily.  "  Theer  we  are, 
Missis  Gummidge  1 "  Mrs.  Gummidge  slightly  groaned. 
"  Lighted  up,  accordin'  to  custom !  You're  a  wonderin' 
what  that's  fur,  sir!  Well,  it's  fur  our  little  Em'ly.  You 
see,  the  path  ain't  over  light  or  cheerful  arter  dark;  and 


16  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

when  I'm  here  at  the  hour  as  she's  a  comirT  home,  I  puts 
the  light  in  the  winder.  That,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty, 
bending  over  me  with  great  glee,  "meets  two  objects.  She 
says,  says  Em'ly,  'Theer's  home!'  she  says.  And  likewise, 
says  Em'ly,  '  My  uncle's  theer ! '  Fur  if  I  ain't  theer,  I  never 
have  no  light  showed." 

"  You're  a  baby ! "  said  Peggotty ;  very  fond  of  him  for  it, 
if  she  thought  so. 

"Well,"  returned  Mr.  Peggotty,  standing  with  his  legs 
pretty  wide  apart,  and  rubbing  his  hands  up  and  down  them 
in  his  comfortable  satisfaction,  as  he  looked  alternately  at  us 
and  at  the  fire,  "  I  doen't  know  but  I  am.  Not,  you  see,  to 
look  at." 

"Not  azackly,"  observed  Peggotty. 

"  No,"  laughed  Mr.  Peggotty,  "  not  to  look  at,  but  to— to 
consider  on,  you  know.  /  doen't  care,  bless  you  !  Now  I  tell 
you.  When  I  go  a  looking  and  looking  about  that  theer 
pritty  house  of  our  Em'ly's,  I'm — I'm  Gormed,"  said  Mr. 
Peggotty,  with  sudden  emphasis — "  theer !  I  can't  say  more 
—if  I  doen't  feel  as  if  the  littlest  things  was  her,  a'most.  I 
takes  'em  up  and  I  puts  'em  down,  and  I  touches  of  'em  as 
delicate  as  if  they  was  our  Em'ly.  So  'tis  with  her  little 
bonnets  and  that.  I  couldn't  see  one  on  'em  rough  used 
a  purpose — not  fur  the  whole  wureld.  There's  a  babby 
for  you,  in  the  form  of  a  great  Sea  Porkypine ! "  said 
Mr.  Peggotty,  relieving  his  earnestness  with  a  roar  of 
laughter. 

Peggotty  and  I  both  laughed,  but  not  so  loud. 

"It's  my  opinion,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with 
a  delighted  face,  after  some  further  rubbing  of  his  legs, 
"as  this  is  along  of  my  havin'  played  with  her  so  much, 
and  made  believe  as  we  was  Turks,  and  French,  and  sharks, 
and  every  wariety  of  forinners— bless  you,  yes ;  and  lions  and 
whales,  and  I  doen't  know  what  all !— when  she  warn't  no 
higher  than  my  knee.  I've  got  into  the  way  on  it,  you 
know.  Why,  this  here  candle,  now!"  said  Mr.  Peggotty, 


EMILY  EXPECTED.  17 

gleefully  holding  out  his  hand  towards  it,  "  /  know  wery  well 
that  arter  she's  married  and  gone,  I  shall  put  that  candle 
theer,  just  that  same  as  now.  I  know  wery  well  that  when 
I'm  here  o'  nights  (and  where  else  should  /  live,  bless  your 
arts,  whatever  fortun  I  come  into !)  and  she  ain't  here,  or  I 
ain't  theer,  I  shall  put  the  candle  in  the  winder,  and  sit  afore 
the  fire,  pretending  I'm  expecting  of  her,  like  I'm  a  doing 
now.  There's  a  babby  for  you,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with 
another  roar,  "  in  the  form  of  a  Sea  Porkypine !  Why,  at 
the  present  minute,  when  I  see  the  candle  sparkle  up,  I  says 
to  myself,  '  She's  a  looking  at  it !  Em'ly's  a  coming ! ' 
There's  a  babby  for  you,  in  the  form  of  a  Sea  Porkypine ! 
Right  for  all  that,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  stopping  in  his  roar, 
and  smiting  his  hands  together ;  "  fur  here  she  is ! " 

It  was  only  Ham.  The  night  should  have  turned  more 
wet  since  I  came  in,  for  he  had  a  large  sou'wester  hat  on, 
slouched  over  his  face. 

"Wheer's  Em'ly?"  said  Mr.  Peggotty. 

Ham  made  a  motion  with  his  head,  as  if  she  were  outside. 
Mr.  Peggotty  took  the  light  from  the  window,  trimmed  it, 
put  it  on  the  table,  and  was  busily  stirring  the  fire,  when 
Ham,  who  had  not  moved,  said  : 

"Mas'r  Davy,  will  you  come  out  a  minute,  and  see  what 
Em'ly  and  me  has  got  to  show  you  ? " 

We  went  out.  As  I  passed  him  at  the  door,  I  saw,  to  my 
astonishment  and  fright,  that  he  was  deadly  pale.  He  pushed 
me  hastily  into  the  open  air,  and  closed  the  door  upon  us. 
Only  upon  us  two. 

"Ham!  what's  the  matter ?" 

"  Mas'r  Davy  !— "  Oh,  for  his  broken  heart,  how  dreadfully 
he  wept ! 

I  was  paralyzed  by  the  sight  of  such  grief.  I  don't  know 
what  I  thought,  or  what  I  dreaded.  I  could  only  look  at 
him. 

"Ham!  Poor  good  fellow!  For  Heaven's  sake,  tell  me 
what's  the  matter ! " 

VOL.  ii.  c 


18  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"My  love,  Mas'r  Davy — the  pride  and  hope  of  my  art— 
her  that  I'd  have  died  for,  and  would  die  for  now — she's 
gone  ! " 

"Gone!" 

"  Em'ly's  run  away  !  Oh,  Mas'r  Davy,  think  how  she's  run 
away,  when  I  pray  my  good  and  gracious  God  to  kill  her 
(her  that  is  so  dear  above  all  things)  sooner  than  let  her 
come  to  ruin  and  disgrace ! " 

The  face  he  turned  up  to  the  troubled  sky,  the  quivering 
of  his  clasped  hands,  the  agony  of  his  figure,  remain  asso 
ciated  with  that  lonely  waste,  in  my  remembrance,  to  this 
hour.  It  is  always  night  there,  and  he  is  the  only  object  in 
the  scene. 

"You're  a  scholar,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  "and  know  what's 
right  and  best.  What  am  I  to  say,  indoors?  How  am  I 
ever  to  break  it  to  him,  Mas'r  Davy  ? " 

I  saw  the  door  move,  and  instinctively  tried  to  hold  the 
latch  on  the  outside,  to  gain  a  moment's  time.  It  was  too 
late.  Mr.  Peggotty  thrust  forth  his  face ;  and  never  could  I 
forget  the  change  that  came  upon  it  when  he  saw  us,  if  I 
were  to  live  five  hundred  years. 

I  remember  a  great  wail  and  cry,  and  the  women  hanging 
about  him,  and  we  all  standing  in  the  room ;  I  with  a  paper 
in  my  hand,  which  Ham  had  given  me ;  Mr.  Peggotty,  with 
his  vest  torn  open,  his  hair  wild,  his  face  and  lips  quite 
white,  and  blood  trickling  down  his  bosom  (it  had  sprung 
from  his  mouth,  I  think),  looking  fixedly  at  me. 

"Read  it,  sir,"  he  said,  in  a  low  shivering  voice.  "Slow, 
please.  I  doen't  know  as  I  can  understand." 

In  the  midst  of  the  silence  of  death,  I  read  thus,  from  a 
blotted  letter : 

"  *  When  you,  who  love  me  so  much  better  than  I  ever  have  deserved,  even 
when  my  mind  was  innocent,  see  this,  I  shall  be  far  away.' " 

"  I  shall  be  fur  away,"  he  repeated  slowly.  "  Stop !  Em'ly 
fur  away.  Well ! " 


EMILY  LOST  AND  GONE.  19 

"'When  I  leave  my  dear  home— my  dear  home — oh,  my  dear  home! — in 
the  morning — ' " 

the  letter  bore  date  on  the  previous  night : 

" '  — it  will  be  never  to  come  back,  unless  he  brings  me  back  a  lady.  This 
will  be  found  at  night,  many  hours  after,  instead  of  me.  Oh,  if  you  knew  how 
my  heart  is  torn.  If  even  you,  that  I  have  wronged  so  much,  that  never  can 
forgive  me,  could  only  know  what  I  suffer !  I  am  too  wicked  to  write  about 
myself.  Oh,  take  comfort  in  thinking  that  I  am  so  bad.  Oh,  for  mercy's 
sake,  tell  uncle  that  I  never  loved  him  half  so  dear  as  now.  Oh,  don't 
remember  how  aifectionate  and  kind  you  have  all  been  to  me — don't  remember 
we  were  ever  to  be  married — but  try  to  think  as  if  I  died  when  I  was  little, 
and  was  buried  somewhere.  Pray  Heaven  that  I  am  going  away  from,  have 
compassion  on  my  uncle !  Tell  him  that  I  never  loved  him  half  so  dear.  Be 
his  comfort.  Love  some  good  girl,  that  will  be  what  I  was  once  to  uncle,  and 
be  true  to  you,  and  worthy  of  you,  and  know  no  shame  but  me.  God  bless  all ! 
I'll  pray  for  all,  often,  on  my  knees.  If  he  don't  bring  me  back  a  lady,  and  I 
don't  pray  for  my  own  self,  I'll  pray  for  all.  My  parting  love  to  uncle.  My 
last  tears,  and  my  last  thanks,  for  uncle ! ' " 

That  was  all. 

He  stood,  long  after  I  had  ceased  to  read,  still  looking  at 
me.  At  length  I  ventured  to  take  his  hand,  and  to  entreat 
him,  as  well  as  I  could,  to  endeavour  to  get  some  command 
of  himself.  He  replied,  "  I  thankee,  sir,  I  thankee ! "  without 
moving. 

Ham  spoke  to  him.  Mr.  Peggotty  was  so  far  sensible  of 
his  affliction,  that  he  wrung  his  hand ;  but,  otherwise,  he 
remained  in  the  same  state,  and  no  one  dared  to  disturb  him. 

Slowly,  at  last  he  moved  his  eyes  from  my  face,  as  if  he 
were  waking  from  a  vision,  and  cast  them  round  the  room. 
Then  he  said,  in  a  low  voice : 

"Who's  the  man?     I  want  to  know  his  name." 

Ham  glanced  at  me,  and  suddenly  I  felt  a  shock  that 
struck  me  back. 

"There's  a  man  suspected,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  "Who 
is  it?" 

"Mas'r  Davy!"  implored  Ham.  "Go  out  a  bit,  and  let 
me  tell  him  what  I  must.  You  doen't  ought  to  hear  it,  sir." 

I  felt  the  shock  again.  I  sank  down  in  a  chair,  and  tried 
to  utter  some  reply;  but  my  tongue  was  fettered,  and  my 
sight  was  weak. 


20  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"I  want  to  know  his  name!"  I  heard  said,  once  more. 

"For  some  time  past,"  Ham  faltered,  "there's  been  a 
servant  about  here,  at  odd  times.  There's  been  a  gen'lm'n 
too.  Both  of  'em  belonged  to  one  another." 

Mr.  Peggotty  stood  fixed  as  before,  but  now  looking  at  him. 

"The  servant,"  pursued  Ham,  "was  seen  along  with— our 
poor  girl — last  night.  He's  been  in  hiding  about  here,  this 
week  or  over.  He  was  thought  to  have  gone,  but  he  was 
hiding.  Doen't  stay,  Mas'r  Davy,  doen't ! " 

I  felt  Peggotty 's  arm  round  my  neck,  but  I  could  not  have 
moved  if  the  house  had  been  about  to  fall  upon  me. 

"A  strange  chay  and  bosses  was  outside  town,  this  morn 
ing,  on  the  Norwich  road,  a'most  afore  the  day  broke," 
Ham  went  on.  "  The  servant  went  to  it,  and  come  from  it, 
and  went  to  it  again.  When  he  went  to  it  again,  Em'ly 
was  nigh  him.  The  t'other  was  inside.  He's  the  man." 

"For  the  Lord's  love,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  falling  back, 
and  putting  out  his  hand,  as  if  to  keep  off  what  he  dreaded. 
"  Doen't  tell  me  his  name's  Steerforth  ! " 

"Mas'r  Davy,"  exclaimed  Ham,  in  a  broken  voice,  "it 
ain't  no  fault  of  yourn — and  I  am  far  from  laying  of  it  to 
you — but  his  name  is  Steerforth,  and  he's  a  damned  villain!" 

Mr.  Peggotty  uttered  no  cry,  and  shed  no  tear,  and  moved 
no  more,  until  he  seemed  to  wake  again,  all  at  once,  and 
pulled  down  his  rough  coat  from  its  peg  in  a  corner. 

"  Bear  a  hand  with  this !  I'm  struck  of  a  heap,  and  can't 
do  it,"  he  said,  impatiently.  "Bear  a  hand  and  help  me. 
Well ! "  when  somebody  had  done  so.  "  Now  give  me  that 
theer  hat ! " 

Ham  asked  him  whither  he  was  going. 

"  I'm  a  going  to  seek  my  niece.  I'm  a  going  to  seek  my 
Em'ly.  I?m  a  going,  first,  to  stave  in  that  theer  boat,  and 
sink  it  where  I  would  have  drownded  him,  as  I'm  a  livin' 
soul,  if  I  had  had  one  thought  of  what  was  in  him  !  As  he 
sat  afore  me,"  he  said,  wildly,  holding  out  his  clenched  right 
hand,  "  as  he  sat  afore  me,  face  to  face,  strike  me  down  dead, 


MRS.  GUMMIDGE  TURNS   COMFORTER.       21 

but  I'd  have  drownded  him,  and  thought  it  right ! — I'm  a 
going  to  seek  my  niece." 

"  Where  ?  "  cried  Ham,  interposing  himself  before  the  door. 

"Anywhere!  I'm  a  going  to  seek  my  niece  through  the 
wureld.  I'm  a  going  to  find  my  poor  niece  in  her  shame,  and 
bring  her  back.  No  one  stop  me !  I  tell  you  I'm  a  going 
to  seek  my  niece  ! " 

"  No,  no ! "  cried  Mrs.  Gummidge,  coming  between  them, 
in  a  fit  of  crying.  "  No,  no,  Dan'l,  not  as  you  are  now. 
Seek  her  in  a  little  while,  my  lone  lorn  Dan'l,  and  that'll 
be  but  right!  but  not  as  you  are  now.  Sit  ye  down,  and 
give  me  your  forgiveness  for  having  ever  been  a  worrit  to 
you,  Dan'l — what  have  my  contrairies  ever  been  to  this ! — 
and  let  us  speak  a  word  about  them  times  when  she  was  first 
an  orphan,  and  when  Ham  was  too,  and  when  I  was  a  poor 
widder  woman,  and  you  took  me  in.  It'll  soften  your  poor 
heart,  Dan'l,"  laying  her  head  upon  his  shoulder,  "and  you'll 
bear  your  sorrow  better ;  for  you  know  the  promise,  Dan'l, 
'As  you  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these,  you 
have  done  it  unto  me ' ;  and  that  can  never  fail  under  this 
roof,  that's  been  our  shelter  for  so  many,  many  year ! " 

He  was  quite  passive  now ;  and  when  I  heard  him  crying, 
the  impulse  that  had  been  upon  me  to  go  down  upon  my 
knees,  and  ask  their  pardon  for  the  desolation  I  had  caused, 
and  curse  Steerforth,  yielded  to  a  better  feeling.  My  over 
charged  heart  found  the  same  relief,  and  I  cried  too. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE    BEGINNING    OF   A    LONG   JOURNEY. 

WHAT  is  natural  in  me,  is  natural  in  many  other  men,  I 
infer,  and  so  I  am  not  afraid  to  write  that  I  never  had  loved 
Steerforth  better  than  when  the  ties  that  bound  me  to  him 
were  broken.  In  the  keen  distress  of  the  discovery  of  his 
unworthiness,  I  thought  more  of  all  that  was  brilliant  in 
him,  I  softened  more  towards  all  that  was  good  in  him,  I  did 
more  justice  to  the  qualities  that  might  have  made  him  a 
man  of  a  noble  nature  and  a  great  name,  than  ever  I  had 
done  in  the  height  of  my  devotion  to  him.  Deeply  as  I  felt 
my  own  unconscious  part  in  his  pollution  of  an  honest  home, 
I  believed  that  if  I  had  been  brought  face  to  face  with  him, 
I  could  not  have  uttered  one  reproach.  I  should  have  loved 
him  so  well  still — though  he  fascinated  me  no  longer — I 
should  have  held  in  so  much  tenderness  the  memory  of  my 
affection  for  him,  that  I  think  I  should  have  been  as  weak 
as  a  spirit- wounded  child,  in  all  but  the  entertainment  of  a 
thought  that  we  could  ever  be  re-united.  That  thought  I 
never  had.  I  felt,  as  he  had  felt,  that  all  was  at  an  end 
between  us.  What  his  remembrances  of  me  were,  I  have 
never  known — they  were  light  enough,  perhaps,  and  easily 
dismissed — but  mine  of  him  were  as  the  remembrances  of  a 
cherished  friend,  who  was  dead. 

Yes,  Steerforth,  long  removed  from  the  scenes  of  this  poor 
history !     My  sorrow  may  bear  involuntary   witness   against 


MR.  PEGGOTTY'S  RESOLUTION.  2S 

you  at  the  Judgment  Throne ;  but  my  angry  thoughts  or 
my  reproaches  never  will,  I  know ! 

The  news  of  what  had  happened  soon  spread  through  the 
town ;  insomuch  that  as  I  passed  along  the  streets  next 
morning,  I  overheard  the  people  speaking  of  it  at  their  doors. 
Many  were  hard  upon  her,  some  few  were  hard  upon  him, 
but  towards  her  second  father  and  her  lover  there  was  but 
one  sentiment.  Among  all  kinds  of  people  a  respect  for 
them  in  their  distress  prevailed,  which  was  full  of  gentleness 
and  delicacy.  The  seafaring  men  kept  apart,  when  those  two 
were  seen  early,  walking  with  slow  steps  on  the  beach;  and 
stood  in  knots,  talking  compassionately  among  themselves. 

It  was  on  the  beach,  close  down  by  the  sea,  that  I  found 
them.  It  would  have  been  easy  to  perceive  that  they  had 
not  slept  all  last  night,  even  if  Peggotty  had  failed  to  tell 
me  of  their  still  sitting  just  as  I  left  them,  when  it  was  broad 
day.  They  looked  worn ;  and  I  thought  Mr.  Peggotty's  head 
was  bowed  in  one  night  more  than  in  all  the  years  I  had 
known  him.  But  they  were  both  as  grave  and  steady  as  the 
sea  itself:  then  lying  beneath  a  dark  sky,  waveless — yet  with 
a  heavy  roll  upon  it,  as  if  it  breathed  in  its  rest — and 
touched,  on  the  horizon,  with  a  strip  of  silvery  light  from 
the  unseen  sun. 

"  We  have  had  a  mort  of  talk,  sir,*"  said  Mr.  Peggotty  to 
me,  when  we  had  all  three  walked  a  little  while  in  silence, 
"of  what  we  ought  and  doen't  ought  to  do.  But  we  see 
our  course  now." 

I  happened  to  glance  at  Ham,  then  looking  out  to  sea 
upon  the  distant  light,  and  a  frightful  thought  came  into 
my  mind — not  that  his  face  was  angry,  for  it  was  not;  I 
recall  nothing  but  an  expression  of  stern  determination  in  it 
— that  if  ever  he  encountered  Steerforth,  he  would  kill  him. 

"My  dooty  here,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "is  done.  Fm 
a  going  to  seek  my — "  he  stopped,  and  went  on  in  a  firmer 
voice:  "I'm  a  going  to  seek  her.  That's  my  dooty  ever 
more."" 


24  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

He  shook  his  head  when  I  asked  him  where  he  would  seek 
her,  and  inquired  if  I  were  going  to  London  to-morrow  ?  I 
told  him  I  had  not  gone  to-day,  fearing  to  lose  the  chance 
of  being  of  any  service  to  him ;  but  that  I  was  ready  to  go 
when  he  would. 

"I'll  go  along  with  you,  sir,"  he  rejoined,  "if  you  Ye  agree 
able,  to-morrow." 

We  walked  again,  for  a  while,  in  silence. 

"Ham,"  he  presently  resumed,  "he'll  hold  to  his  present 
work,  and  go  and  live  along  with  my  sister.  The  old  boat 
yonder —  " 

"Will  you  desert  the  old  boat,  Mr.  Peggotty?"  I  gently 
interposed. 

"My  station,  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  returned,  "ain't  there  no 
longer ;  and  if  ever  a  boat  foundered,  since  there  was  dark 
ness  on  the  face  of  the  deep,  that  one's  gone  down.  But  no, 
sir,  no;  I  doen't  mean  as  it  should  be  deserted.  Fur  from 
that." 

We  walked  again  for  a  while,  as  before,  until  he  explained : 

"My  wishes  is,  sir,  as  it  shall  look,  day  and  night,  winter 
and  summer,  as  it  has  always  looked,  since  she  fust  know'd 
it.  If  ever  she  should  come  a  wandering  back,  I  wouldn't 
have  the  old  place  seem  to  cast  her  off,  you  understand,  but 
seem  to  tempt  her  to  draw  nigher  to  't,  and  to  peep  in, 
maybe,  like  a  ghost,  out  of  the  wind  and  rain,  through  the 
old  winder,  at  the  old  seat  by  the  fire.  Then,  maybe,  Mas'r 
Davy,  seein'  none  but  Missis  Gummidge  there,  she  might 
take  heart  to  creep  in,  trembling;  and  might  come  to  be 
laid  down  in  her  old  bed,  and  rest  her  weary  head  where  it 
was  once  so  gay." 

I  could  not  speak  to  him  in  reply,  though  I  tried. 

"Every  night,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "as  reg'lar  as  the  night 
comes,  the  candle  must  be  stood  in  its  old  pane  of  glass, 
that  if  ever  she  should  see  it,  it  may  seem  to  say  'Come 
back,  my  child,  come  back ! '  If  ever  there's  a  knock,  Ham 
(partic'ler  a  soft  knock),  arter  dark,  at  your  aunt's  door, 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END.  25 

doen't  you  go  nigh  it.     Let  it  be  her — not  you — that  sees 
my  fallen  child  ! " 

He  walked  a  little  in  front  of  us,  and  kept  before  us  for 
some  minutes.  During  this  interval,  I  glanced  at  Ham  again, 
and  observing  the  same  expression  on  his  face,  and  his  eye, 
still  directed  to  the  distant  light,  I  touched  his  arm. 

Twice  I  called  him  by  his  name,  in  the  tone  in  which  I 
might  have  tried  to  rouse  a  sleeper,  before  he  heeded  me. 
When  I  at  last  inquired  on  what  his  thoughts  were  so  bent, 
he  replied : 

"  On  what's  afore  me,  Mas'r  Davy ;  and  over  yon." 
"  On  the  life  before  you,  do  you  mean  ? "     He  had  pointed 
confusedly  out  to  sea. 

"Ay,  Mas'r  Davy.  I  doen't  rightly  know  how  'tis,  but 
from  over  yon  there  seemed  to  me  to  come — the  end  of  it 
like ; "  looking  at  me  as  if  he  were  waking,  but  with  the  same 
determined  face. 

"  What  end  ?  "  I  asked,  possessed  by  my  former  fear. 
"  I  doen't  know,"  he  said,  thoughtfully ;  "  I  was  calling  to 
mind  that  the  beginning  of  it  all  did  take  place  here — and 
then  the  end  come.  But  it's  gone !  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  added ; 
answering,  as  I  think,  my  look;  "you  han't  no  call  to  be 
afeerd  of  me :  but  I'm  kiender  muddled ;  I  don't  fare  to  feel 
no  matters," — which  was  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  was  not 
himself,  and  quite  confounded. 

Mr.  Peggotty  stopping  for  us  to  join  him :  we  did  so,  and 
said  no  more.  The  remembrance  of  this,  in  connexion  with 
my  former  thought,  however,  haunted  me  at  intervals,  even 
until  the  inexorable  end  came  at  its  appointed  time. 

We  insensibly  approached  the  old  boat,  and  entered.  Mrs. 
Gummidge,  no  longer  moping  in  her  especial  corner,  was 
busy  preparing  breakfast.  She  took  Mr.  Peggotty's  hat,  and 
placed  his  seat  for  him,  and  spoke  so  comfortably  and  softly, 
that  I  hardly  knew  her. 

"Dan'l,  my  good  man,"  said  she,  "you  must  eat  and  drink, 
and  keep  up  your  strength,  for  without  it  you'll  do  nowt. 


26  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Try,  that's  a  dear  soul!  And  if  I  disturb  you  with  my 
clicketten,"  she  meant  her  chattering,  "tell  me  so,  Dan'l, 
and  I  won't." 

When  she  had  served  us  all,  she  withdrew  to  the  window, 
where  she  sedulously  employed  herself  in  repairing  some  shirts 
and  other  clothes  belonging  to  Mr.  Peggotty,  and  neatly 
folding  and  packing  them  in  an  old  oilskin  bag,  such  as 
sailors  carry.  Meanwhile,  she  continued  talking,  in  the  same 
quiet  manner : 

"All  times  and  seasons,  you  know,  Dan'l,"  said  Mrs. 
Gummidge,  "I  shall  be  allus  here,  and  everythink  will  look 
accordin'  to  your  wishes.  I'm  a  poor  scholar,  but  I  shall 
write  to  you,  odd  times,  when  you're  away,  and  send  my 
letters  to  Mas'r  Davy.  Maybe  you'll  write  to  me  too,  Dan'l, 
odd  times,  and  tell  me  how  you  fare  to  feel  upon  your  lone 
lorn  journies." 

"  You'll  be  a  solitary  woman  here,  I'm  afeerd ! "  said  Mr. 
Peggotty. 

"  No,  no,  Dan'l,"  she  returned,  "  I  shan't  be  that.  Doen't 
you  mind  me.  I  shall  have  enough  to  do  to  keep  a  Beein 
for  you"  (Mrs.  Gummidge  meant  a  home),  "again  you  come 
back — to  keep  a  Beein  here  for  any  that  may  hap  to  come 
back,  Dan'l.  In  the  fine  time,  I  shall  set  outside  the  door 
as  I  used  to  do.  If  any  should  come  nigh,  they  shall  see 
the  old  widder  woman  true  to  'em,  a  long  way  off." 

What  a  change  in  Mrs.  Gummidge  in  a  little  time !  She 
was  another  woman.  She  was  so  devoted,  she  had  such  a 
quick  perception  of  what  it  would  be  well  to  say,  and  what 
it  would  be  well  to  leave  unsaid;  she  was  so  forgetful  of 
herself,  and  so  regardful  of  the  sorrow  about  her,  that  I  held 
her  in  a  sort  of  veneration.  The  work  she  did  that  day ! 
There  were  many  things  to  be  brought  up  from  the  beach  and 
stored  in  the  outhouse — as  oars,  nets,  sails,  cordage,  spars, 
lobster-pots,  bags  of  ballast,  and  the  like ;  and  though  there 
was  abundance  of  assistance  rendered,  there  being  not  a  pair 
of  working  hands  on  all  that  shore  but  would  have  laboured 


I   CALL  AT  MR.  OMER'S.  27 

hard  for  Mr.  Peggotty,  and  been  well  paid  in  being  asked 
to  do  it,  yet  she  persisted,  all  day  long,  in  toiling  under 
weights  that  she  was  quite  unequal  to,  and  fagging  to  and 
fro  on  all  sorts  of  unnecessary  errands.  As  to  deploring  her 
misfortunes,  she  appeared  to  have  entirely  lost  the  recollection 
of  ever  having  had  any.  She  preserved  an  equable  cheer 
fulness  in  the  midst  of  her  sympathy,  which  was  not  the 
least  astonishing  part  of  the  change  that  had  come  over  her. 
Querulousness  was  out  of  the  question.  I  did  not  even  observe 
her  voice  to  falter,  or  a  tear  to  escape  from  her  eyes,  the 
whole  day  through,  until  twilight;  when  she  and  I  and  Mr. 
Peggotty  being  alone  together,  and  he  having  fallen  asleep 
in  perfect  exhaustion,  she  broke  into  a  half-suppressed  fit  of 
sobbing  and  crying,  and  taking  me  to  the  door,  said,  "Ever 
bless  you,  Mas'r  Davy,  be  a  friend  to  him,  poor  dear ! " 
Then,  she  immediately  ran  out  of  the  house  to  wash  her 
face,  in  order  that  she  might  sit  quietly  beside  him,  and  be 
found  at  work  there,  when  he  should  awake.  In  short,  I  left 
her,  when  I  went  away  at  night,  the  prop  and  staff  of  Mr. 
Peggotty's  affliction :  and  I  could  not  meditate  enough  upon 
the  lesson  that  I  read  in  Mrs.  Gummidge,  and  the  new 
experience  she  unfolded  to  me. 

It  was  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock  when,  strolling  in  a 
melancholy  manner  through  the  town,  I  stopped  at  Mr. 
Omer's  door.  Mr.  Omer  had  taken  it  so  much  to  heart,  his 
daughter  told  me,  that  he  had  been  very  low  and  poorly  all 
day,  and  had  gone  to  bed  without  his  pipe. 

"  A  deceitful,  bad-hearted  girl,""  said  Mrs.  Joram.  "  There 
was  no  good  in  her,  ever  ! " 

"  Don't  say  so,"  I  returned.     "  You  don't  think  so." 

"  Yes,  I  do ! "  cried  Mrs.  Joram,  angrily. 

"  No,  no,"  said  I. 

Mrs.  Joram  tossed  her  head,  endeavouring  to  be  very  stern 
and  cross ;  but  she  could  not  command  her  softer  self,  and 
began  to  cry.  I  was  young,  to  be  sure ;  but  I  thought 
much  the  better  of  her  for  this  sympathy,  and  fancied  it 


28  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

became  her,  as  a  virtuous  wife  and  mother,  very  well 
indeed. 

"  What  will  she  ever  do  !  "  sobbed  Minnie.  "  Where  will 
she  go  !  What  will  become  of  her !  Oh,  how  could  she  be 
so  cruel,  to  herself  and  him  !  " 

1  remembered  the  time  when  Minnie  was  a  young  and 
pretty  girl ;  and  I  was  glad  that  she  remembered  it  too,  so 
feelingly. 

"My  little  Minnie,*"  said  Mrs.  Joram,  "has  only  just  now 
been  got  to  sleep.  Even  in  her  sleep  she  is  sobbing  for 
Em'ly.  All  day  long,  little  Minnie  has  cried  for  her,  and 
asked  me,  over  and  over  again,  whether  Em'ly  was  wicked  ? 
What  can  I  say  to  her,  when  Em'ly  tied  a  ribbon  off  her 
own  neck  round  little  Minnie's  the  last  night  she  was  here, 
and  laid  her  head  down  on  the  pillow  beside  her  till  she  was 
fast  asleep !  The  ribbon's  round  my  little  Minnie's  neck 
now.  It  ought  not  to  be,  perhaps,  but  what  can  I  do  ? 
Em'ly  is  very  bad,  but  they  were  fond  of  one  another.  And 
the  child  knows  nothing  ! " 

Mrs.  Joram  was  so  unhappy,  that  her  husband  came  out 
to  take  care  of  her.  Leaving  them  together,  I  went  home 
to  Peggotty's;  more  melancholy  myself,  if  possible,  than  I 
had  been  yet. 

That  good  creature — I  mean  Peggotty — all  untired  by  her 
late  anxieties  and  sleepless  nights,  was  at  her  brother's,  where 
she  meant  to  stay  till  morning.  An  old  woman,  who  had 
been  employed  about  the  house  for  some  weeks  past,  while 
Peggotty  had  been  unable  to  attend  to  it,  was  the  house's  only 
other  occupant  besides  myself.  As  I  had  no  occasion  for  her 
services,  I  sent  her  to  bed,  by  no  means  against  her  will ;  and 
sat  down  before  the  kitchen  fire  a  little  while,  to  think  about 
all  this. 

I  was  blending  it  with  the  deathbed  of  the  late  Mr.  Barkis, 
and  was  driving  out  with  the  tide  towards  the  distance  at 
which  Ham  had  looked  so  singularly  in  the  morning,  when  I 
was  recalled  from  my  wanderings  by  a  knock  at  the  door. 


AN  UNEXPECTED   VISITOR.  29 

There  was  a  knocker  upon  the  door,  but  it  was  not  that 
which  made  the  sound.  The  tap  was  from  a  hand,  and  low 
down  upon  the  door,  as  if  it  were  given  by  a  child. 

It  made  me  start  as  much  as  if  it  had  been  the  knock  of 
a  footman  to  a  person  of  distinction.  I  opened  the  door ; 
and  at  first  looked  down,  to  my  amazement,  on  nothing  but 
a  great  umbrella  that  appeared  to  be  walking  about  of  itself. 
But  presently  I  discovered  underneath  it,  Miss  Mowcher. 

I  might  not  have  been  prepared  to  give  the  little  creature 
a  very  kind  reception,  if,  on  her  removing  the  umbrella, 
which  her  utmost  efforts  were  unable  to  shut  up,  she  had 
shown  me  the  "  volatile  "  expression  of  face  which  had  made 
so  great  an  impression  on  me  at  our  first  and  last  meeting. 
But  her  face,  as  she  turned  it  up  to  mine,  was  so  earnest; 
and  when  I  relieved  her  of  the  umbrella  (which  would  have 
been  an  inconvenient  one  for  the  Irish  giant),  she  wrung  her 
little  hands  in  such  an  afflicted  manner ;  that  I  rather 
inclined  towards  her. 

"  Miss  Mowcher  ! "  said  I,  after  glancing  up  and  down  the 
empty  street,  without  distinctly  knowing  what  I  expected 
to  see  besides ;  "  how  do  you  come  here  ?  What  is  the 
matter  ?  " 

She  motioned  to  me  with  her  short  right  arm,  to  shut  the 
umbrella  for  her;  and  passing  me  hurriedly,  went  into  the 
kitchen.  When  I  had  closed  the  door,  and  followed,  with 
the  umbrella  in  my  hand,  I  found  her  sitting  on  the  corner 
of  the  fender — it  was  a  low  iron  one,  with  two  flat  bars  at 
top  to  stand  plates  upon — in  the  shadow  of  the  boiler, 
swaying  herself  backwards  and  forwards,  and  chafing  her 
hands  upon  her  knees  like  a  person  in  pain. 

Quite  alarmed  at  being  the  only  recipient  of  this  untimely 
visit,  and  the  only  spectator  of  this  portentous  behaviour,  I 
exclaimed  again,  "Pray  tell  me,  Miss  Mowcher,  what  is  the 
matter  !  are  you  ill  ?  " 

"  My  dear  young  soul,"  returned  Miss  Mowcher,  squeezing 
her  hands  upon  her  heart  one  over  the  other.  "I  am  ill 


30  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

here,  I  am  very  ill.  To  think  that  it  should  come  to  this, 
when  I  might  have  known  it  and  perhaps  prevented  it,  if  I 
hadn't  been  a  thoughtless  fool  ! " 

Again  her  large  bonnet  (very  disproportionate  to  her 
figure)  went  backwards  and  forwards,  in  her  swaying  of  her 
little  body  to  and  fro  ;  while  a  most  gigantic  bonnet  rocked, 
in  unison  with  it,  upon  the  wall. 

"  I  am  surprised,"  I  began,  "  to  see  you  so  distressed  and 
serious  " — when  she  interrupted  me. 

"  Yes,  it's  always  so  ! "  she  said.  "  They  are  all  surprised, 
these  inconsiderate  young  people,  fairly  and  full  grown,  to  see 
any  natural  feeling  in  a  little  thing  like  me  !  They  make  a 
plaything  of  me,  use  me  for  their  amusement,  throw  me  away 
when  they  are  tired,  and  wonder  that  I  feel  more  than  a  toy 
horse  or  a  wooden  soldier !  Yes,  yes,  that's  the  way.  The 
old  way  ! " 

"It  may  be,  with  others,"  I  returned,  "but  I  do  assure 
you  it  is  not  with  me.  Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  be  at  all 
surprised  to  see  you  as  you  are  now  :  I  know  so  little  of  you. 
I  said,  without  consideration,  what  I  thought." 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  returned  the  little  woman,  standing  up, 
and  holding  out  her  arms  to  show  herself.  "  See  !  What  I 
am,  my  father  was ;  and  my  sister  is ;  and  my  brother  is.  I 
have  worked  for  sister  and  brother  these  many  years — hard, 
Mr.  Copperfield — all  day.  I  must  live.  I  do  no  harm.  If 
there  are  people  so  unreflecting  or  so  cruel,  as  to  make  a 
jest  of  me,  what  is  left  for  me  to  do  but  to  make  a  jest  of 
myself,  them,  and  everything  ?  If  I  do  so,  for  the  time, 
whose  fault  is  that  ?  Mine  ?  " 

No.     Not  Miss  Mowcher's,  I  perceived. 

"If  I  had  shown  myself  a  sensitive  dwarf  to  your  false 
friend,"  pursued  the  little  woman,  shaking  her  head  at  me, 
with  reproachful  earnestness,  "  how  much  of  his  help  or  good 
will  do  you  think  /  should  ever  have  had  ?  If  little  Mowcher 
(who  had  no  hand,  young  gentleman,  in  the  making  of  her 
self)  addressed  herself  to  him,  or  the  like  of  him,  because  of 


MISS  MOWCHER'S  EMOTION.  31 

her  misfortunes,  when  do  you  suppose  her  small  voice  would 
have  been  heard  ?  Little  Mowcher  would  have  as  much  need 
to  live,  if  she  was  the  bitterest  and  dullest  of  pigmies ;  but 
she  couldn't  do  it.  No.  She  might  whistle  for  her  bread 
and  butter  till  she  died  of  Air." 

Miss  Mowcher  sat  down  on  the  fender  again,  and  took  out 
her  handkerchief,  and  wiped  her  eyes. 

"  Be  thankful  for  me,  if  you  have  a  kind  heart,  as  I  think 
you  have,"  she  said,  "that  while  I  know  well  what  I  am,  I 
can  be  cheerful  and  endure  it  all.  I  am  thankful  for  myself, 
at  any  rate,  that  I  can  find  my  tiny  way  through  the  world, 
without  being  beholden  to  any  one ;  and  that  in  return  for 
all  that  is  thrown  at  me,  in  folly  or  vanity,  as  I  go  along, 
I  can  throw  bubbles  back.  If  I  don't  brood  over  all  I  want, 
it  is  the  better  for  me,  and  not  the  worse  for  any  one.  If 
I  am  a  plaything  for  you  giants,  be  gentle  with  me." 

Miss  Mowcher  replaced  her  handkerchief  in  her  pocket, 
looking  at  me  with  very  intent  expression  all  the  while,  and 
pursued  : 

"  I  saw  you  in  the  street  just  now.  You  may  suppose  I 
am  not  able  to  walk  as  fast  as  you,  with  my  short  legs  and 
short  breath,  arid  I  couldn't  overtake  you;  but  I  guessed 
-  where  you  came,  and  came  after  you.  I  have  been  here 
before,  to-day,  but  the  good  woman  wasn't  at  home." 

"  Do  you  know  her  ? "  I  demanded. 

"  I  know  of  her,  and  about  her,"  she  replied,  "  from  Omer 
and  Joram.  I  was  there  at  seven  o'clock  this  morning.  Do 
you  remember  what  Steerforth  said  to  me  about  this  unfor 
tunate  girl,  that  time  when  I  saw  you  both  at  the  inn  ? " 

The  great  bonnet  on  Miss  Mowcher's  head,  and  the  greater 
bonnet  on  the  wall,  began  to  go  backwards  and  forwards 
again  when  she  asked  this  question. 

I  remembered  very  well  what  she  referred  to,  having  had 
it  in  my  thoughts  many  times  that  day.  I  told  her  so. 

"  May  the  Father  of  all  Evil  confound  him,"  said  the  little 
woman,  holding  up  her  forefinger  between  me  and  her 


32  DAVID  COPPERFIELD, 

sparkling  eyes;  "and  ten  times  more  confound  that  wicked 
servant;  but  I  believed  it  was  you  who  had  a  boyish  passion 
for  her!1' 

"  I  ?  "  I  repeated. 

"  Child,  child  !  In  the  name  of  blind  ill-fortune,"  cried 
Miss  Mowcher,  wringing  her  hands  impatiently,  as  she  went 
to  and  fro  again  upon  the  fender,  "why  did  you  praise  her 
so,  and  blush,  and  look  disturbed  ? " 

I  could  not  conceal  from  myself  that  I  had  done  this, 
though  for  a  reason  very  different  from  her  supposition. 

"  What  did  I  know  ? "  said  Miss  Mowcher,  taking  out  her 
handkerchief  again,  and  giving  one  little  stamp  on  the 
ground  whenever,  at  short  intervals,  she  applied  it  to  her 
eyes  with  both  hands  at  once.  "He  was  crossing  you  and 
wheedling  you,  I  saw;  and  you  were  soft  wax  in  his  hands, 
I  saw.  Had  I  left  the  room  a  minute,  when  his  man  told 
me  that  '  Young  Innocence '  (so  he  called  you,  and  you  may 
call  him  '  Old  Guilt '  all  the  days  of  your  life)  had  set  his 
heart  upon  her,  and  she  was  giddy  and  liked  him,  but  his 
master  was  resolved  that  no  harm  should  come  of  it — more 
for  your  sake  than  for  hers — and  that  that  was  their  business 
here  ?  How  could  I  but  believe  him  ?  I  saw  Steerforth 
soothe  and  please  you  by  his  praise  of  her !  You  were  the 
first  to  mention  her  name.  You  owned  to  an  old  admiration 
of  her.  You  were  hot  and  cold,  and  red  and  white,  all  at 
once  when  I  spoke  to  you  of  her.  What  could  I  think — 
what  did  I  think — but  that  you  were  a  young  libertine  in 
everything  but  experience,  and  had  fallen  into  hands  that 
had  experience  enough,  and  could  manage  you  (having  the 
fancy)  for  your  own  good  ?  Oh !  oh  !  oh  !  They  were  afraid 
of  my  finding  out  the  truth,""  exclaimed  Miss  Mowcher,  getting 
off  the  fender,  and  trotting  up  and  down  the  kitchen  with 
her  two  short  arms  distressfully  lifted  up,  "because  I  am  a 
sharp  little  thing — I  need  be,  to  get  through  the  world  at 
all ! — and  they  deceived  me  altogether,  and  I  gave  the  poor 
unfortunate  girl  a  letter,  which  I  fully  believe  was  the 


MISS   MOWCHER'S   ADVICE.  33 

beginning  of  her  ever  speaking  to  Littimer,  who  was  left 
behind  on  purpose  ! " 

I  stood  amazed  at  the  revelation  of  all  this  perfidy,  looking 
at  Miss  Mowcher  as  she  walked  up  and  down  the  kitchen 
until  she  was  out  of  breath:  when  she  sat  upon  the  fender 
again,  and,  drying  her  face  with  her  handkerchief,  shook  her 
head  for  a  long  time,  without  otherwise  moving,  and  without 
breaking  silence. 

"My  country  rounds,"  she  added  at  length,  "brought  me 
to  Norwich,  Mr.  Copperfield,  the  night  before  last.  What  I 
happened  to  find  out  there,  about  their  secret  way  of  coming 
and  going,  without  you — which  was  strange — led  to  my  sus 
pecting  something  wrong.  I  got  into  the  coach  from  London 
last  night,  as  it  came  through  Norwich,  and  was  here  this 
morning.  Oh,  oh,  oh  !  too  late ! " 

Poor  little  Mowcher  turned  so  chilly  after  all  her  crying 
and  fretting,  that  she  turned  round  on  the  fender,  putting 
her  poor  little  wet  feet  in  among  the  ashes  to  warm  them, 
and  sat  looking  at  the  fire,  like  a  large  doll.  I  sat  in  a  chair 
on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth,  lost  in  unhappy  reflections, 
and  looking  at  the  fire  too,  and  sometimes  at  her. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said  at  last,  rising  as  she  spoke.  "  It's 
late.  You  don't  mistrust  me?" 

Meeting  her  sharp  glance,  which  was  as  sharp  as  ever  when 
she  asked  me,  I  could  not  on  that  short  challenge  answer  no, 
quite  frankly. 

"  Come  ! "  said  she,  accepting  the  offer  of  my  hand  to  help 
her  over  the  fender,  and  looking  wistfully  up  into  my  face, 
"you  know  you  wouldn't  mistrust  me,  if  I  was  a  full-sized 


woman  ! 


I  felt  that  there  was  much  truth  in  this ;  and  I  felt  rather 
ashamed  of  myself. 

"  You  are  a  young  man,"  she  said,  nodding.  "  Take  a  word 
of  advice,  even  from  three  foot  nothing.  Try  not  to  associate 
bodily  defects  with  mental,  my  good  friend,  except  for  a  solid 


VOL.   II. 


34  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

She  had  got  over  the  fender  now,  and  I  had  got  over  my 
suspicion.  I  told  her  that  I  believed  she  had  given  me  a 
faithful  account  of  herself,  and  that  we  had  both  been  hapless 
instruments  in  designing  hands.  She  thanked  me,  arid  said  I 
was  a  good  fellow. 

"  Now,  mind  ! "  she  exclaimed,  turning  back  on  her  way  to 
the  door,  and  looking  shrewdly  at  me,  with  her  forefinger  up 
again.  "I  have  some  reason  to  suspect,  from  what  I  have 
heard — my  ears  are  always  open ;  I  can't  afford  to  spare  what 
powers  I  have — that  they  are  gone  abroad.  But  if  ever  they 
return,  if  ever  any  one  of  them  returns,  while  I  am  alive,  I 
am  more  likely  than  another,  going  about  as  I  do,  to  find 
it  out  soon.  Whatever  I  know,  you  shall  know.  If  ever  I 
can  do  anything  to  serve  the  poor  betrayed  girl,  I  will  do  it 
faithfully,  please  Heaven !  And  Littimer  had  better  have  a 
bloodhound  at  his  back,  than  little  Mowcher ! " 

I  placed  implicit  faith  in  this  last  statement,  when  I  marked 
the  look  with  which  it  was  accompanied. 

"Trust  me  no  more,  but  trust  me  no  less,  than  you  would 
trust  a  full-sized  woman,"  said  the  little  creature,  touching 
me  appealingly  on  the  wrist.  "If  ever  you  see  me  again, 
unlike  what  I  am  now,  and  like  what  I  was  when  you  first 
saw  me,  observe  what  company  I  am  in.  Call  to  mind  that 
I  am  a  very  helpless  and  defenceless  little  thing.  Think  of 
me  at  home  with  my  brother  like  myself  and  sister  like 
myself,  when  my  day's  work  is  done.  Perhaps  you  won't, 
then,  be  very  hard  upon  me,  or  surprised  if  I  can  be  dis 
tressed  and  serious.  Good-night ! " 

I  gave  Miss  Mowcher  my  hand,  with  a  very  different 
opinion  of  her  from  that  which  I  had  hitherto  entertained, 
and  opened  the  door  to  let  her  out.  It  was  not  a  trifling 
business  to  get  the  great  umbrella  up,  and  properly  balanced 
in  her  grasp ;  but  at  last  I  successfully  accomplished  this,  and 
saw  it  go  bobbing  down  the  street  through  the  rain,  without 
the  least  appearance  of  having  anybody  underneath  it,  except 
when  a  heavier  fall  than  usual  from  some  overcharged 


MR.  PEGGOTTY  GOES  WITH  ME  TO  LONDON.  35 

waterspout  sent  it  toppling  over,  on  one  side,  and  discovered 
Miss  Mowcher  struggling  violently  to  get  it  right.  After 
making  one  or  two  sallies  to  her  relief,  which  were  rendered 
futile  by  the  umbrella's  hopping  on  again,  like  an  immense 
bird,  before  I  could  reach  it,  I  came  in,  went  to  bed,  and 
slept  till  morning. 

In  the  morning  I  was  joined  by  Mr.  Peggotty  and  by  my 
old  nurse,  and  we  went  at  an  early  hour  to  the  coach-office, 
where  Mrs.  Gummidge  and  Ham  were  waiting  to  take  leave 
of  us. 

"Mas'r  Davy,"  Ham  whispered,  drawing  me  aside,  while 
Mr.  Peggotty  was  stowing  his  bag  among  the  luggage,  "his 
life  is  quite  broke  up.  He  doen't  know  wheer  he's  going; 
he  doen't  know  what's  afore  him ;  he's  bound  upon  a  voyage 
that'll  last,  on  and  off,  all  the  rest  of  his  days,  take  my  wured 
for 't,  unless  he  finds  what  he's  a  seeking  of.  I  am  sure  you'll 
be  a  friend  to  him,  Mas'r  Davy  ?  " 

"  Trust  me,  I  will  indeed,"  said  I,  shaking  hands  with  Ham 
earnestly. 

"Thankee.  Thankee,  very  kind,  sir.  One  thing  furder. 
I'm  in  good  employ,  you  know,  Mas'r  Davy,  and  I  han't  no 
way  now  of  spending  what  I  gets.  Money's  of  no  use  to  me 
no  more,  except  to  live.  If  you  can  lay  it  out  for  him,  I 
shall  do  my  work  with  a  better  art.  Though  as  to  that, 
sir,"  and  he  spoke  very  steadily  and  mildly,  "you're  not  to 
think  but  I  shall  work  at  all  times,  like  a  man,  and  act  the 
best  that  lays  in  my  power ! " 

I  told  him  I  was  well  convinced  of  it ;  and  I  hinted  that  I 
hoped  the  time  might  even  come,  when  he  would  cease  to 
lead  the  lonely  life  he  naturally  contemplated  now. 

"No,  sir,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head,  "all  that's  past  and 
over  with  me,  sir.  No  one  can  never  fill  the  place  that's 
empty.  But  you'll  bear  in  mind  about  the  money,  as  theer's 
at  all  times  some  laying  by  for  him  ? " 

Reminding  him  of  the  fact,  that  Mr.  Peggotty  derived  a 
steady,  though  certainly  a  very  moderate  income  from  the 


36  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

bequest  of  his  late  brother-in-law,  I  promised  to  do  so.  We 
then  took  leave  of  each  other.  I  cannot  leave  him  even 
now,  without  remembering  with  a  pang,  at  once  his  modest 
fortitude  and  his  great  sorrow. 

As  to  Mrs.  Gummidge,  if  I  were  to  endeavour  to  describe 
how  she  ran  down  the  street  by  the  side  of  the  coach,  seeing 
nothing  but  Mr.  Peggotty  on  the  roof,  through  the  tears  she 
tried  to  repress,  and  dashing  herself  against  the  people  who 
were  coming  in  the  opposite  direction,  I  should  enter  on  a 
task  of  some  difficulty.  Therefore  I  had  better  leave  her 
sitting  on  a  baker's  door-step,  out  of  breath,  with  no  shape 
at  all  remaining  in  her  bonnet,  and  one  of  her  shoes  off, 
lying  on  the  pavement  at  a  considerable  distance. 

When  we  got  to  our  journey 's  end,  our  first  pursuit  was 
to  look  about  for  a  little  lodging  for  Peggotty,  where  her 
brother  could  have  a  bed.  We  were  so  fortunate  as  to  find 
one,  of  a  very  clean  and  cheap  description,  over  a  chandlers 
shop,  only  two  streets  removed  from  me.  When  we  had 
engaged  this  domicile,  I  bought  some  cold  meat  at  an 
eating-house,  and  took  my  fellow-travellers  home  to  tea;  a 
proceeding,  I  regret  to  state,  which  did  not  meet  with  Mrs. 
Crupp's  approval,  but  quite  the  contrary.  I  ought  to 
observe,  however,  in  explanation  of  that  lady's  state  of  mind, 
that  she  was  much  offended  by  Peggotty's  tucking  up  her 
widow's  gown  before  she  had  been  ten  minutes  in  the  place, 
and  setting  to  work  to  dust  my  bedroom.  This  Mrs.  Crupp 
regarded  in  the  light  of  a  liberty,  and  a  liberty,  she  said, 
was  a  thing  she  never  allowed. 

Mr.  Peggotty  had  made  a  communication  to  me  on  the 
way  to  London  for  which  I  was  not  unprepared.  It  was, 
that  he  purposed  first  seeing  Mrs.  Steerforth.  As  I  felt 
bound  to  assist  him  in  this,  and  also  to  mediate  between 
them;  with  the  view  of  sparing  the  mother's  feelings  as 
much  as  possible,  I  wrote  to  her  that  night.  I  told  her  as 
mildly  as  I  could  what  his  wrong  was,  and  what  my  own 
share  in  his  injury.  I  said  he  was  a  man  in  very  common 


MR.  PEGGOTTY  AND  MRS.  STEERFORTIL   37 

life,  but  of  a  most  gentle  and  upright  character;  and  that 
I  ventured  to  express  a  hope  that  she  would  not  refuse  to 
see  him  in  his  heavy  trouble.  I  mentioned  two  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  as  the  hour  of  our  coming,  and  I  sent  the 
letter  myself  by  the  first  coach  in  the  morning. 

At  the  appointed  time,  we  stood  at  the  door — the  door  of 
that  house  where  I  had  been,  a  few  days  since,  so  happy : 
where  my  youthful  confidence  and  warmth  of  heart  had  been 
yielded  up  so  freely :  which  was  closed  against  me  henceforth : 
which  was  now  a  waste,  a  ruin. 

No  Littimer  appeared.  The  pleasanter  face  which  had 
replaced  his,  on  the  occasion  of  my  last  visit,  answered  to 
our  summons,  and  went  before  us  to  the  drawing-room. 
Mrs.  Steerforth  was  sitting  there.  Rosa  Dartle  glided,  as 
we  went  in,  from  another  part  of  the  room,  and  stood 
behind  her  chair. 

I  saw,  directly,  in  his  mother's  face,  that  she  knew  from 
himself  what  he  had  done.  It  was  very  pale,  and  bore  the 
traces  of  deeper  emotion  than  my  letter  alone,  weakened  by 
the  doubts  her  fondness  would  have  raised  upon  it,  would 
have  been  likely  to  create.  I  thought  her  more  like  him 
than  ever  I  had  thought  her;  and  I  felt,  rather  than  saw, 
that  the  resemblance  was  not  lost  on  my  companion. 

She  sat  upright  in  her  arm-chair,  with  a  stately,  immove- 
able,  passionless  air,  that  it  seemed  as  if  nothing  could 
disturb.  She  looked  very  stedfastly  at  Mr.  Peggotty  when 
he  stood  before  her ;  and  he  looked  quite  as  stedfastly  at 
her.  Rosa  Dartle's  keen  glance  comprehended  all  of  us. 
For  some  moments  not  a  word  was  spoken.  She  motioned 
to  Mr.  Peggotty  to  be  seated.  He  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "I 
shouldn't  feel  it  nat'ral,  ma'am,  to  sit  down  in  this  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  ?  " 

Ue  put  his  hat  under  his  arm,  and  feeling  in  his  breast 


38  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  1" 

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.  "7 
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  sho 
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  !  " 


•e    it 


at.'s  lived 

c^?o  many 

We'll   Ki 

her.,  fa 


LAi 


MISS  DARTLE  IS  FURIOUS.  41 

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  ! " 


42  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Mr.  Peggotty  passed  on,  without  a  word,  and  went  out  at 
the  door. 

"Oh,  shame,  Miss  Dartle !  shame!11  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,  drest  in  rags,  and  cast  out  in  the  streets  to  starve. 
If  I  had  the  power  to  sit  in  judgment  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  pos 
sessed,  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,  "  Fm  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, 


MR.   PEGGOTTY  BEGINS  HIS  SEARCH.        43 

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  com 
municate  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,  embrac 
ing  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  Fm  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  bye-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 


44  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

of  his  solitary  figure  toiling  on,  poor  pilgrim,  and  recalled 
the  words : 

"Fm  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 ! ' T 


CHAPTER  XXXIIL 

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  indig 
nation  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  sub 
ject  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 


46  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  on  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  imple 
ments,  busily  making  the  tour  of  my  wardrobe,  that  I  im 
parted  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-bye,  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 


I  ARRANGE  PEGGOTTY'S  AFFAIRS.  47 

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  cir 
cumstances  :  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  gentle 
man  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, 


48  DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

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 
recognised  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.  Murd 
stone,"  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 " 


A  GLIMPSE   OF  MR.  MURDSTONE.  49 

"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  im 
pressing  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  affec 
tionate  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 

VOL.  IT,  E 


50  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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 
acknowledgments  on  Peggotty's  behalf,  and  paid  Tiffey  in 


THE   PREROGATIVE   OFFICE.  51 

bank-notes.  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 


52  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  docu 
ments  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 
up-stairs  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  stall  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  Saint  Paul's  Churchyard,  which  few  people  knew, 


GIGANTIC  JOBBERY.  53 

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  pic-nic  on  the 
occasion.  I  went  out  of  my  senses  immediately ;  became  a 


54  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  pre 
tended  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 ! n 
said  Dora. 


I  PRESENT   MY  BOUQUET.  55 

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. 


56  DAVID   GOPPERFIELD. 

But  now  Mr.  Spenlow  came  out  of  the   liouse,   and   Dora 
went  to  him,  saying,  "  Look,  papa,  what  beautiful  flowers ! v 
And   Miss    Mills    smiled    thoughtfully,    as   who   should  say,' 
"  Ye  May-flies,  enjoy  your  brief  existence  in  the  bright  morn 
ing  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.1 
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  earned  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; 


I  MINGLE  JOY  WITH  AGONY.  57 

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-bye,  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 


58  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

that  I  was  not  well,  and  fly— I  don't  know  where— upon  my 
gallant  grey,  when  Dora  and  Miss  Mills  met  me. 

«  Mr.  Gopperfield,"  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  Milk'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  strayed  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  /  got  it,  and  /  unlocked  it,  and  /  took 
the  guitar  out,  and  /  sat  by  her,  and  /  held  her  handkerchief 
and  gloves,  and  /  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  HAVE  A  GLORIFIED  RIDE.  59 

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  even 
ing  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  to-morrow.  If  you  would  like  to  call, 
I  am  sure  papa  would  be  happy  to  see  you."" 


60  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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  pun1  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  \vas  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 


I  RESOLVE  TO   KNOW  MY  FATE.  61 

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  up-stairs,  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  recognised  my  own  flowers ;  the  identical  Covent  Garden 
Market  purchase !  I  cannot  say  that  they  were  very  like, 
qr  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  to-morrow. 

"  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  to-day. 

" It  was  a  long  way  for  him"  said  I,  " for  he  had  nothing 
to  uphold  him  on  the  journey." 


62  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Wasn't  he  fed,  poor  thing  ?  "  asked  Dora. 

I  began  to  think  I  would  put  it  off  till  to-morrow. 

"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  idolised  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 


MY  BLISSFUL  TIME.  63 

lovers  would  love  again ;  but  no  lover  had  ever  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  unsubstantial,  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 


64  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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  unsubstantial,  happy, 
foolish  time  !  Of  all  the  times  of  mine  that  Time  has  in  his 
grip,  there  is  none  that  in  one  retrospect  1  can  smile  at  half 
s.o  much,  and  think  of  half  so  tenderly. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

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  com 
prehend  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  resem 
blance  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  peace 
ful  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  retire 
ment  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 ; 

VOL.   II.  F 


66  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  infor 
mation  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  conver 
sations  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  widders1  weeds  (this  clause  was  underlined),  she 
had  ever  accustomed  herself  to  look  down  upon.  If  a  gentle 
man  was  the  victim  of  spies,  intruders,  and  informers  (but 


A  VISIT  FROM  TRADDLES.  67 

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-con- 
wenience"  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  appear 
ing  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.  J  suppose  it  is,  Copperfield,  because  there's  no  help 
for  it?1' 


68  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  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  un 
common,  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 


MR.  MICAWBER  CHANGES  HIS  NAME.       69 

something  the  matter  with  her  spine,  poor  girl.  The  malady 
will  wear  out  by-and-bye,  the  doctors  say,  but  in  the  mean 
time  she  has  to  lie  down  for  a  twelvemonth.  Sophy  nurses 
her.  Sophy's  the  fourth." 

"Is  the  mother  living?"  I  inquired. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Trad  dies,  "  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  pre 
vent  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  has  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 


70  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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, 
to-day  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 


TRADDLES'S  PROPERTY   RESTORED.         71 

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  repurchase  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,  J  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 


72  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  up-stairs,  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  amaze 
ment  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  ? 


I   RECEIVE   A  GREAT  SHOCK.  75 

"Because,"  said  my  aunt,  "it's  all  I  have.  Because  I'm 
ruined,  my  dear!'1 

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  to-night.  To  save  expense,  perhaps  you  can 
make  up  something  here  for  myself.  Anything  will  do. 
It's  only  for  to-night.  We'll  talk  about  this,  more,  to 
morrow." 

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  XXXV. 

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  accommoda 
tion.  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  understand 
ing  of  the  causes  of  this  sudden  and  great  change  in  my 
aunt's  affairs.  As  I  might  have  expected,  he  had  none  at 


MR.  DICK  UNDER  REVERSES.  77 

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  very  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 


78  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  custo 
mary  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  inad~ 
vertently  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. 


ALONE  WITH  MY  AUNT.  79 

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 


80  DAVID  COPPERFIELD, 

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 
Avhile  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 !  " 


MY  AUNTS  GENTLENESS.  81 

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 !  " 

"Some  one  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.1* 

"  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  some 
thing  overshadow  me  like  a  cloud. 

"  However,"  said  my  aunt,  "  I  don't  want  to  put  two  young 
VOL.  11.  G 


82  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  wras  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  engage 
ment  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 


A  RESTLESS   NIGHT.  83 

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  Keep'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 


84  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

—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'1  Commons,  along  the  watered  roads 
and  through  a  pleasant  smell  of  summer  flowers,  growing  in 
gardens  and  carried  into  town  on  hucksters1  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  dis 
heartening  intelligence  from  my  aunt." 

"  No  ! "  said  he.     "  Dear  me  !     Not  paralysis,  I  hope  r  " 

"  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 


THE  INEXORABLE  JORKINS.  85 

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  trans 
portation  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 


86  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

originally  been  alone  in  the  business,  and  now  lived  by  him 
self  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  up-stairs,  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,  Copper-field.  I  wish  it  were  other 
wise,  for  I  should  be  happy  to  meet  your  views  in  any  respect. 
I  cannot  have  the  least  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  in 
troduced  his  name. 

"He  said  I  should  object?"  asked  Mr.  Jorkins. 


MR,  JORKINS  HAS  AN  APPOINTMENT.        87 

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.  Copper- 
field,"  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 


88  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

somewhere  in  the  firm,  and  that  the  recovery  of  my  aunt's 
thousand  pounds  was  out  of  the  question.  In  a  state  of  de 
spondency,  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  familiarise  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  coining  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  conjurer's  cap,  there  is  no  one  I  should  have  wished  for 
but  you  ! " 

"  What  ?  "  returned  Agnes. 

"Well !  perhaps  Dora  first,'1  I  admitted,  with  a  blush. 

"  Certainly,  Dora  first,  I  hope,"  said  Agnes,  laughing. 

"  But  you  next ! "  said  I.     "  Wrhere  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 — 


DEAR  AGNES!  89 

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  ! "' 

u  Yes,1'  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 


90  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

desert  Mrs.  Keep,  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  stronger,  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  AUNTS  LOSSES.  91 

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  atten 
tively  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 


92  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

mining  way,  and  then  she  lost  in  the  diving  way — fishing  up 
treasure,  or  some  such  Tom  Tidier  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 


MY  AUNT'S  COURAGE.  93 

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  ex 
pended  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?" 

"  /  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  intro 
ducing  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  Dick  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  dis 
engaged  after  four  or  five  o'clock^  and  I  have  time  early  in 


94  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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.1' 

"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  fore 
noon.  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 


MR.  WICKFIELD  AND  HIS  PARTNER.        95 

the  window-sill.  I  knew  who  had  done  all  this,  by  its  seem 
ing  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  every 
thing."  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  trem 
bling  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.  Wick- 
field's  of  dependence,  was  a  sight  more  painful  to  me  than 
I  can  express.  If  I  had  seen  an  Ape  taking  command  of 


96  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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,1'  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  acknowledgment  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. 


do    YOU 


TALKING  OF  OLD  TIMES.  99 

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  un 
settled  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. 


100  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  XXXVI. 

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 


102  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  up-stairs  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  Avail.  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. 


I  CALL  ON  DOCTOR  STRONG.      103 

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  ! 


104  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  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.  Un 
doubtedly,"  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  !  " 


I  AM  SECRETARY  TO  DOCTOR   STRONG.    105 

"  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.1" 

"  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,11  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.1'' 

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  day-time  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 


106  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

making  numerous  mistakes,  but  had  sketched  so  many 
soldiers,  and  ladies1  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,  how 
ever,  as  to  young  men  who  were  not  cutting  down  the  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. 


MR.  JACK  MALDON  HOME  AGAIN.         107 

"  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  to-day  ?  "  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  to-night,"  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 


108  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  oft';  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 


I  WORK  FEROCIOUSLY.  109 

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  in 
crease,  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 


110  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

this. — I  had  heard  that  many  men  distinguished  in  various 
pursuits  had  begun  life  by  reporting  the  debates  in  Parlia 
ment.  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  to-morrow." 

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 ;  Til  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  oft',  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  : 


MR.  DICK  IS  SET  TO  WORK.  Ill 

"  But  you  are  a  very  good  penman,  sir.  You  told  me  so, 
Copper-field?" 

"  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  keep 
ing  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  considera 
tion.  "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  un 
finished  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 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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  pro 
pitious  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  oppor 
tunity  of  writing  a  letter)  was  addressed  to  me,  "By  the 
kindness  of  T.  Traddles,  Esquire,  of  the  Inner  Temple."  It 
ran  thus  : 

"Mr  DEAII  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 


SOMETHING  "TURNS  UP."  113 

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 

VOL,   II.  I 


114  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  pheno 
menon  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  con 
clusion  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 


MR.  MICAWBER  EXPLAINS.  115 

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 
oneVself  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 


116  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  Chan 
cellor.  Does  an  individual  place  himself  beyond  the  pale 
of  those  preferments  by  entering  on  such  an  office  as  Mr, 
Micawber  has  accepted?" 


MRS.  MICAWBEITS  FORESIGHT. 

"My  dear,"  observed  Mr.  Micawber — but  glancing  inquisi 
tively  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 


118  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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.11 

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,'1''  in  allusion  to  his  baldness,  "  for  that  distinction. 
I  do  not,1*  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.1' 

"  For  the  Church  ?  "  said  I,  still  pondering,  between  whiles, 
on  Uriah  Heep. 

"Yes,11  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.11 

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.11  After  many  compliments  on  this  perform 
ance,  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 


A  VALEDICTORY  ADDRESS.  119 

must  not  separate,  without  wishing  our  friends  health,  happi 
ness,  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  con 
sign  us  to  a  perfectly  new  existence,1'  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 


120  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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,'1  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 


am. 
)  Mr. 
m-jaclf 
Uiink 


man.  on 
ft  looked 


PEGGOTTY  STARTS  FOR  HOME. 

struck  such  terror  to  the  breast  of  Mrs.  Crupp,  that  she  sub 
sided  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,  how 
ever,  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  MillsY)  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 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  any  one,  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  ap 
pointed  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 


I  FRIGHTEN  DORA.  125 

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.     "  /  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 


126  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  prac 
tical,  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!11  cried  Dora.  "Oh,  yes,  it's  all  yours.  Oh, 
don't  be  dreadful ! " 

/  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  up-stairs. 

"  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 


DORA  IS    A  LITTLE  IMPRACTICABLE.      127 

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  ! " 

"  Sweet  heart ! "  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 


128  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

your  papa^s  housekeeping,  and  endeavour  to  acquire  a  Jittle 
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  excel 
lent  for  both  of  us.  For  our  path  in  life,  my  Dora,11  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,  "  7,  Miss  Mills  !  /  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 


GREAT   WISDOM  OF  MISS  MILLS.          129 

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  com 
posed,  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  sugges 
tion  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  suffer 
ing  and  trial  supply,  in  some  natures,  the  place  of  years,  and 

VOL.  IT.  K 


130  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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  tea-pot  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  to-morrow  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. 


I  KEEP  ALL  MY  IRONS  IN  THE  FIRE.     131 

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  1 "  cried  Dora. 

u  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  con 
ceit  with  her  answer,  for  a  fortune. 

Well !  I  loved  her,  and  I  went  on  loving  her,  most  absorb 
ingly,  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. 


mm-rf>   huil  vvaj   Jittlt   bnno'l  1 


CHAPTER  XXXVIIL 

A   DISSOLUTION   OF   PARTNERSHIP. 

I  DID  not  allow  my  resolution,  with  respect  to  the  Parlia 
mentary  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  unac 
countable  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  proces 
sion  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 


OUR  PARLIAMENTARY  DEBATES.          133 

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  Bucking 
ham  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  Speaker  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  note-book  on  my  knee,  fagging  after  him 
with  all  my  might  and  main.  The  inconsistency  and  reck 
lessness  of  Traddles  were  not  to  be  exceeded  by  any  real 
politician.  He  was  for  any  description  of  policy,  in  the 


134  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

compass  of  a  week ;  and  nailed  all  sorts  of  colours  to  every 
denomination  of  mast.  My  aunt,  looking  very  like  an  im- 
moveable  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  inscrip 
tions  on  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 


;    snail's   pace; 

.;,  ?h.r  May.  OH  all 

'••ibi;:    -o  know   those 

.     •  •    .        '     . 

:Vt     I'<    l>'.ict<ir"s  too ;  and  I 
i»i   <*$::'.v*siim   is,  like  «\  ovrt- 

1*."  Commons  as  usual*  I  found 
looking  ey^ft^tti^iy  grave,  and^ 
ft  in  the  habit  of  wmplaining 


JIFS  INDISCRETION  RUINS  US.  137 

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,1"  pursued  Miss  Murd- 
stone  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.1' 

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 


138  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  CopperfiekTs  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,  swallow 
ing  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 


I   TRY  TO  DEFEND  MY  CONDUCT.        139 

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.11 

"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.  Copper- 
field  ?  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  immoveable  Miss  Murdstone  laughed  con 
temptuously  in  one  short  syllable. 

"When  I  explained  my  altered  position  to  you,  sir,"  I 
began  again,  substituting  a  new  form  of  expression  for  what 


140  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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. 
Copperlield,  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. 


MR.   SPENLOWS  PROPERTY.  141 

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.1 
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  youthfu)  folly  like  the  present.  It  is  mere  folly.  Mere 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD, 

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  Blunder- 
stone,  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, 


ONLY  TO  FORGET  DORA!  143 

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  con 
sequences  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.  This  letter  1  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 
daughters  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.1' 

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 


144  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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'^  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  re 
marked.  Hearts  confined  by  cobwebs  would  burst  at  last, 
and  then  Love  was  avenged. 

This  was  small  consolation,  but  Miss  Mills  wouldn't  en 
courage  fallacious  hopes.  She  made  me  much  more  wretched 


TERRIBLE   TIDINGS   OF  MR.  SPENLOW.      145 

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  neckcloth,  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?" 

VOL.   II.  L 


146  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  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  road-side,  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  indefinable  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  any  one.  What  I  cannot  describe  is,  how,  in  the  inner 
most  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 


A   SEARCH  FOR  MR.  SPENLOWS  WILL.     147 

way  I  have  no  words  for,  envious  of  her  grief.  How  it  made 
me  restless  to  think  of  her  weeping  to  others,  or  being  con 
soled  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!11  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.11 

I  had  been  in  agony  to  obtain  some  knowledge  of  the 
circumstances  in  which  my  Dora  would  be  placed — as,  in 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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.'1 

"  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,11  said  Tiffey. 

"  Very  unpromising,11  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.11 

"  Why,  bless  my  soul,  he  made  that  very  remark ! "  I 
replied  persistently. 

"I  should  call  that  almost  final,11  observed  Tiffey.  "My 
opinion  is — no  will.11 

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 ; 


DORA   REMOVES  TO   PUTNEY.  149 

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.     Pora,  clinging  to 


150  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  over 
spread  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  after 
wards,  in  own  room.  Quoted  verses  respecting  self  and  young 
Gazelle.  Ineffectually.  Also  referred  to  Patience  on  Monu 
ment.  (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 


MISS  MILLS'S  JOURNAL.  151 

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.  Appro 
priate,  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. 
up-stairs.  D.  weeps  afresh,  cries  piteously,  '  Oh,  don't,  don't, 
don't  1  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  XXXIX. 

WICKFIELD    AND    KEEP. 

MY  aunt,  beginning,  I  imagine,  to  be  made  seriously  uncom 
fortable  by  my  prolonged  dejection,  made  a  pretence  of  being 
anxious  that  I  should  go  to  Dover  to  see  that  all  was  work 
ing  well  at  the  cottage,  which  was  let ;  and  to  conclude  an 
agreement,  with  the  same  tenant,  for  a  longer  term  of  occupa 
tion.  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  par 
ticular  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. 


I  AM  HANDED  OVER  TO  JORKINS.         153 

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,  with 
out  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  com 
petition  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  gentle 
men  being  of  a  nature  to  irritate  their  feelings,  personal 
collisions  took  place ;  and  the  Commons  was  even  scandalised 
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 


154  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

in  black  out  of  a  vehicle,  killing  any  proctor  whom  she  in 
quired  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 
marriages  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  door 
way,  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 


I  VISIT  CANTERBURY  AGAIN.  155 

towers,  and  the  old  jackdaws  and  rooks  whose  airy  voices  made 
them  more  retired  than  perfect  silence  would  have  done;  the 
battered  gateways,  once  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,1'  said  I,  "and 
will  find  my  way  up-stairs.  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 


156  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  Keep  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  con 
straint,  "  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.  Wick- 
field  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 


PROFESSIONAL  RETICENCE.  157 

intellect,  with  a  trifling  exception;  on  the  other,  is  that 
exception  ;  that  is  to  say,  the  affairs  of  Messrs.  Wick- 
field  and  Heep,  with  all  belonging  and  appertaining  there 
unto.  I  trust  I  give  no  offence  to  the  companion  of  my 
youth,  in  submitting  this  proposition  to  his  cooler  judg 
ment?" 

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  assure4  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  per 
ceived  that  there  was  something  interposed  between  him 
and  me,  since  he  had  come  into  his  new  functions,  which 


158  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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.  Keep's  whereabout.  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 


I  SEEK  ADVICE  FROM  AGNES.  159 

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  con 
tradictions  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  some  one  else." 


160  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"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.  "  W7hat  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 


I  WRITE  TO  DORA'S  AUNTS.  161 

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  pur 
pose,  Agnes  relinquished  her  desk  to  me.  But  first  I  went 
down-stairs  to  see  Mr.  Wickfield  and  Uriah  Heep. 

VOL.  II.  M 


162  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  Canter 
bury?"  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^  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  up-stairs  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. 


AN  EVIL  EYE.  163 

"I'm  umbly  thankful  to  you,  sir,*"  said  Mrs.  Heep,  in 
acknowledgment  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  villanous  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 ; 


164  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

but  it  looked  like  a  net;  and  as  she  worked  away  with  those 
Chinese  chopsticks  of  knitting-needles,  she  showed  in  the  fire 
light  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  un 
winking  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  watch 
ing  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  Dry  (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  uncom 
fortable,  that  I  would  rather  have  remained  down-stairs, 
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  com 
plaining  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, 


I  AM  A  DANGEROUS  RIVAL.  165 

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?1' 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  coming  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." 


166  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"Oh  no!  You  must  put  it  into  words,"  he  said.  "Oh> 
really  !  I  couldn't  myself.11 

"Do  you  suppose,11  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?11 

"Well,  Master  Copperfield,11  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  contor 
tion  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 ! 11  he 
interposed. 

"I  will  tellyou  what  I  should,  under  any  other  circum 
stances,  as  soon  have  thought  of  telling  to — Jack  Ketch.11 

"To  who,  sir?11  said  Uriah,  stretching  out  his  neck,  and 
shading  his  ear  with  his  hand. 

"To  the  hangman,11  I  returned.  "The  most  unlikely 
person  I  could  think  of,11 — 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.11 

"  Upon  your  soul  ?  "  said  Uriah. 

I  was  about  indignantly  to  give  my  assertion  the  con 
firmation  he  required,  when  he  caught  hold  of  my  hand,  and 
gave  it  a  squeeze. 

"Oh,  Master  Copperfield,11  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  Fll  take  off 


EARLY  LESSONS   IN  HUMILITY.  167 

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. 

66  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  con 
fess,  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 


168  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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,"1  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  learn 
ing,  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  re 
compense  himself  by  using  his  power.  I  had  never  doubted 
his  meanness,  his  craft  and  malice;  but  I  fully  compre 
hended  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  agree 
able  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  retro 
spect,  I  don't  know ;  but  they  were  raised  by  some  influence. 


URIAH  IN  HIGH  SPIRITS.  169 

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  to-day ;  but  Uriah  was  too  quick  for  me. 

"  We  seldom  see  our  present  visitor,  sir,"  he  said,  address 
ing  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,11  said  Uriah,  "  if  I  may  take  the 
liberty, — now,  suppose  you  give  us  something  or  another 
appropriate  to  Copperfield  ! " 

I  pass  over  Mr.  WickfiekTs  proposing  my  aunt,  his  pro 
posing  Mr.  Dick,  his  proposing  Doctors'*  Commons,  his  pro 
posing  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,  "  /'ll  give  you 


170  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

another  one,  and  I  umbly  ask  for  bumpers,  seeing  I  intend 
to  make  it  the  divinest  of  her  sex.11 

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  answer 
ing  a  word,  not  looking  at  or  seeing  any  one ;  blindly 
striving  for  he  knew  not  what,  his  face  all  staring  and  dis 
torted — 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 


IN  VINO   VERITAS.  171 

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.11 

"  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  every  one,11  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,11  cried 
Uriah,  with  his  long  forefinger  pointing  towards  me.  "He1!! 
say  something  presently — mind  you ! — he1!!  be  sorry  to  have 
said  afterwards,  and  youll  be  sorry  to  have  heard ! " 

"  Til  say  anything ! "  cried  Mr.  Wickfield,  with  a  desperate 
air.  "Why  should  I  not  be  in  all  the  world^  power  if  I  am 
in  yours?11 

"  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 


172  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

be  ?    I  tell  you,  if  IVe  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  excite 
ment  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  to-morrow,  sir. 
If  I  have  said  too  much,  or  more  than  I  meant,  what  of  it  ? 
I  haven't  stood  by  it!" 


ANOTHER  PARTING  FROM  AGNES.         173 

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.  Til  be  friends  with  him  to 
morrow.  It's  for  his  good.  I'm  umbly  anxious  for  his  good." 

I  gave  him  no  answer,  and  went  up-stairs  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  to-night — but  is  there  nothing  to  be  done  ?  " 

"  There  is  God  to  trust  in ! "  she  replied. 

"Can  /  do  nothing — /,  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  hand  from  me,  and  moved  a  step  back. 


174.  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  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. 

"7  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   XL. 

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  particu 
larly  discomposed,  she  always  performed  one  of  these  pedes 
trian  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 


176  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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,  to-night,""  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  Saint  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 


I  ENCOUNTER  MR.  PEGGOTTY.  177 

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  riot  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. 

"  MasV  Davy  ! "  he  said,  griping  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  o1  coming  to  make  inquiration  for  you, 
sir,  to-night,"  he  said,  "but  knowing  as  your  aunt  was  living 
along  wi'  you — for  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  to-morrow." 

"  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 

VOL.   II.  N 


178  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

looked  very  strong,  and  like  a  man  upheld  by  stedfastness  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  sate 
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  IVe  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  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 


I  knuw'd 

'•••'.*•>  i^-.r-  '.>?       -.«•«,  and  how 
,   her   listen  to 

jiktr.      \Yhv.i          :-ve  his  mot  Her,  I 
-is  right.     1    *  cut  acro«s-channel  to 
iv>i  if  Fr  1,;!  down  from  the  sky/' 
and"  thr  ^riow  drift   in.      1  saw  it 
interpose  to  kcf|»  it 


>h  genleman  as  wa»  in  authority,* 
told  him  1  WIMP  a  g°m,g  to 


AN  AFFECTING  STORY.  181 

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. 

66  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  heer, 
some  said  theer.  I  travelled  heer,  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 ! " 


182  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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, 
1  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  mo 
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  BO  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  some 
thing  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  to-morrow  (and  oh,  if  I  was  fit,  I  would  be  BO  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 


MR.  PEGGOTTY  PLANS  ANOTHER  JOURNEY.    183 

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. 
Fm  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.  Any  one'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 — "  keinder  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 


184  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

to-night,  Mas'r  Davy  (and  that  doos  me  good !),  I  shall  away 
betimes  to-morrow  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  imagi 
nation,  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  remem 
brance  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  XLJ. 

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,'1  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  Court.  Having 
dispatched  which  missive,  Mr.  Copperfield  fell  into  a  con 
dition  of  strong  nervous  agitation;  and  so  remained  until 
the  day  arrived. 


186  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  some 
thing  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 
Indian  trade,  whatever  that  was  (I  had  floating  dreams  myself 
concerning  golden  shawls  and  elephants1  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  im 
pair  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  down-stairs. 

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 


TRADDLES'S  HAIR.  187 

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.'1 

"Won't  be  smoothed  down?"  said  I. 

«  No,"  said  Traddles.  "  Nothing  will  induce  it.  If  I  was 
to  carry  a  half-hundredweight  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  lie  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-bye,  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  to-day,  for  instance?"  I 
added,  nervously. 

"Why,"    replied    Traddles,    on    whose    attentive    face    a 


188  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

thoughtful  shade  had  stolen,  "it  was  rather  a  painful 
transaction,  Copper-field,  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?11  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, 


HISTORY  OF  TRADDLES'S  PROPOSAL.      189 

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  adminis 
tered  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 


190  DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

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  won 
derfully  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. 


tier 


Uui  !      •.••rtiig.     Tratidles  had  to  indicate 

>j«rli-       »n<.{  1  had  to  Jay  claim  to  myself, 

-item solves  oi'  a  preconceived 

Coppeiiield,  and  tiltogetU«a: 

i.     'i';i  kaprove  it,  we  all  distmcfi 

bat  .  ,  sUiii  receive  another  cVi.4«. 


I  INTERRUPT  THE   ORACLE.  193 

"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  Doctors1  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  any  one.  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,11  said  Miss  Clarissa,  having  now  relieved 
her  mind,  "you  can  go  on,  my  dear.11 

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.11 

"  Think,  ma'am,11  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,11  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.11 

VOL.  IT.  o 


194  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  encourage 
ment  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  satisfac 
tion  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 
any  one  believe;  that  all  my  friends  knew  how  I  loved  her; 
that  my  aunt,  Agnes,  Traddles,  every  one  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  Parlia 
mentary  Debate,  really  did  come  out  nobly:  confirming  me 


TRADDLES  IS  A  GREAT  AUTHORITY.     195 

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  life 
time  (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  superscrip 
tion  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 


196     .  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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/1  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  recognising  any  positive 
engagement  between  Mr.  Copperfield  and  our  niece,  until  we 
have  had  an  opportunity — " 

"  Until  you  have  had  an  opportunity,  sister  Lavinia,11  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  com 
munication  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  to-day,"  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 


WE  MAKE  TERMS.  197 

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. 
Copper-field's  letter,  will  perhaps  call  upon  us.  When  visiting 


198  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  acknow 
ledgments  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 ! " 


HAPPY  WITH    MY  BLESSED  DARLING.      199 

"  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 ;  a  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 


200  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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  com 
pounded  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. 


OUR  AUNTS  EXCHANGE  VISITS.  201 

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  civilisation  on  that  subject. 
But  Dora's  aunts  soon  agreed  to  regard  my  aunt  as  an  eccen 
tric  and  somewhat  masculine  lady,  with  a  strong  understand 
ing;  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 


202  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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, 


DORA'S  IDEAS  OF  HOUSEKEEPING.        203 

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  /  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 


204  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  occasion- 
all  v  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  XLII. 

MISCHIEF. 

I  KEEL  as  if  it  were  not  tor  me  to  record,  even  though  this 
manuscript  is  intended  for  no  eyes  but  mine,  how  hard  I 
worked  at  that  tremendous  shorthand,  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  oppor 
tunities  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 


206  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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  pro 
ceeds  to  Agnes,  with  a  thankful  love. 

She  came  on  a  visit  of  a  fortnight  to  the  Doctors.  Mr. 
Wick  field  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  him 
self  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. 


URIAH   KEEPS   HIS  EYES   OPEN.  207 

"  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  a  numble  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. 

*fc  Don't  you  know  the  Doctor  better,"  said  I,  "  than  to 


208  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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.  Mai  don  ! " 

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  com 
promise,  that  I  could  not  unravel,  I  saw,  in  a  moment,  at  the 
jnercy  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,  /  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  Copper- 
field  ;  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,  Copper- 
field,"  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 


I  AM  DISGUSTED  WITH  URIAH.  209 

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  per 
fectly  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  cere 
mony  ;  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  Saturday ;  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 

VOL.   II.  P 


210  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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 


AGNES  AND  DORA  TOGETHER. 

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-bye.  Miss  Mills  had 
sailed,  and  Dora  and  I  had  gone  aboard  a  great  East  India- 
man  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 ! " 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"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  after 
wards,  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 
•Tip'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 


A  GUARDIAN  ANGEL  TO   US   BOTH.       213 

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 
to-day,  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 


214  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  court-yard  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. 


URIAH  POISONS  DOCTOR  STRONG'S  MIND.    2 

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; 


216  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  any 
one  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  our 
selves  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 


MR.  WICKFIELD'S  DOUBTS.  217 

know  (and  very  proper  in  him  as  a  father :  Fm  sure  /  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  separa 
tion." 

"  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  marry 
ing,  by  worldly  considerations  only.  I  made  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 


218  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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,r 
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  any  one.  I  never  meant  it  to  be  known 
to  any  one.  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  unpleasant 
ness  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 


DOCTOR  STRONG'S  NOBLENESS.  219 

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  affected,  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."1' 

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,  to-night,  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 
realisation  of  the  handsomest  and  most  romantic  figure  ever 
imagined  by  painter,  could  have  said  this  with  a  more  im 
pressive  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  pre 
pared  to  admit — that  I  may  have  unwittingly  ensnared  that 
lady  into  an  unhappy  marriage.  I  am  a  man  quite  unac 
customed  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  respect 
ful  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 


220  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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  con 
tentedly  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  judgment  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  to 
night,  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." 


I  TURN  MADLY  ON   URIAH. 

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  mis 
construction,  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  to-night  is  never  to  be 
said  more.  Wickfield,  give  me  an  old  friend's  arm  up 
stairs  ! " 

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?" 


222  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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,  ex 
pressly  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  con 
nexion,  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, 
u  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.1' 

"  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.  WickfieldV 

"  You  may  think  what  you  like,"  said  I,  still  in  a  towering 
rage.  "  If  it  is  not  true,  so  much  the  worthier  you." 


URIAH  FORGIVES  ME! 

"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  dis 
appointed  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 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  appear 
ance.  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 


A  DEEPENING  SHADOW.  225 

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  fore 
head  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  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 

VOL,  n. 


226  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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  unhappi- 
ness  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 


A  LETTER  FROM  MRS.  MICAWBER. 

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. 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"You  will  picture  to  yourself,  my  dear  Mr.  Copper-field, 
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  morn 
ing  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.  Copper-field, 

"  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    XLIII. 

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  pro 
cession. 

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  accom 
plishment  in  all  pertaining  to  the  art,  and  am  joined  with 
eleven  others  in  reporting  the  debates  in  Parliament  for  a 


230  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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  enthu 
siasm  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 ! 


I   AM   GOING  TO  BE   MARRIED. 

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  up-stairs ! " 

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 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

attend,  for  form's  sake,  when  I  have  time?  The  realisation 
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  con 
templates  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  every  one  I  pass  in  the  street,  must 
have  some  kind  of  perception,  that  I  am  to  be  married  the 
day  after  to-morrow.  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 


TRADDLES'S  SOPHY   ARRIVES.  233 

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 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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  some  one  taps. 

I  say,  "  Come  in  ! "  but  some  one  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  to-morrow^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 


MY  WEDDING  MORNING.  235 

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,  pre 
sents  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,  Avhom  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  over 
flowing  cordiality  to  Traddles,  who  then  gives  his  to  Mr.  Dick, 
who  then  gives  his  to  me,  who  then  give  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 


236  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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  stern 
ness,  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 


-.?'•••'  iii  ;i  corner, 
•         .,'tht'."  >  i.'u-ried  :  cv£  its 

i:»}«i-iiy  down  the  aisle  with 
irortijh  a  mist  of  half-  seen 
,  fonts,  organs,  and 
aint  airs  of  association 


at  a  youthfui  T^Atple  we 
K     Of  our  all  Jxfin    so 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 

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.  Some 
times  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 


240  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  proclama 
tion  ;  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  (particu 
larly  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  there 
fore  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  ifs  five,  and  we  were  to  have  dined  at 
four/' 


THE   AWFUL  MARY  ANNE.  241 

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  estab 
lishment  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 ! " 

VOL.  n,  R 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"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;  to-day,  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 ! "  said  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 


OUR  FIRST  LITTLE  QUARREL.  243 

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 


244  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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. 

" 1  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  unreason 
able,  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  con 
templation  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!n  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 


MY  AUNTS  ADVICE.  245 

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,1"  she  pursued,  "and  Rome 
was  not  built  in  a  day,  nor  in  a  year.  You  have  chosen 
freely  for  yourself;1'  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  communi 
cation  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  /  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 ; 


246  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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 


EVERYBODY  CHEATS  US.  247 

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  allow 
ance  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 
story  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  apologise,  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 
unfortunate  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, 


248  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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  sate  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  table-cloth 
during  dinner.  I  began  to  think  there  was  something  dis 
orderly  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 


Dora 
upon  her 


»  allusion  to  the  skirmishing  plates  upon  the  Hoo  .  or  to 
e  disreputable  appearance  of  the  castors,  whirh  ^  en?  all  at 
>.es  and  sevens,  and  looked  drunk ;  or  to  the  farther  blockade 
Traddle-s  hv  wjindering  vegetable  dishes  and  jugs.  I  could 


MY  CHILD-WIFE.  251 

"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 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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,11  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 


MY  ANXIETIES.  253 

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?11 

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 


254  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

something  of  the  realisation  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  consum 
mation  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  arrange 
ments  ;  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  down-stairs  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. 


MY  CHILD-WIFE   HELPS  ME.  255 

"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.1' 

"  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 — wln'ch  I  very  often  feigned  to  do — suggested  to 


256  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  any  one.  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  sta.irs,  iq  a  voice 
that  sounded  cheerfully  all  over  the  house : 

"Where's  Little  Blossom?" 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

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  con 
sulting  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  com 
mending  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. 

VOL.   II.  S, 


258  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  When  she  comes  to  her  mother's  age,"  said  Mrs.  Markle- 
ham,  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  Dic 
tionary  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.  Markle- 
ham,  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  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  considera 
tion  in  the  universe  !  " 


THE  OLD  SOLDIER  ON  DUTY.  259 

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.1' 

This  was  usually  said  in  the  Doctor's  presence,  and  appeared 
to  me  to  constitute  Annie's  principal  inducement  for  with 
drawing  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. 


260  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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  founda 
tion,  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  your 
self,  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. 


A  CONVERSATION  WITH  MR.  DICK.        261 

"Weak?"  said  Mr.  Dick. 

"Well,11  I  replied,  dubiously.     "  Rather  so/1 

"  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.  Til 
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 


262  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  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  re 
spectfully  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. 


MR.  DIGITS  BRIGHT  IDEA. 

"  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  simple 
ton,  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.  Til  try.  They'll  not 
blame  me.  They'll  not  object  to  me.  They'll  not  mind 
what  /  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  in 
violable  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 


264  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  some  one  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.  Markle- 
ham,  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  some  one  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  ! " 
4  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  you1!! 
imagine  my  feelings,  Miss  Trot  wood  and  David- — in  the  act 
of  making  his  will.1' 

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  / 


THE   OLD  SOLDIER'S   DISCOVERY.  265 

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  un 
conditionally  ? '  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,  invigo 
rating,"  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,  6  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  listen 
ing;  "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 


266  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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 ! fl 
(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!1' 

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 


Vfc  1    \w:    .'uv.l    pray    that   no    one    will 
Jh.    mv    tuK&a.'id   and    Either,  bn-ak   this 


Mrs  Markieharo  Uv  this  time  recovering  th#  pow..?  of 
ipeeeh^and  .seeming  tu  *w«ill  >?ith  iamily  piid.e  and  niotfaerly 
UHiignation,  hei*e  exclaim**!,  •**  Aniiicj  get  up  imnMsdi&U>iy>  and 


MRS.   STRONG'S  AVOWAL.  269 

"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  every 
body  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 


270  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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.  Markle- 
ham. 

("  Confound  the  woman ! "  said  my  aunt,  "  she  worft  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 
any  one  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  stedfastly  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, 


THE  OLD  SOLDIER  IN  TEARS. 

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.  Markle- 
ham,  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  unsuit 
ability  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, 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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 ! 


FULL  CONFIDENCE  AND  TRUST. 

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  any 
one  could  be  so  hard  as  to  suppose  that  the  truth  of  my 
heart  was  bartered  away,  and  to  be  surrounded  by  appear 
ances  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 — stedfastly  meant, 
and  purposed  to  myself — to  bear  the  whole  weight  of  know 
ing  the  un worthiness  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  to-night ;  and  by  an 
accident  I  have  also  come  to  know,  to-night,  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 

VOL.   II.  T 


274  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  had  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  pre 
parations  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 


GLORIOUS  RESULT  FOR  MR.  DICK.         275 

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  un 
fortunate  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  XLVL 

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  ot'  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 


MISS  DARTLE  SENDS  FOR  ME.  277 

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  sug 
gestive.  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  to-night,  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  scowl 
ing  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. 


278  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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. 


SHE  CALLS  A  RESPECTABLE  WITNESS.     279 

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.  Copper- 
field  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  pro 
tection.  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. 


280  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"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  respect 
able  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  pre 
tence  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  pre 
pared  to  overlook  the  past,  and  who  was,  at  least,  as  good 


EVIDENCE  OF  THE  WITNESS.  281 

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.  There- 
fore  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,  un 
easily,  "  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  every 
thing  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 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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  boat 
man'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. 


CONCLUSION   OF  THE  EVIDENCE.  283 

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  any 
thing  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.  Con 
sider  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 


284  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

likely  to  increase  low  spirits  and  unpleasantness ;  but  further 
than  that,  sir,  I  should  wish  to  avoid  going.11 

"  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.11 

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.11 

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,11  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,11  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  pf.  We  desire  that,  too ;  that  he  may  not  by 


HIS   MOTHER.  285 

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  some  one  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  corre 
spondence  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." 


286  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  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?1' 

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,  un 
bending  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, 


I  CALL  ON  MR.  PEGGOTTY.  287 

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  Hunger- 
ford  Market,  Avhich  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 
up-stairs. 

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." 

"QfEm'lyi" 

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  pro 
found  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. 


288  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"How  do  you  fare  to  feel  about  it,  Mas'r  Davy?1'  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  o1  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  !  Envly's  alive  ! " 

He  put  his  hand  down  firmly  on  the  table,  and  set  his  sun 
burnt  face  into  a  resolute  expression. 

"My  niece,  Em'ly,  is  alive,  sir!"  he  said,  stedfastly.  "I 
doen't  know  wheer  it  comes  from,  or  how  'tis,  but  /  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  un 
divided  attention ;  and  then  proceeded  to  explain  the  pre 
caution,  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  't  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 


WE  GO  ON  A  SEARCH  TOGETHER.    289 

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." 

"  MasV  Davy ! "  he  replied  in  astonishment.  "  That  night 
when  it  snew  so  hard?" 

44  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,  MasV  Davy,  I  know  wheer  to  look." 

"  It  is  dark.  Being  together,  shall  we  go  out  now,  and  try 
to  find  her  to-night?" 

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,  MasV  Davy,"  he  said,  as  we  came  down 
stairs,  "when  I  thowt  this  girl,  Martha,  a'most  like  the 

VOL.  II.  U 


290  DAVID   COPPER-FIELD. 

dirt  underneath  my  Em'ly's  feet.  God  forgive  me,  there'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,11  he  replied.  "I  have  thowt  of  it 
oftentimes,  but  I  can't  arrize  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,11  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,11  he  replied,  "  I've  put  the  question  to  myself 
a  mort  o1  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.  Con 
versing  no  more  now,  and  walking  at  my  side,  he  yielded 


ON  THE  TRACK. 

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  wre  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  any  one,  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    XLVII. 

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  pro 
ceeded  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  for 
bore  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 


AT  THE  RIVER-SIDE,  293 

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 


294  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  exclaim 
ing,  "  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 


i   meaning.     In  a  IittJe 
her  \vretched[  head 


•.•;••         N!»O  <::4ed  passionately.     u  Oh,  the  river! 
aakl  I.     "  Calm  yourself.*1* 
Kfitrd  the  same  Avords,  continually  cxclaira 
tiic  river!**  over  and  over  again, 
it's  like  iwl"  she  exclaimed.     "I  know  that 

it,       I   kttOv.     t'f rLi     it'-    tlif    1  '/    "*'  SMO. 

It  iomos  i'n/iu     --':•> 


GIANT  DESPAIR;  297 

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  evert 
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  every  one  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 


298  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

way  between  us.  I  only  say,  with  all  my  guilt  and  wretched 
ness  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 
iudge  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,  shrink- 
ingly,  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  ever  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 


MARTHA  PROMISES  HER  ASSISTANCE.     299 

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  deliver 
ing  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 
befel  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  astonish 
ment. 

"  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 


300  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  atten 
tion,  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  com 
municated  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  en 
gaging  in  this  search,  while  depending  on  her  own  resources, 
shocked  us  both.  She  continued  stedfast.  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.     "Til  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," 


SOMETHING  WORTH  LIVING  FOR.         301 

"  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 
Saint  Paul's,  the  sound  of  which  I  thought  had  been  borne 
towards  me  among  the  multitude  of  striking  clocks,  when 


302  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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 
recognised  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  stoop 
ing  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. 

u  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 : 


I  SEE   MY   AUNT'S   STRANGE   VISITOR.      303 

"  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  I "  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. 


304  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  senti 
ment,  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  begin 
ning,  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   XLVIII. 

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. 

VOL.   II.  X 


306  DAVID  COPPERFIELD, 

I  had  been  writing,  in  the  newspaper  and  elsewhere,  so 
prosperously,  that  when  my  new  success  was  achieved,  I  con 
sidered  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  recognise  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  economised  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 — 


OUR  PAGE.  307 

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  morn 
ing,  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 


308  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

bribe  for  his  being  permitted  to  run  away.  It  was  an  aggra 
vating  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  trans 
ported.  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  country1"  some 
where  ;  I  have  no  geographical  idea  wrhere. 

All  this  led  me  into  some  serious  reflections,  and  presented 
our  mistakes  in  a  new  aspect;  as  I  could  not  help  com 
municating  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  our 
selves  (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  every  one  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 


OUR  DOMESTIC  SYSTEM.  309 

of  vaccination,  or  other  medical  remedy,  for  this  unwhole 
some  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  respon 
sibility  of  spoiling  every  one  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 


310  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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  corrupt 
ing  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 


FORMING  MY   CHILD-WIFE'S  MIND.         311 

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  forma 
tion  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. 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  eye 
brows,  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  ha\e — " 

"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 


I  GIVE  UP  MY  EXPERIMENT.  BIS 

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.1' 

"  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  wa-y?  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, 


314  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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  realisa 
tion  ;  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  irreconcileable  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  oppo 
sition  to  each  other.  When  I  thought  of  the  airy  dreams 
of  youth  that  are  incapable  of  realisation,  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  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, 


A  GREAT  HOPE  NOT  REALISED.  315 

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  un 
disciplined  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  still  happy.  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." 


316  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  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. 


DORA  AND  JIP.  317 

"  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,  bend 
ing  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, 

M  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  down-stairs  every  morning,  and  up 
stairs  every  night.  She  would  clasp  me  round  the  neck 
and  laugh,  the  while,  as  if  I  did  it  for  a  wager.  Jip  would 


318  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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  any 
one  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  in  my  arms,  a  dead  blank  feeling  came  upon  me, 
as  if  I  were  approaching  to  some  frozen  region  yet  unseen, 
that  numbed  my  life.  I  avoided  the  recognition  of  this 
feeling  by  any  name,  or  by  any  communing  with  myself; 
until  one  night,  when  it  was  very  strong  upon  me,  and  my 
aunt  had  left  her  with  a  parting  cry  of  "  Good-night, 
Little  Blossom,11  I  sat  down  at  my  desk  alone,  and  cried  to 
think,  Oh  what  a  fatal  name  it  was,  and  how  the  blossom 
withered  in  its  bloom  upon  the  tree! 


CHAPTER    XLIX. 

I   AM    INVOLVED    IN    MYSTERY. 


I  RECEIVED  one  morning  by  the  post,  the  following  letter, 
dated  Canterbury,  and  addressed  to  me  at  Doctors'  Commons  ; 
which  I  read  with  some  surprise  : 


DEAR  SIR, 

"Circumstances  beyond  my  individual  control  have, 
for  a  considerable  lapse  of  time,  effected  a  severance  of  that 
intimacy  which,  in  the  limited  opportunities  conceded  to 
me  in  the  midst  of  my  professional  duties,  of  contemplating 
the  scenes  and  events  of  the  past,  tinged  by  the  prismatic 
hues  of  memory,  has  ever  afforded  me,  as  it  ever  must 
continue  to  afford,  gratifying  emotions  of  no  common 
description.  This  fact,  my  dear  sir,  combined  with  the 
distinguished  elevation  to  which  your  talents  have  raised 
you,  deters  me  from  presuming  to  aspire  to  the  liberty  of 
addressing  the  companion  of  my  youth,  by  the  familiar 
appellation  of  Copperfield  !  It  is  sufficient  to  know  that 
the  name  to  which  I  do  myself  the  honour  to  refer,  will  ever 
be  treasured  among  the  muniments  of  our  house  (I  allude 
to  the  archives  connected  with  our  former  lodgers,  preserved 
by  Mrs.  Micawber),  with  sentiments  of  personal  esteem 
amounting  to  affection. 

"  It  is  not  for  one  situated,  through  his  original  errors 
and  a  fortuitous  combination  of  unpropitious  events,  as  is 
the  foundered  Bark  (if  he  may  be  allowed  to  assume  so 


620  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

maritime  a  denomination),  who  now  takes  up  the  pen  to 
address  you — it  is  not,  I  repeat,  for  one  so  circumstanced, 
to  adopt  the  language  of  compliment,  or  of  congratulation. 
That,  he  leaves  to  abler  and  to  purer  hands. 

"  If  your  more  important  avocations  should  admit  of  your 
ever  tracing  these  imperfect  characters  thus  far — which  may 
be,  or  may  not  be,  as  circumstances  arise — you  will  naturally 
inquire  by  what  object  am  I  influenced,  then,  in  inditing 
the  present  missive?  Allow  me  to  say  that  I  fully  defer 
to  the  reasonable  character  of  that  inquiry,  and  proceed  to 
develop  it :  premising  that  it  is  not  an  object  of  a  pecuniary 
nature. 

"Without  more  directly  referring  to  any  latent  ability 
that  may  possibly  exist  on  my  part,  of  wielding  the  thunder 
bolt,  or  directing  the  devouring  and  avenging  flame  in  any 
quarter,  I  may  be  permitted  to  observe,  in  passing,  that  my 
brightest  visions  are  for  ever  dispelled — that  my  peace  is 
shattered  and  my  power  of  enjoyment  destroyed — that  my 
heart  is  no  longer  in  the  right  place — and  that  I  no  more 
walk  erect  before  my  fellow-man.  The  canker  is  in  the 
flower.  The  cup  is  bitter  to  the  brim.  The  worm  is  at  his 
work,  and  will  soon  dispose  of  his  victim.  The  sooner  the 
better.  But  I  will  not  digress. 

"Placed  in  a  mental  position  of  peculiar  painfulness, 
beyond  the  assuaging  reach  even  of  Mrs.  Micawber's  influence, 
though  exercised  in  the  tripartite  character  of  woman,  wife, 
and  mother,  it  is  my  intention  to  fly  from  myself  for  a 
short  period,  and  devote  a  respite  of  eight-and-forty  hours 
to  revisiting  some  metropolitan  scenes  of  past  enjoyment. 
Among  other  havens  of  domestic  tranquillity  and  peace  of 
mind,  my  feet  will  naturally  tend  towards  the  King's  Bench 
Prison.  In  stating  that  I  shall  be  (D.V.)  on  the  outside 
of  the  south  wall  of  that  place  of  incarceration  on  civil 
process,  the  day  after  to-morrow,  at  seven  in  the  evening, 
precisely,  my  object  in  this  epistolary  communication  is 
accomplished. 


THE   GREAT  MICAWBER  CORRESPONDENCE.    321 

"I  do  not  feel  warranted  in  soliciting  my  former  friend 
Mr.  Copperfield,  or  my  former  friend  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles 
of  the  Inner  Temple,  if  that  gentleman  is  still  existent  and 
forthcoming,  to  condescend  to  meet  me,  and  renew  (so  far 
as  may  be)  our  past  relations  of  the  olden  time.  I  confine 
myself  to  throwing  out  the  observation,  that,  at  the  hour 
and  place  I  have  indicated,  may  be  found  such  ruined  vestiges 
as  yet 

"  Remain, 

"Of 

"A 

"  Fallen  Tower, 

"  WlLKINS   MlCA WEEK. 

"  P.S.  It  may  be  advisable  to  superadd  to  the  above, 
the  statement  that  Mrs.  Micawber  is  not  in  confidential 
possession  of  my  intentions." 

I  read  the  letter  over  several  times.  Making  due  allowance 
for  Mr.  Micawber's  lofty  style  of  composition,  and  for  the 
extraordinary  relish  with  which  he  sat  down  and  wrote  long 
letters  on  all  possible  and  impossible  occasions,  I  still  believed 
that  something  important  lay  hidden  at  the  bottom  of  this 
roundabout  communication.  I  put  it  down,  to  think  about 
it ;  and  took  it  up  again,  to  read  it  once  more ;  and  was  still 
pursuing  it,  when  Traddles  found  me  in  the  height  of  my 
perplexity. 

"  My  dear  fellow,""  said  I,  "  I  never  was  better  pleased  to 
see  you.  You  come  to  give  me  the  benefit  of  your  sober 
judgment  at  a  most  opportune  time.  I  have  received  a  very 
singular  letter,  Traddles,  from  Mr.  Micawber.11 

"  No  ?  "  cried  Traddles.  "  You  don't  say  so  ?  And  I  have 
received  one  from  Mrs.  Micawber!1' 

With  that,  Traddles,  who  was  flushed  with  walking,  and 
whose  hair,  under  the  combined  effects  of  exercise  and  excite 
ment,  stood  on  end  as  if  he  saw  a  cheerful  ghost,  produced 
his  letter  and  made  an  exchange  with  me.  I  watched  him 

VOL.  II.  Y 


DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

into  the  heart  of  Mr.  Micawber's  letter,  and  returned  the 
elevation  of  eyebrows  with  which  he  said  "  '  Wielding  the 
thunderbolt,  or  directing  the  devouring  and  avenging  flame !  "* 
Bless  me,  Copperfield ! " — and  then  entered  on  the  perusal  of 
Mrs.  Micawber's  epistle. 
It  ran  thus  : 

"My  best  regards  to  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles,  and  if  he 
.should  still  remember  one  who  formerly  had  the  happiness  of 
being  well  acquainted  with  him,  may  I  beg  a  few  moments 
of  his  leisure  time?  I  assure  Mr.  T.  T.  that  I  would  not 
intrude  upon  his  kindness,  were  1  in  any  other  position  than 
on  the  confines  of  distraction. 

"Though  harrowing  to  myself  to  mention,  the  alienation 
of  Mr.  Micawber  (formerly  so  domesticated)  from  his  wife  and 
family,  is  the  cause  of  my  addressing  my  unhappy  appeal  to 
Mr.  Traddles,  and  soliciting  his  best  indulgence.  Mr.  T.  can 
form  no  adequate  idea  of  the  change  in  Mr.  Micawbers 
conduct,  of  his  wildness,  of  his  violence.  It  has  gradually 
augmented,  until  it  assumes  the  appearance  of  aberration  of 
intellect.  Scarcely  a  day  passes,  I  assure  Mr.  Traddles,  on 
which  some  paroxysm  does  not  take  place.  Mr.  T.  will  not 
require  me  to  depict  my  feelings,  when  I  inform  him  that  I 
have  become  accustomed  to  hear  Mr.  Micawber  assert  that  he 
has  sold  himself  to  the  D.  Mystery  and  secrecy  have  long 
been  his  principal  characteristic,  have  long  replaced  unlimited 
confidence.  The  slightest  provocation,  even  being  asked  if 
there  is  anything  he  would  prefer  for  dinner,  causes  him  to 
express  a  wish  for  a  separation.  Last  night,  on  being 
childishly  solicited  for  twopence,  to  buy  '  lemon-stunners  ' — a 
local  sweetmeat — he  presented  an  oyster-knife  at  the  twins ! 

"I  entreat  Mr.  Traddles  to  bear  with  me  in  entering  into 
these  details.  Without  them,  Mr.  T.  would  indeed  find  it 
difficult  to  form  the  faintest  conception  of  my  heart-rending 
situation. 

"May  I  now  venture  to  confide  to  Mr,  T,  the  purport  of 


MRS.  MICA  WEEK'S   APPEAL  TO  TRADDLES.    323 

my  letter?      Will  he  now  allow  me  to  throw  myself  on  his 
friendly  consideration  ?     Oh  yes,  for  I  know  his  heart ! 

"  The  quick  eye  of  affection  is  not  easily  blinded,  when  of 
the  female  sex.  Mr.  Micawber  is  going  to  London.  Though 
he  studiously  concealed  his  hand,  this  morning  before  break 
fast,  in  writing  the  direction-card  which  he  attached  to  the 
little  brown  valise  of  happier  days,  the  eagle-glance  of  matri 
monial  anxiety  detected  d,  o,  n,  distinctly  traced.  The  West- 
End  destination  of  the  coach,  is  the  Golden  Cross.  Dare  I 
fervently  implore  Mr.  T.  to  see  my  misguided  husband,  and 
to  reason  with  him  ?  Dare  I  ask  Mr.  T.  to  endeavour  to  step 
in  between  Mr.  Micawber  and  his  agonised  family?  Oh 
no,  for  that  would  be  too  much ! 

"  If  Mr.  Copperneld  should  yet  remember  one  unknown  to 
fame,  will  Mr.  T.  take  charge  of  my  unalterable  regards  and 
similar  entreaties  ?  In  any  case,  he  will  have  the  benevolence 
to  consider  this  communication  strictly  private,  and  on  no 
account  whatever  to  be  alluded  to,  however  distantly,  in  the 
presence  of  Mr.  Micawber.  If  Mr.  T.  should  ever  reply  to  it 
(which  I  cannot  but  feel  to  be  most  improbable),  a  letter 
addressed  to  M.  E.,  Post  Office,  Canterbury,  will  be  fraught 
with  less  painful  consequences  than  any  addressed  immediately 
to  one,  who  subscribes  herself,  in  extreme  distress, 

"  Mr.  Thomas  Traddles's  respectful  friend  and  suppliant, 

"EMMA  MICAWBER." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that  letter ?"  said  Traddles,  cast 
ing  his  eyes  upon  me,  when  I  had  read  it  twice. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  other  ?  "  said  I.  For  he  was 
still  reading  it  with  knitted  brows. 

"I  think  that  the  two  together,  Copperfield,"  replied 
Traddles,  "  mean  more  than  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber  usually 
mean  in  their  correspondence — but  I  don't  know  what.  They 
are  both  written  in  good  faith,  I  have  no  doubt,  and  without 
any  collusion.  Poor  thing ! "  he  was  now  alluding  to  Mrs. 
Micawber's  letter,  and  we  were  standing  side  by  side  comparing 


324  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

the  two  ;  "  it  will  be  a  charity  to  write  to  her,  at  all  events, 
and  tell  her  that  we  will  not  fail  to  see  Mr.  Micawber." 

I  acceded  to  this,  the  more  readily,  because  I  now  reproached 
myself  with  having  treated  her  former  letter  rather  lightly. 
It  had  set  me  thinking  a  good  deal  at  the  time,  as  I  have 
mentioned  in  its  place ;  but  my  absorption  in  my  own  affairs, 
my  experience  of  the  family,  and  my  hearing  nothing  more, 
had  gradually  ended  in  my  dismissing  the  subject.  I  had 
often  thought  of  the  Micawbers,  but  chiefly  to  wonder  what 
"pecuniary  liabilities"  they  were  establishing  in  Canterbury, 
and  to  recall  how  shy  Mr.  Micawber  was  of  me  when  he 
became  clerk  to  Uriah  Heep. 

However,  I  now  wrote  a  comforting  letter  to  Mrs.  Micawber, 
in  our  joint  names,  and  we  both  signed  it.  As  we  walked 
into  town  to  post  it,  Traddles  and  I  held  a  long  conference, 
and  launched  into  a  number  of  speculations,  which  I  need  not 
repeat.  We  took  my  aunt  into  our  counsels  in  the  afternoon ; 
but  our  only  decided  conclusion  was,  that  we  would  be  very 
punctual  in  keeping  Mr.  Micawber's  appointment. 

Although  we  appeared  at  the  stipulated  place  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  before  the  time,  we  found  Mr.  Micawber  already 
there.  He  was  standing  with  his  arms  folded,  over  against 
the  wall,  looking  at  the  spikes  on  the  top,  with  a  sentimental 
expression,  as  if  they  were  the  interlacing  boughs  of  trees  that 
had  shaded  him  in  his  youth. 

When  we  accosted  him,  his  manner  was  something  more 
confused,  and  something  less  genteel  than  of  yore.  He  had 
relinquished  his  legal  suit  of  black  for  the  purposes  of  this 
excursion,  and  wore  the  old  surtout  and  tights,  but  not  quite 
with  the  old  air.  He  gradually  picked  up  more  and  more  of 
it  as  we  conversed  with  him  ;  but,  his  very  eye-glass  seemed 
to  hang  less  easily,  and  his  shirt-collar,  though  still  of  the 
old  formidable  dimensions,  rather  drooped. 

"  Gentlemen ! "  said  Mr.  Micawber,  after  the  first  saluta 
tions,  "  you  are  friends  in  need,  and  friends  indeed.  Allow 
me  to  offer  my  inquiries  with  reference  to  the  physical  welfare 


MR.  MICAWBER  IN   A  DROOPING  STATE.     325 

of  Mrs.  Copperfield  in  esse,  and  Mrs.  Traddles  in  posse, — - 
presuming,  that  is  to  say,  that  my  friend  Mr.  Traddles  is 
not  yet  united  to  the  object  of  his  affections,  for  weal  and 
for  woe." 

We  acknowledged  his  politeness,  and  made  suitable  replies. 
He  then  directed  our  attention  to  the  wall,  and  was  begin 
ning,  "I  assure  you,  gentlemen,"  when  I  ventured  to  object 
to  that  ceremonious  form  of  address,  and  to  beg  that  he 
would  speak  to  us  in  the  old  way. 

"My  dear  Copperfield,"  he  returned,  pressing  my  hand, 
"  your  cordiality  overpowers  me.  This  reception  of  a  shattered 
fragment  of  the  Temple  once  called  Man — if  I  may  be  per 
mitted  so  to  express  myself — bespeaks  a  heart  that  is  an 
honour  to  our  common  nature.  I  was  about  to  observe  that 
I  again  behold  the  serene  spot  where  some  of  the  happiest 
hours  of  my  existence  fleeted  by." 

"Made  so,  I  am  sure,  by  Mrs.  Micawber,"  said  I.  "I 
hope  she  is  well  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  whose  face  clouded 
at  this  reference,  "  she  is  but  so-so.  And  this,"  said  Mr. 
Micawber,  nodding  his  head  sorrowfully,  "  is  the  Bench ! 
Where,  for  the  first  time  in  many  revolving  years,  the  over 
whelming  pressure  of  pecuniary  liabilities  was  not  proclaimed, 
from  day  to  day,  by  importunate  voices  declining  to  vacate 
the  passage ;  where  there  was  no  knocker  on  the  door  for  any 
creditor  to  appeal  to ;  Avhere  personal  service  of  process  was 
not  required,  and  detainers  were  merely  lodged  at  the  gate  ! 
Gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "when  the  shadow  of  that 
iron-work  on  the  summit  of  the  brick  structure  has  been  re 
flected  on  the  gravel  of  the  Parade,  I  have  seen  my  children 
thread  the  mazes  of  the  intricate  pattern,  avoiding  the  dark 
marks.  I  have  been  familiar  with  every  stone  in  the  place. 
If  I  betray  weakness,  you  will  know  how  to  excuse  me." 

"  We  have  all  got  on  in  life  since  then,  Mr.  Micawber," 
said  I. 

"  Mr.  Copperfield,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  bitterly,  "  when 


326  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  was  an  inmate  of  that  retreat  I  could  look  my  fellow-man 
in  the  face,  and  punch  his  head  if  he  offended  me.  My 
fellow-man  and  myself  are  no  longer  on  those  glorious 
terms ! " 

Turning  from  the  building  in  a  downcast  manner,  Mr. 
Micawber  accepted  my  proffered  arm  on  one  side,  and  the 
proffered  arm  of  Traddles  on  the  other,  and  walked  away 
between  us. 

"There  are  some  landmarks,"  observed  Mr.  Micawber, 
looking  fondly  back  over  his  shoulder,  "on  the  road  to  the 
tomb,  which,  but  for  the  impiety  of  the  aspiration,  a  man 
would  wish  never  to  have  passed.  Such  is  the  Bench  in  my 
chequered  career/1 

"  Oh,  you  are  in  low  spirits,  Mr.  Micawber,11  said  Traddles. 

"  I  am,  sir,"  interposed  Mr.  Micawber. 

"I  hope,"  said  Traddles,  "it  is  not  because  you  have  con 
ceived  a  dislike  to  the  law — for  I  am  a  lawyer  myself,  you 
know." 

Mr.  Micawber  answered  not  a  word. 

"  How  is  our  friend  Heep,  Mr.  Micawber  ? "  said  I,  after 
a  silence. 

"My  dear  Copperfield,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  bursting 
into  a  state  of  much  excitement,  and  turning  pale,  "if  you 
ask  after  my  employer  as  your  friend,  I  am  sorry  for  it;  if 
you  ask  after  him  as  my  friend,  I  sardonically  smile  at  it. 
In  whatever  capacity  you  ask  after  my  employer,  I  beg,  with 
out  offence  to  you,  to  limit  my  reply  to  this — that  whatever 
his  state  of  health  may  be,  his  appearance  is  foxy :  not  to 
say  diabolical.  You  will  allow  me,  as  a  private  individual, 
to  decline  pursuing  a  subject  which  has  lashed  me  to  the 
utmost  verge  of  desperation  in  my  professional  capacity." 

I  expressed  my  regret  for  having  innocently  touched  upon 
a  theme  that  roused  him  so  much.  "May  I  ask,"  said  I, 
"without  any  hazard  of  repeating  the  mistake,  how  my  old 
friends  Mr.  and  Miss  Wickfield  are  ? " 

"Miss  Wickfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  now  turning  red, 


I  INVITE   MR.  MICAWBER  TO   HIGHGATE.     327 

"is,  as  she  always  is,  a  pattern,  and  a  bright  example.  My 
dear  Copperfield,  she  is  the  only  starry  spot  in  a  miserable 
existence.  My  respect  for  that  young  lady,  my  admiration 
of  her  character,  my  devotion  to  her  for  her  love  and  truth, 
and  goodness ! — Take  me,1'  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  down  a 
turning,  for,  upon  my  soul,  in  my  present  state  of  mind  I 
am  not  equal  to  this ! " 

We  wheeled  him  off  into  a  narrow  street,  where  he  took 
out  his  pocket-handkerchief,  and  stood  with  his  back  to  a 
wall.  If  I  looked  as  gravely  at  him  as  Traddles  did,  he  must 
have  found  our  company  by  no  means  inspiriting. 

"  It  is  my  fate,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  unfeignedly  sobbing, 
but  doing  even  that,  with  a  shadow  of  the  old  expression  of 
doing  something  genteel ;  "  it  is  my  fate,  gentlemen,  that 
the  finer  feelings  of  our  nature  have  become  reproaches  to 
me.  My  homage  to  Miss  Wickfield,  is  a  flight  of  arrows  in 
my  bosom.  You  had  better  leave  me,  if  you  please,  to  walk 
the  earth  as  a  vagabond.  The  worm  will  settle  my  business 
in  double-quick  time." 

Without  attending  to  this  invocation,  we  stood  by,  until 
he  put  up  his  pocket-handkerchief,  pulled  up  his  shirt-collar, 
and,  to  delude  any  person  in  the  neighbourhood  who  might 
have  been  observing  him,  hummed  a  tune  with  his  hat  very 
much  on  one  side.  I  then  mentioned — not  knowing  what 
might  be  lost  if  we  lost  sight  of  him  yet — that  it  would 
give  me  great  pleasure  to  introduce  him  to  my  aunt,  if 
he  would  ride  out  to  Highgate,  where  a  bed  was  at  his 
service. 

"You  shall  make  us  a  glass  of  your  own  punch,  Mr. 
Micawber,"  said  I,  "and  forget  whatever  you  have  on  your 
mind,  in  pleasanter  reminiscences." 

"  Or,  if  confiding  anything  to  friends  will  be  more  likely 
to  relieve  you,  you  shall  impart  it  to  us,  Mr.  Micawber," 
said  Traddles,  prudently. 

"  Gentlemen,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  "  do  with  me  as 
you  will  !  I  am  a  straw  upon  the  surface  of  the  deep,  and 


DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

am  tossed  in  all  directions  by  the  elephants — I  beg  your 
pardon  ;  I  should  have  said  the  elements." 

We  walked  on,  arm-in-arm,  again ;  found  the  coach  in 
the  act  of  starting;  and  arrived  at  Highgate  without  en 
countering  any  difficulties  by  the  way.  I  was  very  uneasy 
and  very  uncertain  in  my  mind  what  to  say  or  do  for  the 
best — so  was  Traddles,  evidently.  Mr.  Micawber  was  for  the 
most  part  plunged  into  deep  gloom.  He  occasionally  made 
an  attempt  to  smarten  himself,  and  hum  the  fag-end  of  a 
tune;  but  his  relapses  into  profound  melancholy  were  only 
made  the  more  impressive  by  the  mockery  of  a  hat  exceed 
ingly  on  one  side,  and  a  shirt-collar  pulled  up  to  his  eyes. 

We  went  to  my  aunt's  house  rather  than  to  mine,  because 
of  Dora's  not  being  well.  My  aunt  presented  herself  on  being 
sent  for,  and  welcomed  Mr.  Micawber  with  gracious  cordiality. 
Mr.  Micawber  kissed  her  hand,  retired  to  the  window,  and 
pulling  out  his  pocket-handkerchief,  had  a  mental  wrestle 
with  himself. 

Mr.  Dick  was  at  home.  He  was  by  nature  so  exceedingly 
compassionate  of  any  one  who  seemed  to  be  ill  at  ease,  and 
was  so  quick  to  find  any  such  person  out,  that  he  shook  hands 
with  Mr.  Micawber,  at  least  half-a-dozen  times  in  five  minutes. 
To  Mr.  Micawber,  in  his  trouble,  this  warmth,  on  the  part 
of  a  stranger,  was  so  extremely  touching,  that  he  could  only 
say,  on  the  occasion  of  each  successive  shake,  "  My  dear  sir, 
you  overpower  me ! "  Which  gratified  Mr.  Dick  so  much, 
that  he  went  at  it  again  with  greater  vigour  than  before. 

"  The  friendliness  of  this  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Micawber  to 
my  aunt,  "if  you  will  allow  me,  ma'am,  to  cull  a  figure  of 
speech  from  the  vocabulary  of  our  coarser  national  sports — 
floors  me.  To  a  man  who  is  struggling  with  a  complicated 
burden  of  perplexity  and  disquiet,  such  a  reception  is  trying, 
I  assure  you." 

"My  friend  Mr.  Dick,"  replied  my  aunt,  proudly,  "is  not 
a  common  man." 

"  That   I   am   convinced   of,"   said   Mr.    Micawber.     "  My 


MY  AUNT  AND  MR.  MICAWBER.  329 

dear  sir ! "  for  Mr.  Dick  was  shaking  hands  with  him  again ; 
"  I  am  deeply  sensible  of  your  cordiality  ! " 

"How  do  you  find  yourself?1'  said  Mr.  Dick,  with  an 
anxious  look. 

"  Indifferent,  my  dear  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  sighing. 

"  You  must  keep  up  your  spirits,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  "  and 
make  yourself  as  comfortable  as  possible." 

Mr.  Micawber  was  quite  overcome  by  these  friendly  words, 
and  by  finding  Mr.  Dick's  hand  again  within  his  own.  "It 
has  been  my  lot,"  he  observed,  "to  meet,  in  the  diversified 
panorama  of  human  existence,  with  an  occasional  oasis,  but 
never  with  one  so  green,  so  gushing,  as  the  present ! " 

At  another  time  I  should  have  been  amused  by  this;  but 
I  felt  that  we  were  all  constrained  and  uneasy,  and  I  watched 
Mr.  Micawber  so  anxiously,  in  his  vacillations  between  an 
evident  disposition  to  reveal  something,  and  a  counter-dis 
position  to  reveal  nothing,  that  I  was  in  a  perfect  fever. 
Traddles,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  chair,  with  his  eyes  wide 
open,  and  his  hair  more  emphatically  erect  than  ever,  stared 
by  turns  at  the  ground  and  at  Mr.  Micawber,  without  so 
much  as  attempting  to  put  in  a  word.  My  aunt,  though  I 
saw  that  her  shrewdest  observation  was  concentrated  on  her 
new  guest,  had  more  useful  possession  of  her  wits  than  either 
of  us ;  for  she  held  him  in  conversation,  and  made  it  neces 
sary  for  him  to  talk,  whether  he  liked  it  or  not. 

"  You  are  a  very  old  friend  of  my  nephew's,  Mr.  Micawber," 
said  my  aunt.  "  I  wish  I  had  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
before." 

"Madam,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  "I  wish  I  had  had 
the  honour  of  knowing  you  at  an  earlier  period.  I  was 
not  always  the  wreck  you  at  present  behold." 

"  I  hope  Mrs.  Micawber  and  your  family  are  well,  sir,"  said 
my  aunt. 

Mr.  Micawber  inclined  his  head.  "  They  are  as  well,  ma'am," 
he  desperately  observed,  after  a  pause,  "as  Aliens  and  Out 
casts  can  ever  hope  to  be." 


330  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"Lord  bless  you,  sir!"  exclaimed  my  aunt  in  her  abrupt 
way.  "What  are  you  talking  about?" 

"The  subsistence  of  my  family,  ma'am,"  returned  Mr. 
Micawber,  "  trembles  in  the  balance.  My  employer " 

Here  Mr.  Micawber  provokingly  left  off;  and  began  to 
peel  the  lemons  that  had  been  under  my  directions  set 
before  him,  together  with  all  the  other  appliances  he  used  in 
making  punch. 

"Your  employer,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Dick,  jogging  his 
arm  as  a  gentle  reminder. 

"My  good  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  "you  recall  me. 
I  am  obliged  to  you."  They  shook  hands  again.  "My 
employer,  ma^am — Mr.  Heep — once  did  me  the  favour  to 
observe  to  me,  that  if  I  were  not  in  the  receipt  of  the 
stipendiary  emoluments  appertaining  to  my  engagement  with 
him,  I  should  probably  be  a  mountebank  about  the  country, 
swallowing  a  sword-blade,  and  eating  the  devouring  element. 
For  anything  that  I  can  perceive  to  the  contrary,  it  is  still 
probable  that  my  children  may  be  reduced  to  seek  a  live 
lihood  by  personal  contortion,  while  Mrs.  Micawber  abets 
their  unnatural  feats,  by  playing  the  barrel-organ." 

Mr.  Micawber,  with  a  random  but  expressive  flourish  of 
his  knife,  signified  that  these  performances  might  be  expected 
to  take  place  after  he  was  no  more ;  then  resumed  his  peeling 
with  a  desperate  air. 

My  aunt  leaned  her  elbow  on  the  little  round  table  that 
she  usually  kept  beside  her,  and  eyed  him  attentively.  Not 
withstanding  the  aversion  with  which  I  regarded  the  idea 
of  entrapping  him  into  any  disclosure  he  was  not  prepared 
to  make  voluntarily,  I  should  have  taken  him  up  at  this 
point,  but  for  the  strange  proceedings  in  which  I  saw  him 
engaged ;  whereof  his  putting  the  lemon-peel  into  the  kettle, 
the  sugar  into  the  snuffer-tray,  the  spirit  into  the  empty  jug, 
and  confidently  attempting  to  pour  boiling  water  out  of  a 
candle-stick,  were  among  the  most  remarkable.  I  saw  that 
a  crisis  was  at  hand,  and  it  came.  He  clattered  all  his  means 


MR.  MICAWBER  BECOMES  DESPERATE.      331 

and  implements  together,  rose  from  his  chair,  pulled  out  his 
pocket-handkerchief,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"My  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  behind  his 
handkerchief,  "this  is  an  occupation,  of  all  others,  requiring 
an  untroubled  mind,  and  self-respect.  I  cannot  perform  it. 
It  is  out  of  the  question." 

"  Mr.  Micawber,"  said  I,  "  what  is  the  matter  ?  Pray  speak 
out.  You  are  among  friends."*' 

"  Among  friends,  sir ! "  repeated  Mr.  Micawber ;  and  all  he 
had  reserved  came  breaking  out  of  him.  "  Good  heavens,  it 
is  principally  because  I  am  among  friends  that  my  state  of 
mind  is  what  it  is.  What  is  the  matter,  gentlemen  ?  What 
is  not  the  matter?  Villany  is  the  matter;  baseness  is  the 
matter ;  deception,  fraud,  conspiracy,  are  the  matter ;  and 
the  name  of  the  whole  atrocious  mass  is — HEEP  ! " 

My  aunt  clapped  her  hands,  and  we  all  started  up  as  if  we 
were  possessed. 

"The  struggle  is  over!"  said  Mr.  cawber,  violently  ges 
ticulating  with  his  pocket-handkerchief,  and  fairly  striking 
out  from  time  to  time  with  both  arms,  as  if  he  were  swimming 
under  superhuman  difficulties.  "  I  will  lead  this  life  no  longer. 
I  am  a  wretched  being,  cut  off  from  everything  that  makes 
life  tolerable.  I  have  been  under  a  Taboo  in  that  infernal 
scoundrel's  service.  Give  me  back  my  wife,  give  me  back  my 
family,  substitute  Micawber  for  the  petty  wretch  who  walks 
about  in  the  boots  at  present  on  my  feet,  and  call  upon  me 
to  swallow  a  sword  to-morrow,  and  111  do  it.  With  an 
appetite ! " 

I  never  saw  a  man  so  hot  in  my  life.  I  tried  to  calm  him, 
that  we  might  come  to  something  rational ;  but  he  got  hotter 
and  hotter,  and  wouldn't  hear  a  word. 

"  I'll  put  my  hand  in  no  man's  hand,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
gasping,  puffing,  and  sobbing,  to  that  degree  that  he  was 
like  a  man  fighting  with  cold  water,  "until  I  have — blown 
to  fragments — the — a — detestable — serpent — HEEP  !  I'll  par 
take  of  no  one's  hospitality,  until  I  have — a — moved  Mount 


332  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

Vesuvius — to  eruption — on — a — the  abandoned  rascal — HEEP  ! 
Refreshment — a — underneath  this  roof — particularly  punch 
— would — a — choke  me — unless — I  had — previously — choked 
the  eyes — out  of  the  head — a — of — interminable  cheat,  and 
liar — HEEP  !  I — a — I'll  know  nobody — and — a — say  nothing 
— and — a — live  nowhere — until  I  have  crushed — to — a — un- 
discoverable  atoms — the — transcendent  and  immortal  hypocrite 
and  perjurer — HEEP  ! " 

I  really  had  some  fear  of  Mr.  Micawbers  dying  on  the  spot. 
The  manner  in  which  he  struggled  through  these  inarticulate 
sentences,  and,  whenever  he  found  himself  getting  near  the 
name  of  Heep,  fought  his  way  on  to  it,  dashed  at  it  in  a 
fainting  state,  and  brought  it  out  with  a  vehemence  little  less 
than  marvellous,  was  frightful ;  but  now,  when  he  sank  into 
a  chair,  steaming,  and  looked  at  us,  with  every  possible  colour 
in  his  face  that  had  no  business  there,  and  an  endless  pro 
cession  of  lumps  following  one  another  in  hot  haste  up  his 
throat,  whence  they  seemed  to  shoot  into  his  forehead,  he 
had  the  appearance  of  being  in  the  last  extremity.  I  would 
have  gone  to  his  assistance,  but  he  waved  me  off,  and  wouldn't 
hear  a  word. 

"  No,  Copperfield  ! — No  communication — a — until — Miss 
Wickfield — a — redress  from  wrongs  inflicted  by  consummate 
scoundrel — HEEP  ! "  (I  am  quite  convinced  he  could  not  have 
uttered  three  words,  but  for  the  amazing  energy  with  which 
this  word  inspired  him  when  he  felt  it  coming.)  "  Inviolable 
secret — a — from  the  whole  world — a — no  exceptions — this 
day  week — a — at  breakfast  time — a — everybody  present — in 
cluding  aunt — a — and  extremely  friendly  gentleman — to  be 
at  the  hotel  at  Canterbury — a — where — Mrs.  Micawber  and 
myself — Auld  Lang  Syne  in  chorus — and — a — will  expose 
intolerable  ruffian,  HEEP!  No  more  to  say — a — or  listen  to 
persuasion — go  immediately — not  capable — a — bear  society — 
upon  the  track  of  devoted  and  doomed  traitor — HEEP  ! " 

With  this  last  repetition  of  the  magic  word  that  had  kept 
him  going  at  all,  and  in  which  he  surpassed  all  his  previous 


MR.  MICAWBER  GOES  OFF.  333 

efforts,  Mr.  Micawber  rushed  out  of  the  house ;  leaving  us  in 
a  state  of  excitement,  hope,  and  wonder,  that  reduced  us  to 
a  condition  little  better  than  his  own.  But  even  then  his 
passion  for  writing  letters  was  too  strong  to  be  resisted ;  for 
while  we  were  yet  in  the  height  of  our  excitement,  hope,  and 
wonder,  the  following  pastoral  note  was  brought  to  me  from 
a  neighbouring  tavern,  at  which  he  had  called  to  write  it : — 

"Most  secret  and  confidential. 

"Mv  DEAR  SIR, 

"  I  beg  to  be  allowed  to  convey,  through  you,  my 
apologies  to  your  excellent  aunt  for  my  late  excitement.  An 
explosion  of  a  smouldering  volcano  long  suppressed,  was  the 
result  of  an  internal  contest  more  easily  conceived  than 
described. 

"  I  trust  I  rendered  tolerably  intelligible  my  appointment 
for  the  morning  of  this  day  week,  at  the  house  of  public 
entertainment  at  Canterbury,  where  Mrs.  Micawber  and  myself 
had  once  the  honour  of  uniting  our  voices  to  yours,  in  the 
well-known  strain  of  the  Immortal  exciseman  nurtured  beyond 
the  Tweed. 

"The  duty  done,  and  act  of  reparation  performed,  which 
can  alone  enable  me  to  contemplate  my  fellow-mortal,  I  shall 
be  known  no  more.  I  shall  simply  require  to  be  deposited  in 
that  place  of  universal  resort,  where 

"  '  Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 

"  *  The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep,' 

" — With  the  plain  Inscription, 

"WiLKixs  MICAWBER." 


CHAPTER  L. 

MR.  PEGGOTTY'S  DREAM  COMES  TRUE. 

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

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

His  was  not  a  lazy  trustfulness  that  hoped,  and  did  no 
more.  He  had  been  a  man  of  sturdy  action  all  his  life,  and 
he  knew  that  in  all  things  wherein  he  wanted  help  he  must 
do  his  own  part  faithfully,  and  help  himself.  I  have  known 
him  set  out  in  the  night,  on  a  misgiving  that  the  light  might 
not  be,  by  some  accident,  in  the  window  of  the  old  boat,  and 
walk  to  Yarmouth.  I  have  known  him,  on.  reading  something 


I  MEET  MR.  PEGGOTTY  AGAIN.  335 

in  the  newspaper,  that  might  apply  to  her,  take  up  his  stick, 
and  go  forth  on  a  journey  of  three  or  four  score  miles.  He 
made  his  way  by  sea  to  Naples,  and  back,  after  hearing  the 
narrative  to  which  Miss  Dartle  had  assisted  me.  All  his 
journeys  were  ruggedly  performed;  for  he  was  always  stead 
fast  in  a  purpose  of  saving  money  for  Emily's  sake,  when  she 
should  be  found.  In  all  this  long  pursuit,  I  never  heard  him 
repine;  I  never  heard  him  say  he  was  fatigued,  or  out  of 
heart. 

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

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

"  Did  she  tell  you  why  ?  "  I  inquired. 

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

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

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

As  I  had  long  forborne  to  encourage  him  with  hopes  that 
hung  on  threads,  I  made  no  other  comment  on  this  informa 
tion  than  that  I  supposed  he  would  see  her  soon.  Such 


336  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

speculations  as  it  engendered  within  me  I  kept  to  myself, 
and  those  were  faint  enough. 

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

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

"  Martha ! "  said  I,  going  to  it. 

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

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

I  asked  her  if  that  were  not  our  destination?  On  her 
motioning  Yes,  with  the  same  hasty  gesture  as  before,  I 
stopped  an  empty  coach  that  was  coming  by,  and  we  got  into 
it.  When  I  asked  her  where  the  coachman  was  to  drive,  she 
answered,  "  Anywhere  near  Golden  Square  !  And  quick  ! " — 


I  GO   WITH   MARTHA  TO   HER  LODGING.     337 

then  shrunk  into  a  corner,  with  one  trembling  hand  before 
her  face,  and  the  other  making  the  former  gesture,  as  if  she 
could  not  bear  a  voice. 

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

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

The  house  swarmed  with  inmates.  As  we  went  up,  doors 
of  rooms  were  opened  and  people's  heads  put  out;  and  we 
passed  other  people  on  the  stairs,  who  were  coming  down. 
In  glancing  up  from  the  outside,  before  we  entered,  I  had 
seen  women  and  children  lolling  at  the  windows  over  flower 
pots  ;  and  we  seemed  to  have  attracted  their  curiosity,  for  these 
were  principally  the  observers  who  looked  out  of  their  doors. 
It  was  a  broad  panelled  staircase,  with  massive  balustrades  of 
some  dark  wood ;  cornices  above  the  doors,  ornamented  with 
carved  fruit  and  flowers;  and  broad  seats  in  the  windows. 
But  all  these  tokens  of  past  grandeur  were  miserably  decayed 
and  dirty ;  rot,  damp,  and  age,  had  weakened  the  flooring, 
which  in  many  places  was  unsound  and  even  unsafe.  Some 

VOL,  ii.  z 


338  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

attempts  had  been  made,  I  noticed,  to  infuse  new  blood  into 
this  dwindling  frame,  by  repairing  the  costly  old  wood-work 
here  and  there  with  common  deal ;  but  it  was  like  the  mar 
riage  of  a  reduced  old  noble  to  a  plebeian  pauper,  and  each 
party  to  the  ill-assorted  union  shrunk  away  from  the  other. 
Several  of  the  back  windows  on  the  staircase  had  been  dark 
ened  or  wholly  blocked  up.  In  those  that  remained,  there  was 
scarcely  any  glass ;  and,  through  the  crumbling  frames  by 
which  the  bad  air  seemed  always  to  come  in,  and  never  to  go 
out,  I  saw,  through  other  glassless  windows,  into  other  houses 
in  a  similar  condition,  and  looked  giddily  down  into  a  wretched 
yard,  which  was  the  common  dust-heap  of  the  mansion. 

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

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

/  knew  her.  I  had  recognised  her  with  amazement,  for 
Miss  Dartle. 

I  said  something  to  the  effect  that  it  was  a  lady  whom  I 
had  seen  before,  in  a  few  words,  to  my  conductress ;  and  had 
scarcely  done  so  when  we  heard  her  voice  in  the  room,  though 
not,  from  where  we  stood,  what  she  was  saying.  Martha, 
with  an  astonished  look,  repeated  her  former  action,  and 
softly  led  me  up  the  stairs;  and  then,  by  a  little  back  door 
which  seemed  to  have  no  lock,  and  which  she  pushed  open 
with  a  touch,  into  a  small  empty  garret  with  a  low  sloping 
roof:  little  better  than  a  cupboard.  Between  this,  and  the 
room  she  had  called  hers,  there  was  a  small  door  of  com 
munication,  standing  partly  open.  Here  we  stopped,  breath 
less  with  our  ascent,  and  she  placed  her  hand  lightly  on  my 
lips.  I  could  only  see,  of  the  room  beyond,  that  it  was 
pretty  large ;  that  there  was  a  bed  in  it ;  and  that  there  were 


TWO   VOICES  IN  MARTHA'S  ROOM.         339 

some  common  pictures  of  ships  upon  the  walls.  I  could  not 
see  Miss  Dartle,  or  the  person  whom  we  had  heard  her 
address.  Certainly,  my  companion  could  not,  for  my  position 
was  the  best. 

A  dead  silence  prevailed  for  some  moments.  Martha  kept 
one  hand  on  my  lips,  and  raised  the  other  in  a  listening 
attitude. 

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

"  Me  ?  "  replied  a  soft  voice. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


340  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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

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

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

"  If  7  would  be  spared  ! "  returned  the  other  fiercely  ;  "  what 
is  there  in  common  between  us,  do  you  think  ? " 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


MISS   DARTLE   REMAINS   INFLEXIBLE.      341 

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

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

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

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

"  I  speak,"  she  said,  not  tfeigm'ng  to  take  any  heed  of  this 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

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

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

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

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

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

"And  tell  that  to  me"  she  added,  "with  your  shameful 


MOCKERY  AND   RAGE.  343 

lips  ?  Why  don't  they  whip  these  creatures  ?  If  I  could  order 
it  to  be  done,  I  would  have  this  girl  whipped  to  death." 

And  so  she  would,  I  have  no  doubt.  I  would  not  have 
trusted  her  with  the  rack  itself,  while  that  furious  look  lasted. 

She  slowly,  very  slowly,  broke  into  a  laugh,  and  pointed  at 
Emily  with  her  hand,  as  if  she  were  a  sight  of  shame  for 
gods  and  men. 

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

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

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

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

"  Hide  yourself,"  she  pursued,  "  if  not  at  home,  somewhere. 
Let  it  be  somewhere  beyond  reach;  in  some  obscure  life — or, 
better  still,  in  some  obscure  death.  I  wonder,  if  your  loving 
heart  will  not  break,  you  have  found  no  way  of  helping  it  to 


344  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

be  still !  I  have  heard  of  such  means  sometimes.  I  believe 
they  may  be  easily  found." 

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

"  I  am  of  a  strange  nature,  perhaps,"  Rosa  Dartle  went  on  ; 
"but  I  can't  breathe  freely  in  the  air  you  breathe.  I  find 
it  sickly.  Therefore,  I  will  have  it  cleared ;  I  will  have  it 
purified  of  you.  If  you  live  here  to-morrow,  I'll  have  your 
story  and  your  character  proclaimed  on  the  common  stair. 
There  are  decent  women  in  the  house,  I  am  told ;  and  it  is  a 
pity  such  a  light  as  you  should  be  among  them,  and  concealed. 
If,  leaving  here,  you  seek  any  refuge  in  this  town  in  any 
character  but  your  true  one  (which  you  are  welcome  to  bear, 
without  molestation  from  me),  the  same  service  shall  be  done 
you,  if  I  hear  of  your  retreat.  Being  assisted  by  a  gentleman 
who  not  long  ago  aspired  to  the  favour  of  your  hand,  I  am 
sanguine  as  to  that.*11 

Would  he  never,  never  come?  How  long  was  I  to  bear 
this?  How  long  could  I  bear  it? 

"  Oh  me,  oh  me ! "  exclaimed  the  wretched  Emily,  in  a  tone 
that  might  have  touched  the  hardest  heart,  I  should  have 
thought;  but  there  was  no  relenting  in  Rosa  Dartle's  smile. 
"What,  what,  shall  I  do  !" 

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


:.;......,,-.    t-.    •••••  tn/td^  you  his 

,,,K,ia   fV  ••  l»>   Deling  grateful  to 

,jv?i*iive  who  would    Have  taken 

'  ;iv;sc  proud  remembrances,  and  the 

,»-vii  \irlaojj*  ap.il  the  honourable  position 

to' whi  e  raised  von  in  the  eyes  of  everything  that 

weai  L  the  huimui  shaj)e,  will  not  sustain  you,  marry  that 
-<v/.a  s!i»n.  >vmi  IK;  happy  in  his  condescension.  If  this  will 
not  do  either,  die  *  Tliw  are  doorways  and  du 
deaths, -and  »uch  despaiir-^find  one,  arid  take 


MR.  PEGGOTTY  TELLS  EMILY'S  STORY.     347 

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

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

"I  took  my  dear  child  away  last  night,11  Mr.  Peggotty 
began,  as  he  raised  his  eyes  to  ours,  "  to  my  lodging,  wheer  I 
have  a  long  time  been  expecting  of  her  and  preparing  fur  her. 
It  was  hours  afore  she  knowed  me  right ;  and  when  she  did, 
she  kneeled  down  at  my  feet,  and  kiender  said  to  me,  as  if  it 
was  her  prayers,  how  it  all  come  to  be.  You  may  believe  me, 
when  I  heerd  her  voice,  as  I  had  heerd  at  home  so  playful — 
and  see  her  humbled,  as  it  might  be  in  the  dust  our  Saviour 
wrote  in  with  his  blessed  hand — I  felt  a  wownd  go  to  my 
'art,  in  the  midst  of  all  its  thankfulness.11 

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

"  It  warn't  for  long  as  I  felt  that ;  for  she  was  found.  I 
had  on'y  to  think  as  she  was  found,  and  it  was  gone.  I  doen't 
know  why  I  do  so  much  as  mention  of  it  now,  I'm  sure.  I 
did^t  have  it  in  my  mind  a  minute  ago,  to  say  a  word  about 
myself;  but  it  come  up  so  nat'ral,  that  I  yielded  to  it  afore 
I  was  aweer.11 

"You  are  a  self-denying  soul,11  said  my  aunt,  "and  will 
have  your  reward.11 

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


348  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

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

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

"As  Em'ly 's  eyes — which  was  heavy — see  this  woman 
better,'1  Mr.  Peggotty  went  on,  "she  know'd  as  she  was  one 
of  them  as  she  had  often  talked  to  on  the  beach.  Fur, 
though  she  had  run  (as  I  have  said)  ever  so  fur  in  the  night, 
she  had  oftentimes  wandered  long  ways,  partly  afoot,  partly 
in  boats  and  carriages,  and  know'd  all  that  country,  long  the 
coast,  miles  and  miles.  She  hadn't  no  children  of  her  own, 
this  woman,  being  a  young  wife ;  but  she  was  a  looking  to 
have  one  afore  long.  And  may  my  prayers  go  up  to  Heaven 
that  'twill  be  a  happ'ness  to  her,  and  a  comfort,  and  a  honour, 
all  her  life !  May  it  love  her  and  be  dootiful  to  her,  in  her 
old  age ;  helpful  of  her  at  the  last ;  a  Angel  to  her  heer,  and 
heerafter ! " 


EMILY   MEETS  WITH   A  TRUE   FRIEND.     349 

"  Amen  ! "  said  my  aunt. 

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

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

"It  was  a  little  cottage,  you  may  suppose,"  he  said, 
presently,  "  but  she  found  space  for  Em'ly  in  it, — her  husband 
was  away  at  sea, — and  she  kep  it  secret,  and  prevailed  upon 
such  neighbours  as  she  had  (they  was  not  many  near)  to 
keep  it  secret  too.  Em'ly  was  took  bad  with  fever,  and 
what  is  very  strange  to  me  is, — maybe  'tis  not  so  strange 
to  scholars, — the  language  of  that  country  went  out  of  her 
head,  and  she  could  only  speak  her  own,  that  no  one  unner- 
stood.  She  recollects,  as  if  she  had  dreamed  it,  that  she  lay 
there,  always  a  talking  her  own  tongue,  always  believing 
as  the  old  boat  was  round  the  next  pint  in  the  bay,  and 
begging  and  imploring  of  'em  to  send  theer  and  tell  how 
she  was  dying,  and  bring  back  a  message  of  forgiveness,  if 
it  was  on'y  a  wured.  A'most  the  whole  time,  she  thowt, — 
now,  that  him  as  I  made  mention  on  just  now  was  lurking 
for  her  unnerneath  the  winder  :  now  that  him  as  had  brought 
her  to  this  was  in  the  room, — and  cried  to  the  good  young 
woman  not  to  give  her  up,  and  know'd  at  the  same  time, 
that  she  couldn't  unnerstand,  and  dreaded  that  she  must  be 
took  away.  Likewise  the  fire  was  afore  her  eyes,  and  the 
roarings  in  her  ears ;  and  there  was  no  to-day,  nor  yesterday, 


350  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

nor  yet  to-morrow;  but  everything  in  her  life  as  ever  had 
been,  or  as  ever  could  be,  and  everything  as  never  had  been, 
and  as  never  could  be,  was  a  crowding  on  her  all  at  once, 
and  nothing  clear  nor  welcome,  and  yet  she  sang  and  laughed 
about  it !  How  long  this  lasted,  I  doen't  know ;  but  then 
there  come  a  sleep ;  and  in  that  sleep,  from  being  a  many 
times  stronger  than  her  own  self,  she  fell  into  the  weakness 
of  the  littlest  child." 

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

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

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

"That  done  my  Em'ly  good,"  he  resumed,  after  such 
emotion  as  I  could  not  behold  without  sharing  in;  and  as 
to  my  aunt,  she  wept  with  all  her  heart ;  "  that  done  Em'ly 
good,  and  she  begun  to  mend.  But,  the  language  of  that 
country  was  quite  gone  from  her,  and  she  was  forced  to 
make  signs.  So  she  went  on,  getting  better  from  day  to 
day,  slow,  but  sure,  and  trying  to  learn  the  names  of 
common  things — names  as  she  seemed  never  to  have  heerd 
in  all  her  life — till  one  evening  come,  when  she  was  a  setting 
at  her  window,  looking  at  a  little  girl  at  play  upon  the 


EMILY  RETURNS  TO  ENGLAND.  351 

beach.  And  of  a  sudden  this  child  held  out  her  hand,  and 
said,  what  would  be  in  English,  '  Fisherman's  daughter,  here's 
a  shell ! ' — for  you  are  to  unnerstand  that  they  used  at  first 
to  call  her  'Pretty  lady,1  as  the  general  way  in  that  country 
is,  and  that  she  had  taught  'em  to  call  her  'Fisherman's 
daughter'  instead.  The  child  says  of  a  sudden,  'Fisherman's 
daughter,  here's  a  shell ! '  Then  Em'ly  unnerstands  her ;  and 
she  answers,  bursting  out  a  crying ;  and  it  all  comes  back ! 

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

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

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


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

that  I  might  crawl  to  the  old  doorstep,  in  the  night,  kiss 
it,  lay  my  wicked  face  upon  it,  and  theer  be  found  dead  in 
the  morning.1 

"She  come,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  dropping  his  voice  to  an 
awe-stricken  whisper,  "to  London.  She — as  had  never  seen 
it  in  her  life — alone — without  a  penny — young — so  pretty 
— come  to  London.  Almost  the  moment  as  she  lighted 
heer,  all  so  desolate,  she  found  (as  she  believed)  a  friend ; 
a  decent  woman  as  spoke  to  her  about  the  needlework  as 
she  had  been  brought  up  to  do,  about  finding  plenty  of  it 
fur  her,  about  a  lodging  for  the  night,  and  making  secret 
inquiration  concerning  of  me  and  all  at  home,  to-morrow. 
When  my  child,11  he  said  aloud,  and  with  an  energy  of 
gratitude  that  shook  him  from  head  to  foot,  "stood  upon 
the  brink  of  more  than  I  can  say  or  think  on — Martha, 
trew  to  her  promise,  saved  her.11 

I  could  not  repress  a  cry  of  joy. 

"  MasV  Davy  ! "  said  he,  griping  my  hand  in  that  strong 
hand  of  his,  "it  was  you  as  first  made  mention  of  her  to 
me.  I  thankee,  sir !  She  was  arnest.  She  had  know1d  of 
her  bitter  knowledge  wheer  to  watch  and  what  to  do.  She 
had  done  it.  And  the  Lord  was  above  all !  She  come, 
white  and  hurried,  upon  Emly  in  her  sleep.  She  says  to 
her,  '  Rise  up  from  worse  than  death,  and  come  with  me ! ' 
Them  belonging  to  the  house  would  have  stopped  her,  but 
they  might  as  soon  have  stopped  the  sea.  *  Stand  away  from 
me,'  she  says,  4 1  am  a  ghost  that  calls  her  from  beside  her 
open  grave!1  She  told  Emly  she  had  seen  me,  and  know'd 
I  loved  her,  and  forgive  her.  She  wrapped  her,  hasty,  in 
her  clothes.  She  took  her,  faint  and  trembling,  on  her  arm. 
She  heeded  no  more  what  they  said,  than  if  she  had  had  no 
ears.  She  walked  among  ''em  with  my  child,  minding  only 
her;  and  brought  her  safe  out,  in  the  dead  of  the  night, 
from  that  black  pit  of  ruin ! 

"She  attended  on  Em'ly,11  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  who  had 
released  my  hand,  and  put  his  own  hand  on  his  heaving 


THE   LOST  ONE  FOUND.  353 

chest ;  "  she  attended  to  my  Envly,  lying  wearied  out,  and 
wandering  betwixt  whiles,  till  late  next  day.  Then  she 
went  in  search  of  me ;  then  in  search  of  you,  Mas'r  Davy. 
She  didn't  tell  Em'ly  what  she  come  out  fur,  lest  her  'art 
should  fail,  and  she  should  think  of  hiding  of  herself.  How 
the  cruel  lady  know'd  of  her  being  theer,  I  can't  say. 
Whether  him  as  I  have  spoke  so  much  of,  chanced  to  see 
'em  going  theer,  or  whether  (which  is  most  like  to  my 
thinking)  he  had  heerd  it  from  the  woman,  I  doen't  greatly 
ask  myself.  My  niece  is  found. 

"  All  night  long,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "  we  have  been 
together,  Em'ly  and  me.  'Tis  little  (considering  the  time) 
as  she  has  said,  in  wureds,  through  them  broken-hearted 
tears ;  'tis  less  as  I  have  seen  of  her  dear  face,  as  grow'd 
into  a  woman's  at  my  hearth.  But,  all  night  long,  her 
arms  has  been  about  my  neck ;  and  her  head  has  laid  heer ; 
and  we  knows  full  well,  as  we  can  put  our  trust  in  one 
another  ever  more." 

He  ceased  to  speak,  and  his  hand  upon  the  table  rested 
there  in  perfect  repose,  with  a  resolution  in  it  that  might 
have  conquered  lions. 

"It  was  a  gleam  of  light  upon  me,  Trot,"  said  my  aunt, 
drying  her  eyes,  "  when  I  formed  the  resolution  of  being 
godmother  to  your  sister  Betsey  Trotwood,  who  disappointed 
me;  but,  next  to  that,  hardly  anything  would  have  given 
me  greater  pleasure,  than  to  be  godmother  to  that  good 
young  creature's  baby  !  " 

Mr.  Peggotty  nodded  his  understanding  of  my  aunt's 
feelings,  but  could  not  trust  himself  with  any  verbal  reference 
to  the  subject  of  her  commendation.  We  all  remained 
silent,  and  occupied  with  our  own  reflections  (my  aunt 
drying  her  eyes,  and  now  sobbing  convulsively,  and  now 
laughing  and  calling  herself  a  fool) ;  until  I  spoke. 

"You  have  quite  made  up  your  mind,"  said  I  to  Mr. 
Peggotty,  "as  to  the  future,  good  friend?  I  need  scarcely 
ask  you." 

VOL.  IT.  2  A 


354  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  Quite,  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  returned ;  "  and  told  Em'ly. 
Theer's  mighty  countries,  fur  from  heer.  Our  future  life 
lays  over  the  sea." 

"They  will  emigrate  together,  aunt,"  said  I. 

"Yes!"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  a  hopeful  smile.  "No 
one  can't  reproach  my  darling  in  Australia.  We  will  begin 
a  new  life  over  theer ! " 

I  asked  him  if  he  yet  proposed  to  himself  any  time  for 
going  away. 

"  I  was  down  at  the  Docks  early  this  morning,  sir,"  he 
returned,  "to  get  information  concerning  of  them  ships.  In 
about  six  weeks  or  two  months  from  now,  there'll  be  one 
sailing — I  see  her  this  morning — went  aboard — and  we  shall 
take  our  passage  in  her." 

"Quite  alone?"  I  asked. 

"  Aye,  Mas'r  Davy ! "  he  returned.  "  My  sister,  you  see, 
she's  that  fond  of  you  and  yourn,  and  that  accustomed  to 
think  on'y  of  her  own  country,  that  it  wouldn't  be  hardly 
fair  to  let  her  go.  Besides  which,  theer's  one  she  has  in 
charge,  Mas'r  Davy,  as  doen't  ought  to  be  forgot." 

"Poor  Ham!"  said  I. 

"  My  good  sister  takes  care  of  his  house,  you  see,  ma'am, 
and  he  takes  kindly  to  her,"  Mr.  Peggotty  explained  for  my 
aunt's  better  information.  "He'll  set  and  talk  to  her  with 
a  calm  spirit,  wen  it's  like  he  couldn't  bring  himself  to 
open  his  lips  to  another.  Poor  fellow ! "  said  Mr.  Peggotty, 
shaking  his  head,  "theer's  not  so  much  left  him,  that  he 
could  spare  the  little  as  he  has ! " 

"And  Mrs.  Gummidge?"  said  I. 

"Well,  I've  had  a  mort  of  con-sideration,  I  do  tell  you," 
returned  Mr.  Peggotty,  with  a  perplexed  look  which  gradually 
cleared  as  he  went  on,  "  concerning  of  Missis  Gummidge. 
You  see,  wen  Missis  Gunimidge  falls  a  thinking  of  the  old 
'un,  she  an't  what  you  may  call  good  company.  Betwixt 
you  and  me,  Mas'r  Davy — and  you,  ma'am — wen  Mrs. 
Gummidge  takes  to  wimicking," — our  old  county  word  for 


MR.  PEGGOTTY'S  PLANS  FOR  THE  FUTURE.   355 

crying, — "she's  liable  to  be  considered  to  be,  by  them  as 
didn't  know  the  old  'un,  peevish-like.  Now  I  did  know  the 
old  'un,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "and  I  know'd  his  merits,  so 
I  unnerstan'  her ;  but  'tan't  entirely  so,  you  see,  with  others 
— nat'rally  can't  be  ! " 

My  aunt  and  I  both  acquiesced. 

"Wheerby,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "my  sister  might — I 
doen't  say  she  would,  but  might — find  Missis  Gummidge 
give  her  a  leetle  trouble  now-and-again.  Therefur  'tan't  my 
intentions  to  moor  Missis  Gummidge  'long  with  them,  but 
to  find  a  Bern'  fur  her  wheer  she  can  fisherate  for  herself." 
(A  Bern'  signifies,  in  that  dialect,  a  home,  and  to  fisherate 
is  to  provide.)  "Fur  which  purpose,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty, 
"I  means  to  make  her  a  'lowance  afore  I  go,  as'll  leave  her 
pretty  comfortable.  She's  the  faithfullest  of  creeturs.  'Tan't 
to  be  expected,  of  course,  at  her  time  of  life,  and  being 
lone  and  lorn,  as  the  good  old  Mawther  is  to  be  knocked 
about  aboardship,  and  in  the  woods  and  wilds  of  a  new 
and  fur-away  country.  So  that's  what  I'm  a  going  to  do 
with  her" 

He  forgot  nobody.  He  thought  of  everybody's  claims  and 
strivings,  but  his  own. 

"Em'ly,"  he  continued,  "will  keep  along  with  me — poor 
child,  she's  sore  in  need  of  peace  and  rest ! — until  such  time 
as  we  goes  upon  our  voyage.  She'll  work  at  them  clothes, 
as  must  be  made ;  and  I  hope  her  troubles  will  begin  to  seem 
longer  ago  than  they  was,  wen  she  finds  herself  once  more  by 
her  rough  but  loving  uncle." 

My  aunt  nodded  confirmation  of  this  hope,  and  imparted 
great  satisfaction  to  Mr.  Peggotty. 

"Theer's  one  thing  furder,  Mas'r  Davy,"  said  he,  putting 
his  hand  in  his  breast-pocket,  and  gravely  taking  out  the 
little  paper  bundle  I  had  seen  before,  which  he  unrolled  on 
the  table.  "Theer's  these  heer  bank-notes — fifty  pound,  and 
ten.  To  them  I  wish  to  add  the  money  as  she  come  away 
with.  I've  asked  her  about  that  (but  not  saying  why),  and 


356  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

have  added  of  it  up;  I  an't  a  scholar.     Would  you  be  so 
kind  as  see  how  'tis  ?  " 

He  handed  me,  apologetically  for  his  scholarship,  a  piece 
of  paper,  and  observed  me  while  I  looked  it  over.  It  was 
quite  right. 

"Thankee,  sir,11  he  said,  taking  it  back.  "This  money,  if 
you  doen't  see  objections,  Mas'r  Davy,  I  shall  put  up  jest 
afore  I  go,  in  a  cover  d'rected  to  him ;  and  put  that  up  in 
another,  directed  to  his  mother.  I  shall  tell  her,  in  no  more 
wureds  than  I  speak  to  you,  what  it's  the  price  on;  and 
that  I'm  gone,  and  past  receiving  of  it  back." 

I  told  him  that  I  thought  it  would  be  right  to  do  so — that 
I  was  thoroughly  convinced  it  would  be,  since  he  felt  it  to 
be  right. 

"  I  said  that  theer  was  on'y  one  thing  furder,"  he  proceeded 
with  a  grave  smile,  when  he  had  made  up  his  little  bundle 
again,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket ;  "  but  theer  was  two.  I 
wam't  sure  in  my  mind,  wen  I  come  out  this  morning,  as  I 
could  go  and  break  to  Ham,  of  my  own  self,  what  had  so 
thankfully  happened.  So  I  writ  a  letter  while  I  was  out, 
and  put  it  in  the  post-office,  telling  of  'em  how  all  was  as 
'tis,  and  that  I  should  come  down  to-morrow  to  unload  my 
mind  of  what  little  needs  a  doing  of  down  theer,  and,  most- 
like,  take  my  farewell  leave  of  Yarmouth." 

"  And  do  you  wish  me  to  go  with  you  ? "  said  I,  seeing 
that  he  left  something  unsaid. 

"If  you  could  do  me  that  kind  favour,  Mas'r  Davy,"  he 
replied  "I  know  the  sight  on  you  would  cheer  'em  up  a 
bit." 

My  little  Dora  being  in  good  spirits,  and  very  desirous 
that  I  should  go — as  I  found  on  talking  it  over  with  her — I 
readily  pledged  myself  to  accompany  him  in  accordance  with 
his  wish.  Next  morning,  consequently,  we  were  on  the 
Yarmouth  coach,  and  again  travelling  over  the  old  ground. 

As  we  passed  along  the  familiar  street  at  night— Mr. 
Peggotty,  in  despite  of  all  my  remonstrances,  carrying  my 


MR.  OMER  ON   WHEELS.  357 

bag — I  glanced  into  Omer  and  Joram's  shop,  and  saw  my 
old  friend  Mr.  Omer  there,  smoking  his  pipe.  I  felt  reluctant 
to  be  present,  when  Mr.  Peggotty  first  met  his  sister  and 
Ham ;  and  made  Mr.  Omer  my  excuse  for  lingering  behind. 

"  How  is  Mr.  Omer  after  this  long  time  ?  "  said  I,  going  in. 

He  fanned  away  the  smoke  of  his  pipe,  that  he  might  get  a 
better  view  of  me,  and  soon  recognised  me  with  great  delight. 

"I  should  get  up,  sir,  to  acknowledge  such  an  honour  as 
this  visit,'11  said  he,  "only  my  limbs  are  rather  out  of  sorts, 
and  I  am  wheeled  about.  With  the  exception  of  my  limbs 
and  my  breath,  howsoever,  I  am  as  hearty  as  a  man  can  be, 
I'm  thankful  to  say." 

I  congratulated  him  on  his  contented  looks  and  his  good 
spirits,  and  saw,  now,  that  his  easy  chair  went  on  wheels. 

"It's  an  ingenious  thing,  ain't  it?"  he  inquired,  following 
the  direction  of  my  glance,  and  polishing  the  elbow  with  his 
arm.  "  It  runs  as  light  as  a  feather,  and  tracks  as  true  as  a 
mail-coach.  Bless  you,  my  little  Minnie — my  grand-daughter 
you  know,  Minnie's  child — puts  her  little  strength  against 
the  back,  gives  it  a  shove,  and  away  we  go,  as  clever  and 
merry  as  ever  you  see  anything !  And  I  tell  you  what — it's 
a  most  uncommon  chair  to  smoke  a  pipe  in." 

I  never  saw  such  a  good  old  fellow  to  make  the  best  of  a 
thing,  and  find  out  the  enjoyment  of  it,  as  Mr.  Omer.  He 
was  as  radiant,  as  if  his  chair,  his  asthma,  and  the  failure  of 
his  limbs,  were  the  various  branches  of  a  great  invention  for 
enchancing  the  luxury  of  a  pipe. 

"I  see  more  of  the  world,  I  can  assure  you,"  said  Mr. 
Omer,  "  in  this  chair,  than  ever  I  see  out  of  it.  You'd  be 
surprised  at  the  number  of  people  that  looks  in  of  a  day  to 
have  a  chat.  You  really  would  !  There's  twice  as  much  in 
the  newspaper,  since  I've  taken  to  this  chair,  as  there  used 
to  be.  As  to  general  reading,  dear  me,  what  a  lot  of  it  I 
do  get  through  !  That's  what  I  feel  so  strong,  you  know ! 
If  it  had  been  my  eyes,  what  should  I  have  done  ?  If  it  had 
been  my  ears,  what  should  I  have  done?  Being  my  limbs, 


358  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

what  does  it  signify  ?  Why,  my  limbs  only  made  my  breath 
shorter  when  I  used  'em.  And  now,  if  I  want  to  go  out 
into  the  street  or  down  to  the  sands,  IVe  only  got  to  call 
Dick,  Joram's  youngest  'prentice,  and  away  I  go  in  my  own 
carriage,  like  the  Lord  Mayor  of  London." 

He  half  suffocated  himself  with  laughing  here. 

"  Lord  bless  you ! "  said  Mr.  Omer,  resuming  his  pipe,  "  a 
man  must  take  the  fat  with  the  lean;  that's  what  he  must 
make  up  his  mind  to,  in  this  life.  Joram  does  a  fine  busi 
ness.  Ex-cellent  business ! " 

"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  I. 

"I  knew  you  would  be,"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "And  Joram 
and  Minnie  are  like  valentines.  What  more  can  a  man 
expect?  What's  his  limbs  to  that!" 

His  supreme  contempt  for  his  own  limbs,  as  he  sat  smoking, 
was  one  of  the  pleasantest  oddities  I  have  ever  encountered. 

"And  since  IVe  took  to  general  reading,  you've  took  to 
general  writing,  eh,  sir?"  said  Mr.  Omer,  surveying  me 
admiringly.  "  What  a  lovely  work  that  was  of  yours !  What 
expressions  in  it!  I  read  it  every  word — every  word.  And 
as  to  feeling  sleepy  !  Not  at  all  ! " 

I  laughingly  expressed  my  satisfaction,  but  I  must  confess 
that  I  thought  this  association  of  ideas  significant. 

"  I  give  you  my  word  and  honour,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Omer, 
"that  when  I  lay  that  book  upon  the  table,  and  look  at  it 
outside ;  compact  in  three  separate  and  indiwidual  wollumes 
— one,  two,  three;  I  am  as  proud  as  Punch  to  think  that  I 
once  had  the  honour  of  being  connected  with  your  family. 
And  dear  me,  its  a  long  time  ago,  now,  ain't  it?  Over  at 
Blunderstone.  With  a  pretty  little  party  laid  along  with  the 
other  party.  And  you  quite  a  small  party  then,  yourself. 
Dear,  dear ! " 

I  changed  the  subject  by  referring  to  Emily.  After  assuring 
him  that  I  did  not  forget  how  interested  he  had  always  been 
in  her,  and  how  kindly  he  had  always  treated  her,  I  gave 
him  a  general  account  of  her  restoration  to  her  uncle  by  the 


KINDLY  FEELING  OF  MR.  OMER.  359 

aid  of  Martha;  which  I  knew  would  please  the  old  man. 
He  listened  with  the  utmost  attention,  and  said,  feelingly, 
when  I  had  done : 

"  I  am  rejoiced  at  it,  sir  !  It's  the  best  news  I  have  heard 
for  many  a  day.  Dear,  dear,  dear!  And  what's  going  to 
be  undertook  for  that  unfortunate  young  woman,  Martha, 
now?"" 

"You  touch  a  point  that  my  thoughts  have  been  dwelling 
on  since  yesterday,"  said  I,  "  but  on  which  I  can  give  you  no 
information  yet,  Mr.  Omer.  Mr.  Peggotty  has  not  alluded 
to  it,  and  I  have  a  delicacy  in  doing  so.  I  am  sure  he  has 
not  forgotten  it.  He  forgets  nothing  that  is  disinterested 
and  good.1' 

"  Because  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  taking  himself  up, 
where  he  had  left  off,  "  whatever  is  done,  I  should  wish  to  be 
a  member  of.  Put  me  down  for  anything  you  may  consider 
right,  and  let  me  know.  I  never  could  think  the  girl  all 
bad,  and  I  am  glad  to  find  she's  not.  So  will  my  daughter 
Minnie  be.  Young  women  are  contradictory  creatures  in 
some  things — her  mother  was  just  the  same  as  her — but  their 
hearts  are  soft  and  kind.  It's  all  show  with  Minnie,  about 
Martha.  Why  she  should  consider  it  necessary  to  make  any 
show,  I  don't  undertake  to  tell  you.  But  it's  all  show,  bless 
you.  She'd  do  her  any  kindness  in  private.  So,  put  me 
down  for  whatever  you  may  consider  right,  will  you  be  so 
good  ?  and  drop  me  a  line  where  to  forward  it.  Dear  me  ! " 
said  Mr.  Omer,  "  when  a  man  is  drawing  on  to  a  time  of 
life,  where  the  two  ends  of  life  meet ;  when  he  finds  himself, 
however  hearty  he  is,  being  wheeled  about  for  the  second 
time,  in  a  speeches  of  go-cart ;  he  should  be  over-rejoiced  to 
do  a  kindness  if  he  can.  He  wants  plenty.  And  I  don't 
speak  of  myself,  particular,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  "because,  sir, 
the  way  I  look  at  it  is,  that  we  are  all  drawing  on  to  the 
bottom  of  the  hill,  whatever  age  we  are,  on  account  of  time 
never  standing  still  for  a  single  moment.  So  let  us  always 
do  a  kindness,  and  be  over-rejoiced.  To  be  sure  ! " 


360  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

He  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and  put  it  on  a  ledge 
in  the  back  of  his  chair,  expressly  made  for  its  reception. 

"There's  Em'ly's  cousin,  him  that  she  was  to  have  been 
married  to,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  rubbing  his  hands  feebly,  "as 
fine  a  fellow  as  there  is  in  Yarmouth !  He'll  come  and  talk 
or  read  to  me,  in  the  evening,  for  an  hour  together  some 
times.  That's  a  kindness,  I  should  call  it !  All  his  life's  a 
kind  ness. " 

"  I  am  going  to  see  him  now,"  said  I. 

"  Are  you  ? "  said  Mr.  Omer.  "  Tell  him  I  was  hearty, 
and  sent  my  respects.  Minnie  and  Joram's  at  a  ball.  They 
would  be  as  proud  to  see  you  as  I  am,  if  they  was  at  home. 
Minnie  won't  hardly  go  out  at  all,  you  see,  '  on  account  of 
father,'  as  she  says.  So  I  swore  to-night,  that  if  she  didn't 
go,  I'd  go  to  bed  at  six.  In  consequence  of  which,"  Mr. 
Omer  shook  himself  and  his  chair,  with  laughter  at  the 
success  of  his  device,  "  she  and  Joram's  at  a  ball." 

I  shook  hands  with  him,  and  wished  him  good  night. 

"  Half  a  minute,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Omer.  "  If  you  was  to  go 
without  seeing  my  little  elephant,  you'd  lose  the  best  of 
sights.  You  never  see  such  a  sight !  Minnie  ! " 

A  musical  little  voice  answered,  from  somewhere  up-stairs, 
"  I  am  coming,  grandfather ! "  and  a  pretty  little  girl  with 
long,  flaxen,  curling  hair,  soon  came  running  into  the  shop. 

"  This  is  my  little  elephant,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  fondling 
the  child.  "  Siamese  breed,  sir.  Now,  little  elephant !  " 

The  little  elephant  set  the  door  of  the  parlour  open, 
enabling  me  to  see  that,  in  these  latter  days,  it  was  con 
verted  into  a  bedroom  for  Mr.  Omer,  who  could  not  be  easily 
conveyed  up-stairs;  and  then  hid  her  pretty  forehead,  and 
tumbled  her  long  hair,  against  the  back  of  Mr.  Omer's  chair. 

"  The  elephant  butts,  you  know,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Omer,  wink 
ing,  "  when  he  goes  at  a  object.  Once,  elephant.  ,  Twice. 
Three  times!" 

At  this  signal,  the  little  elephant,  with  a  dexterity  that 
was  next  to  marvellous  in  so  small  an  animal,  whisked  the 


AT  HAM'S  HOUSE.  361 

chair  round  with  Mr.  Omer  in  it,  and  rattled  it  off,  pell-mell, 
into  the  parlour,  without  touching  the  doorpost :  Mr.  Omer 
indescribably  enjoying  the  performance,  and  looking  back  at 
me  on  the  road  as  if  it  were  the  triumphant  issue  of  his 
life's  exertions. 

After  a  stroll  about  the  town,  I  went  to  Ham's  house. 
Peggotty  had  now  removed  here  for  good  ;  and  had  let  her 
own  house  to  the  successor  of  Mr.  Barkis  in  the  carrying 
business,  who  had  paid  her  very  well  for  the  goodwill,  cart, 
and  horse.  I  believe  the  very  same  slow  horse  that  Mr. 
Barkis  drove,  was  still  at  work. 

I  found  them  in  the  neat  kitchen,  accompanied  by  Mrs. 
Gummidge,  who  had  been  fetched  from  the  old  boat  by  Mr. 
Peggotty  himself.  I  doubt  if  she  could  have  been  induced 
to  desert  her  post,  by  any  one  else.  He  had  evidently  told 
them  all.  Both  Peggotty  and  Mrs.  Gummidge  had  their 
aprons  to  their  eyes,  and  Ham  had  just  stepped  out  "  to  take 
a  turn  on  the  beach.""  He  presently  came  home,  very  glad 
to  see  me ;  and  I  hope  they  were  all  the  better  for  my  being 
there.  We  spoke,  with  some  approach  to  cheerfulness,  of 
Mr.  Peggotty's  growing  rich  in  a  new  country,  and  of  the 
wonders  he  would  describe  in  his  letters.  We  said  nothing 
of  Emily  by  name,  but  distantly  referred  to  her  more  than 
once.  Ham  was  the  serenest  of  the  party. 

But,  Peggotty  told  me,  when  she  lighted  me  to  a  little 
chamber  where  the  Crocodile  book  was  lying  ready  for  me 
on  the  table,  that  he  always  was  the  same.  She  believed 
(she  told  me,  crying)  that  he  was  broken-hearted ;  though 
he  was  as  full  of  courage  as  of  sweetness,  and  worked  harder 
and  better  than  any  boat-builder  in  any  yard  in  all  that 
part.  There  were  times,  she  said,  of  an  evening,  when  he 
talked  of  their  old  life  in  the  boat-house;  and  then  he 
mentioned  Emily  as  a  child.  But,  he  never  mentioned  her 
as  a  woman. 

I  thought  I  had  read  in  his  face  that  he  would  like  to 
speak  to  me  alone.  I  therefore  resolved  to  put  myself  in  his 


362  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

way  next  evening,  as  he  came  home  from  his  work.  Having 
settled  this  with  myself,  I  fell  asleep.  That  night,  for  the 
first  time  in  all  those  many  nights,  the  candle  was  taken  out 
of  the  window,  Mr.  Peggotty  swung  in  his  old  hammock  in 
the  old  boat,  and  the  wind  murmured  with  the  old  sound 
round  his  head. 

All  next  day,  he  was  occupied  in  disposing  of  his  fishing- 
boat  and  tackle;  in  packing  up,  and  sending  to  London  by 
waggon,  such  of  his  little  domestic  possessions  as  he  thought 
would  be  useful  to  him  ;  and  in  parting  with  the  rest,  or 
bestowing  them  on  Mrs.  Gummidge.  She  was  with  him  all 
day.  As  I  had  a  sorrowful  wish  to  see  the  old  place  once 
more,  before  it  was  locked  up,  I  engaged  to  meet  them  there 
in  the  evening.  But  I  so  arranged  it,  as  that  I  should  meet 
Ham  first. 

It  was  easy  to  come  in  his  way,  as  I  knew  where  he  worked. 
I  met  him  at  a  retired  part  of  the  sands,  which  I  knew  he 
would  cross,  and  turned  back  with  him,  that  he  might  have 
leisure  to  speak  to  me  if  he  really  wished.  I  had  not 
mistaken  the  expression  of  his  face.  We  had  walked  but  a 
little  way  together,  when  he  said,  without  looking  at  me  : 

"  Mas^r  Davy,  have  you  seen  her  ?  " 

"  Only  for  a  moment,  when  she  was  in  a  swoon,"  I  softly 
answered. 

We  walked  a  little  farther,  and  he  said  : 

"  MasV  Davy,  shall  you  see  her,  d'ye  think  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  too  painful  to  her,  perhaps,11  said  I. 

"  I  have  thowt  of  that,11  he  replied.     "  So  "'twould,  sir,  so 


"But,  Ham,11  said  I,  gently,  "if  there  is  anything  that  I 
could  write  to  her,  for  you,  in  case  I  could  not  tell  it;  if 
there  is  anything  you  would  wish  to  make  known  to  her 
through  me;  I  should  consider  it  a  sacred  trust.11 

"I  am  sure  on't.  I  thankee,  sir,  most  kind!  I  think 
theer  is  something  I  could  wish  said  or  wrote.11 

"What  is  it?11 


HAM  CHARGES  ME  WITH  A  MESSAGE.     363 

We  walked  a  little  farther  in  silence,  and  then  he  spoke. 

"Tan't  that  I  forgive  her.  'Tan't  that  so  much.  Tis 
more  as  I  beg  of  her  to  forgive  me,  for  having  pressed 
my  affections  upon  her.  Odd  times,  I  think  that  if  I  hadn't 
had  her  promise  fur  to  marry  me,  sir,  she  was  that  trustful 
of  me,  in  a  friendly  way,  that  she'd  have  told  me  what  was 
struggling  in  her  mind,  and  would  have  counselled  with  me, 
and  I  might  have  saved  her.1' 

I  pressed  his  hand.     "  Is  that  all  ?" 

"  Theer's  yet  a  something  else,"  he  returned,  "  if  I  can  say 
it,  Mas'r  Davy." 

We  walked  on,  farther  than  we  had  walked  yet,  before  he 
spoke  again.  He  was  not  crying  when  he  made  the  pauses 
I  shall  express  by  lines.  He  was  merely  collecting  himself 
to  speak  very  plainly. 

"  I  loved  her — and  I  love  the  mem'ry  of  her — too  deep — • 
to  be  able  to  lead  her  to  believe  of  my  own  self  as  I'm  a 
happy  man.  I  could  only  be  happy — by  forgetting  of  her — 
and  I'm  afeerd  I  couldn't  hardly  bear  as  she  should  be  told 
I  done  that.  But  if  you,  being  so  full  of  learning,  Mas'r 
Davy,  could  think  of  anything  to  say  as  might  bring  her  to 
believe  I  wasn't  greatly  hurt :  still  loving  of  her,  and  mourning 
for  her :  anything  as  might  bring  her  to  believe  as  I  was  not 
tired  of  my  life,  and  yet  was  hoping  fur  to  see  her  without 
blame,  wheer  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling  and  the  weary 
are  at  rest — anything  as  would  ease  her  sorrowful  mind,  and 
yet  not  make  her  think  as  I  could  ever  marry,  or  as  'twas 
possible  that  any  one  could  ever  be  to  me  what  she  was — I 
should  ask  of  you  to  say  that — with  my  prayers  for  her — 
that  was  so  dear." 

I  pressed  his  manly  hand  again,  and  told  him  I  would 
charge  myself  to  do  this  as  well  as  I  could. 

"  I  thankee,  sir,"  he  answered.  "  Twas  kind  of  you  to 
meet  me.  Twas  kind  of  you  to  bear  him  company  down. 
Mas'r  Davy,  I  unnerstan'  very  well,  though  my  aunt  will 
come  to  Lon'on  afore  they  sail,  and  they'll  unite  once  more, 


364  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

that  I  am  not  like  to  see  him  agen.  I  fare  to  feel  sure  on't. 
We  doen't  say  so,  but  so  'twill  be,  and  better  so.  The  last 
you  see  on  him — the  very  last — will  you  give  him  the 
lovingest  duty  and  thanks  of  the  orphan,  as  he  was  ever 
more  than  a  father  to  ? " 

This  I  also  promised,  faithfully. 

"  I  thankee  agen,  sir,"  he  said,  heartily  shaking  hands.  "  I 
know  wheer  you're  a  going.  Good-bye  ! " 

With  a  slight  wave  of  his  hand,  as  though  to  explain  to 
me  that  he  could  not  enter  the  old  place,  he  turned  away. 
As  I  looked  after  his  figure,  crossing  the  waste  in  the  moon 
light,  I  saw  him  turn  his  face  towards  a  strip  of  silvery  light 
upon  the  sea,  and  pass  on,  looking  at  it,  until  he  was  a 
shadow  in  the  distance. 

The  door  of  the  boat-house  stood  open  when  I  approached ; 
and,  on  entering,  I  found  it  emptied  of  all  its  furniture, 
saving  one  of  the  old  lockers,  on  which  Mrs.  Gum  midge, 
with  a  basket  on  her  knee,  was  seated,  looking  at  Mr. 
Peggotty.  He  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  rough  chimney-piece, 
and  gazed  upon  a  few  expiring  embers  in  the  grate ;  but  he 
raised  his  head,  hopefully,  on  my  coming  in,  and  spoke  in  a 
cheery  manner. 

"Come,  according  to  promise,  to  bid  farewell  to  't,  eh, 
Mas'r  Davy  ?  "  he  said,  taking  up  the  candle.  "  Bare  enough, 
now,  an't  it 

"  Indeed  you  have  made  good  use  of  the  time,"''  said  I. 

"Why,  we  have  not  been  idle,  sir.  Missis  Gummidge  has 
worked  like  a — I  doen't  know  what  Missis  Gummidge  an't 
worked  like,""  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  looking  at  her,  at  a  loss  for 
a  sufficiently  approving  simile. 

Mrs.  Gummidge,  leaning  on  her  basket,  made  no  observation. 

"Theer's  the  very  locker  that  you  used  to  sit  on,  "long 
with  Em'ly ! "  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  in  a  whisper.  "  I'm  a 
going  to  carry  it  away  with  me,  last  of  all.  And  beer's 
your  old  little  bedroom,  see,  Mas'r  Davy  ?  A'most  as  bleak 
to-night,  as  'art  could  wish ! " 


GOOD  IN  MRS.  GUMMIDGE.  365 

In  truth,  the  wind,  though  it  was  low,  had  a  solemn  sound, 
and  crept  around  the  deserted  house  with  a  whispered  wail 
ing  that  was  very  mournful.  Everything  was  gone,  down  to 
the  little  mirror  with  the  oyster-shell  frame.  I  thought  of 
myself,  lying  here,  when  that  first  great  change  was  being 
wrought  at  home.  I  thought  of  the  blue-eyed  child  who 
had  enchanted  me.  I  thought  of  Steerforth :  and  a  foolish, 
fearful  fancy  came  upon  me  of  his  being  near  at  hand,  and 
liable  to  be  met  at  any  turn. 

"Tis  like  to  be  long,1'1  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  in  a  low  voice, 
"afore  the  boat  finds  new  tenants.  They  look  upon't  down 
heer,  as  being  unfortunate  now  ! " 

"Does  it  belong  to  anybody  in  the  neighbourhood?'1  I 
asked. 

"  To  a  mast-maker  up  town,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  "  I'm  a 
going  to  give  the  key  to  him  to-night." 

We  looked  into  the  other  little  room,  and  came  back  to 
Mrs.  Gummidge,  sitting  on  the  locker,  whom  Mr.  Peggotty, 
putting  the  light  on  the  chimney-piece,  requested  to  rise, 
that  he  might  carry  it  outside  the  door  before  extinguishing 
the  candle. 

"Dan'l,"  said  Mrs.  Gummidge,  suddenly  deserting  her 
basket,  and  clinging  to  his  arm,  "  my  dear  Dan'l,  the  parting 
words  I  speak  in  this  house  is,  I  mustn't  be  left  behind. 
Doen't  ye  think  of  leaving  me  behind,  Dan'l !  Oh,  doen't  ye 
ever  do  it ! " 

Mr.  Peggotty,  taken  aback,  looked  from  Mrs.  Gummidge 
to  me,  and  from  me  to  Mrs.  Gummidge,  as  if  he  had  been 
awakened  from  a  sleep. 

"  Doen't  ye,  dearest  Dan'l,  doen't  ye ! "  cried  Mrs.  Gum 
midge,  fervently.  "Take  me  'long  with  you,  Dan'l,  take  me 
'long  with  you  and  Em'ly !  I'll  be  your  servant,  constant 
and  trew.  If  there's  slaves  in  them  parts  where  you're  a 
going,  I'll  be  bound  to  you  for  one,  and  happy,  but  doen't 
ye  leave  me  behind,  Dan'l,  that's  a  deary  dear ! " 

"My  good  soul,"   said   Mr.  Peggotty,  shaking  his  head, 


366  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"you  doen't  know  what  a  long  voyage,  and  what  a  hard 
life  'tis!" 

"  Yes  I  do,  Dan'l !  I  can  guess ! "  cried  Mrs.  Gummidge. 
"But  my  parting  words  under  this  roof  is,  I  shall  go  into 
the  house  and  die,  if  I  am  not  took.  I  can  dig,  Dan'l.  I 
can  work.  I  can  live  hard.  I  can  be  loving  and  patient 
now — more  than  you  think,  Dan'l,  if  you'll  on'y  try  me.  I 
wouldn't  touch  the  'lowance,  not  if  I  was  dying  of  want, 
Dan'l  Peggotty;  but  I'll  go  with  you  and  Em'ly,  if  you'll 
on'y  let  me,  to  the  world's  end  !  I  know  how  'tis ;  I  know 
you  think  that  I  am  lone  and  lorn ;  but,  deary  love,  'tan't 
so  no  more  !  I  ain't  sat  here,  so  long,  a  watching,  and  a 
thinking  of  your  trials,  without  some  good  being  done  me. 
Mas'r  Davy,  speak  to  him  for  me !  I  knows  his  ways,  and 
Em'ly's,  and  I  knows  their  sorrows,  and  can  be  a  comfort  to 
'em,  some  odd  times,  and  labour  for  'em  allus !  Dan'l,  deary 
Dan'l,  let  me  go  'long  with  you  ! " 

And  Mrs.  Gummidge  took  his  hand,  and  kissed  it  with  a 
homely  pathos  and  affection,  in  a  homely  rapture  of  devotion 
and  gratitude,  that  he  well  deserved. 

We  brought  the  locker  out,  extinguished  the  candle, 
fastened  the  door  on  the  outside,  and  left  the  old  boat 
close  shut  up,  a  dark  speck  in  the  cloudy  night.  Next  day, 
when  we  were  returning  to  London  outside  the  coach,  Mrs. 
Gummidge  and  her  basket  were  on  the  seat  behind,  and 
Mrs.  Gummidge  was  happy. 


CHAPTER  LII. 

I    ASSIST    AT    AN    EXPLOSION. 

WHEN  the  time  Mr.  Micawber  had  appointed  so  mysteriously, 
was  within  four-and -twenty  hours  of  being  come,  my  aunt 
and  I  consulted  how  we  should  proceed ;  for  my  aunt  was 
very  unwilling  to  leave  Dora.  Ah !  how  easily  I  carried 
Dora  up  and  down  stairs,  now  ! 

We  were  disposed,  notwithstanding  Mr.  Micawber's  stipula 
tion  for  my  aunt's  attendance,  to  arrange  that  she  should 
stay  at  home,  and  be  represented  by  Mr.  Dick  and  me.  In 
short,  we  had  resolved  to  take  this  course,  when  Dora  again 
unsettled  us  by  declaring  that  she  never  would  forgive 
herself,  and  never  would  forgive  her  bad  boy,  if  my  aunt 
remained  behind,  on  any  pretence. 

"I  won't  speak  to  you,"  said  Dora,  shaking  her  curls  at 
my  aunt.  "  I'll  be  disagreeable !  I'll  make  Jip  bark  at  you 
all  day.  I  shall  be  sure  that  you  really  are  a  cross  old 
thing,  if  you  don't  go  !  " 

"  Tut,  Blossom ! "  laughed  my  aunt.  "  You  know  you 
can't  do  without  me!" 

"Yes,  I  can,"  said  Dora.  "You  are  no  use  to  me  at  all. 
You  never  run  up  and  down  stairs  for  me,  all  day  long. 
You  never  sit  and  tell  me  stories  about  Doady,  when  his  shoes 
were  worn  out,  and  he  was  covered  with  dust — oh,  what  a 
poor  little  mite  of  a  fellow !  You  never  do  anything  at  all 


368  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

to  please  me,  do  you,  dear?"  Dora  made  haste  to  kiss  my 
aunt,  and  say,  "Yes,  you  do!  I'm  only  joking!" — lest  my 
aunt  should  think  she  really  meant  it. 

"  But,  aunt,"  said  Dora,  coaxingly,  "  now  listen.  You 
must  go.  I  shall  tease  you,  till  you  let  me  have  my  own 
way  about  it.  I  shall  lead  my  naughty  boy  such  a  life,  if  he 
don't  make  you  go.  I  shall  make  myself  so  disagreeable — 
and  so  will  Jip !  You'll  wish  you  had  gone,  like  a  good 
thing,  for  ever  and  ever  so  long,  if  you  don't  go.  Besides," 
said  Dora,  putting  back  her  hair,  and  looking  wonderingly 
at  my  aunt  and  me,  "  why  shouldn't  you  both  go  ?  I  am 
not  very  ill  indeed.  Am  I?" 

"  Why,  what  a  question  ! "  cried  my  aunt. 

"  What  a  fancy  !  "  said  I. 

C1  Yes  !  I  know  I  am  a  silly  little  thing  ! "  said  Dora,  slowly 
looking  from  one  of  us  to  the  other,  and  then  putting  up 
her  pretty  lips  to  kiss  us  as  she  lay  upon  her  couch.  "  Well, 
then,  you  must  both  go,  or  I  shall  not  believe  you ;  and 
then  I  shall  cry!" 

I  saw,  in  my  aunt's  face,  that  she  began  to  give  way  now, 
and  Dora  brightened  again,  as  she  saw  it  too. 

"You'll  come  back  with  so  much  to  tell  me,  that  it'll 
take  at  least  a  week  to  make  me  understand  ! "  said  Dora. 
"  Because  I  know  I  shan't  understand,  for  a  length  of  time, 
if  there's  any  business  in  it.  And  there's  sure  to  be  some 
business  in  it !  If  there's  anything  to  add  up,  besides,  I  don't 
know  when  I  shall  make  it  out ;  and  my  bad  boy  will  look 
so  miserable  all  the  time.  There  !  Now  you'll  go,  won't 
you?  You'll  only  be  gone  one  night,  and  Jip  will  take  care 
of  me  while  you  are  gone.  Doady  will  carry  me  up-stairs 
before  you  go,  and  I  won't  come  down  again  till  you  come 
back ;  and  you  shall  take  Agnes  a  dreadfully  scolding  letter 
from  me,  because  she  has  never  been  to  see  us ! " 

We  agreed,  without  any  more  consultation,  that  we  would 
both  go,  and  that  Dora  was  a  little  Impostor,  who  feigned 
to  be  rather  unwell,  because  she  liked  to  be  petted.  She  was 


CHANGES  AT  CANTERBURY.  369 

greatly  pleased,  and  very  merry ;  and  we  four,  that  is  to  say, 
my  aunt,  Mr.  Dick,  Traddles,  and  I,  went  down  to  Canter 
bury  by  the  Dover  mail  that  night. 

At  the  hotel  where  Mr.  Micawber  had  requested  us  to 
await  him,  which  we  got  into,  with  some  trouble,  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  I  found  a  letter,  importing  that  he 
would  appear  in  the  morning  punctually  at  half-past  nine. 
After  which,  we  went  shivering,  at  that  uncomfortable  hour, 
to  our  respective  beds,  through  various  close  passages ;  which 
smelt  as  if  they  had  been  steeped,  for  ages,  in  a  solution  of 
soup  and  stables. 

Early  in  the  morning,  I  sauntered  through  the  dear  old 
tranquil  streets,  and  again  mingled  with  the  shadows  of  the 
venerable  gateways  and  churches.  The  rooks  were  sailing 
about  the  cathedral  towers ;  and  the  towers  themselves,  over 
looking  many  a  long  unaltered  mile  of  the  rich  country  and 
its  pleasant  streams,  were  cutting  the  bright  morning  air, 
as  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  change  on  earth.  Yet 
the  bells,  when  they  sounded,  told  me  sorrowfully  of  change 
in  everything;  told  me  of  their  own  age,  and  my  pretty 
Dora's  youth;  and  of  the  many,  never  old,  who  had  lived 
and  loved  and  died,  while  the  reverberations  of  the  bells 
had  hummed  through  the  rusty  armour  of  the  Black  Prince 
hanging  up  within,  and,  motes  upon  the  deep  of  Time,  had 
lost  themselves  in  air,  as  circles  do  in  water. 

I  looked  at  the  old  house  from  the  corner  of  the  street, 
but  did  not  go  nearer  to  it,  lest,  being  observed,  I  might 
unwittingly  do  any  harm  to  the  design  I  had  come  to  aid. 
The  early  sun  was  striking  edgewise  on  its  gables  and  lattice- 
windows,  touching  them  with  gold;  and  some  beams  of  its 
old  peace  seemed  to  touch  my  heart. 

I  strolled  into  the  country  for  an  hour  or  so,  and  then 
returned  by  the  main  street,  which  in  the  interval  had  shaken 
off  its  last  night's  sleep.  Among  those  who  were  stirring  in 
the  shops,  I  saw  my  ancient  enemy,  the  butcher,  now  advanced 
to  top-boots  and  a  baby,  and  in  business  for  himself.  He 

VOL.  n.  2  B 


370  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

was  nursing  the  baby,  and  appeared  to  be  a  benignant 
member  of  society. 

We  all  became  very  anxious  and  impatient,  when  we  sat 
down  to  breakfast,  v  As  it  approached  nearer  and  nearer  to 
half-past  nine  o'clock,  our  restless,  expectation  of  Mr.  Micawber 
increased.  At  last  we  made  no  more  pretence  of  attending 
to  the  meal,  which,  except  with  Mr.  Dick,  had  been  a  mere 
form  from  the  first;  but  my  aunt  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  Traddles  sat  upon  the  sofa  affecting  to  read  the  paper 
with  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling ;  and  I  looked  out  of  the  window 
to  give  early  notice  of  Mr.  Micawber's  coming.  Nor  had  I 
long  to  watch,  for,  at  the  first  chime  of  the  half-hour,  he 
appeared  in  the  street. 

"  Here  he  is,"  said  I,  "  and  not  in  his  legal  attire ! " 

My  aunt  tied  the  strings  of  her  bonnet  (she  had  come  down 
to  breakfast  in  it),  and  put  on  her  shawl,  as  if  she  were  ready 
for  anything  that  was  resolute  and  uncompromising.  Traddles 
buttoned  his  coat  with  a  determined  air.  Mr.  Dick,  disturbed 
by  these  formidable  appearances,  but  feeling  it  necessary  to 
imitate  them,  pulled  his  hat,  with  both  hands,  as  firmly  over 
his  ears  as  he  possibly  could ;  and  instantly  took  it  oft*  again, 
to  welcome  Mr.  Micawber. 

"  Gentlemen,  and  madam,""  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  good 
morning !  My  dear  sir,"  to  Mr.  Dick,  who  shook  hands  with 
him  violently,  "you  are  extremely  good." 

"  Have  you  breakfasted  ? "  said  Mr.  Dick.  "  Have  a 
chop ! " 

"  Not  xor  the  world,  my  good  sir ! "  cried  Mr.  Micawber, 
stopping  him  on  his  way  to  the  bell ;  "  appetite  and  myself, 
Mr.  Dixon,  have  long  been  strangers." 

Mr.  Dixon  was  so  well  pleased  with  his  new  name,  and 
appeared  to  think  it  so  very  obliging  in  Mr.  Micawber  to 
confer  it  upon  him,  that  he  shook  hands  with  him  again,  and 
laughed  rather  childishly. 

"  Dick,"  said  my  aunt,  "  attention  ! " 

Mr.  Dick  recovered  himself,  with  a  blush. 


AN  ERUPTION  EXPECTED.  671 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  my  aunt  to  Mr.  Micawber,  as  she  put  on 
her  gloves,  "we  are  ready  for  Mount  Vesuvius,  or  anything 
else,  as  soon  as  you  please.11 

"  Madam,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  "  I  trust  you  will  shortly 
witness  an  eruption.  Mr.  Traddles,  I  have  your  permission, 
I  believe,  to  mention  here  that  we  have  been  in  communica 
tion  together  ?  " 

"  It  is  undoubtedly  the  fact,  Copperfield,"  said  Traddles,  to 
whom  I  looked  in  surprise.  "Mr.  Micawber  has  consulted 
me,  in  reference  to  what  he  has  in  contemplation ;  and  I  have 
advised  him  to  the  best  of  my  judgment." 

"  Unless  I  deceive  myself,  Mr.  Traddles,"  pursued  Mr. 
Micawber,  "  what  I  contemplate  is  a  disclosure  of  an  im 
portant  nature." 

"  Highly  so,"  said  Traddles. 

"  Perhaps,  under  such  circumstances,  madam  and  gentle 
men,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "you  will  do  me  the  favour  to 
submit  yourselves,  for  the  moment,  to  the  direction  of  one, 
who,  however  unworthy  to  be  regarded  in  any  other  light  but 
as  a  Waif  and  Stray  upon  the  shore  of  human  nature,  is  still 
your  fellow-man,  though  crushed  out  of  his  original  form  by 
individual  errors,  and  the  accumulative  force  of  a  combination 
of  circumstances  ?  " 

"We  have  perfect  confidence  in  you,  Mr.  Micawber,"  said 
I,  "and  will  do  what  you  please." 

"  Mr.  Copperfield,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  "  your  confi 
dence  is  not,  at  the  existing  juncture,  ill-bestowed.  I  would 
beg  to  be  allowed  a  start  of  five  minutes  by  the  clock ; 
and  then  to  receive  the  present  company,  inquiring  for 
Miss  Wickfield,  at  the  office  of  Wickfield  and  Heep,  whose 
Stipendiary  I  am." 

My  aunt  and  I  looked  at  Traddles,  who  nodded  his 
approval. 

"  I  have  no  more,"  observed  Mr.  Micawber,  "  to  say  at 
present." 

With  which,  to  my  infinite  surprise,  he  included  us  all  in 


372  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

a   comprehensive  bow,   and   disappeared;   his  manner  being 
extremely  distant,  and  his  face  extremely  pale. 

Traddles  only  smiled,  and  shook  his  head  (with  his  hair 
standing  upright  on  the  top  of  it),  when  I  looked  to  him  for 
an  explanation;  so  I  took  out  my  watch,  and,  as  a  last 
resource,  counted  off  the  five  minutes.  My  aunt,  with  her 
own  watch  in  her  hand,  did  the  like.  When  the  time  was 
expired,  Traddles  gave  her  his  arm ;  and  we  all  went  out 
together  to  the  old  house,  without  saying  one  word  on  the 
way. 

We  found  Mr.  Micawber  at  his  desk,  in  the  turret  office 
on  the  ground  floor,  either  writing,  or  pretending  to  write, 
hard.  The  large  office-ruler  was  stuck  into  his  waistcoat, 
and  was  not  so  well  concealed  but  that  a  foot  or  more  of 
that  instrument  protruded  from  his  bosom,  like  a  new  kind 
of  shirt-frill. 

As  it  appeared  to  me  that  I  was  expected  to  speak,  I  said 
aloud  : 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Micawber  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  gravely,  "  I  hope  I 
see  you  well  ?  " 

"  Is  Miss  Wickfield  at  home  ?"  said  I. 

"  Mr.  Wickfield  is  unwell  in  bed,  sir,  of  a  rheumatic 
fever,1"  he  returned;  "but  Miss  Wickfield,  I  have  no  doubt, 
will  be  happy  to  see  old  friends.  Will  you  walk  in,  sir  ?  " 

He  preceded  us  to  the  dining-room — the  first  room  I  had 
entered  in  that  house — and  flinging  open  the  door  of  Mr. 
Wickfield^s  former  office,  said,  in  a  sonorous  voice : 

"  Miss  Trotwood,  Mr.  David  Copperfield,  Mr.  Thomas 
Traddles,  and  Mr.  Dixon  ! " 

I  had  not  seen  Uriah  Heep  since  the  time  of  the  blow. 
Our  visit  astonished  him,  evidently ;  not  the  less,  I  dare  say, 
because  it  astonished  ourselves.  He  did  not  gather  his  eye 
brows  together,  for  he  had  none  worth  mentioning;  but  he 
frowned  to  that  degree  that  he  almost  closed  his  small  eyes, 
while  the  hurried  raising  of  his  gristly  hand  to  his  cfiin 


A  SURMISE   VISIT.  373 

betrayed  some  trepidation  or  surprise.  This  was  only  when 
we  were  in  the  act  of  entering  his  room,  and  when  I  caught 
a  glance  at  him  over  my  aunt's  shoulder.  A  moment  after 
wards,  he  was  as  fawning  and  as  humble  as  ever. 

"  Well,  I  am  sure,"  he  said.  "  This  is  indeed  an  unexpected 
pleasure!  To  have,  as  I  may  say,  all  friends  round  Saint 
Paul's  at  once,  is  a  treat  unlocked  for!  Mr.  Copperfield,  I 
hope  I  see  you  well,  and — if  I  may  umbly  express  self  so — 
friendly  towards  them  as  is  ever  your  friends,  whether  or 
not.  Mrs.  Copperfield,  sir,  I  hope  she's  getting  on.  We 
have  been  made  quite  uneasy  by  the  poor  accounts  we  have 
had  of  her  state,  lately,  I  do  assure  yon." 

I  felt  ashamed  to  let  him  take  my  hand,  but  I  did  not 
know  yet  what  else  to  do. 

"Things  are  changed  in  this  office,  Miss  Trotwood,  since 
I  was  an  umble  clerk,  and  held  your  pony  ;  ain't  they  ? " 
said  Uriah,  with  his  sickliest  smile.  "  But  /  am  not  changed, 
Miss  Trotwood." 

"  Well,  sir,"  returned  my  aunt,  "  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
think  you  are  pretty  constant  to  the  promise  of  your  youth ; 
if  that's  any  satisfaction  to  you." 

*'  Thank  you,  Miss  Trotwood,"  said  Uriah,  writhing  in  his 
ungainly  manner,  "  for  your  good  opinion  !  Micawber,  tell 
'em  to  let  Miss  Agnes  know — and  mother.  Mother  will  be 
quite  in  a  state,  when  she  sees  the  present  company ! "  said 
Uriah,  setting  chairs. 

"  You  are  not  busy,  Mr.  Heep  ? "  said  Traddles,  whose 
eye  the  cunning  red  eye  accidentally  caught,  as  it  at  once 
scrutinised  and  evaded  us. 

"  No,  Mr.  Traddles,"  replied  Uriah,  resuming  his  official 
seat,  and  squeezing  his  bony  hands,  laid  palm  to  palm, 
between  his  bony  knees.  "Not  so  much  so  as  I  could  wish. 
But  lawyers,  sharks,  and  leeches,  are  not  easily  satisfied,  you 
know !  Not  but  what  myself  and  Micawber  have  our  hands 
pretty  full  in  general,  on  account  of  Mr.  Wickfield's  being 
hardly  fit  for  any  occupation,  sir.  But  it's  a  pleasure  as  well 


374  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

as  a  duty,  I  am  sure,  to  work  for  him.  You've  not  been 
intimate  with  Mr.  Wickfield,  I  think,  Mr.  Traddles  ?  I 
believe  I've  only  had  the  honour  of  seeing  you  once  myself?1' 

"No,  I  have  not  been  intimate  with  Mr.  Wickfield,"  re 
turned  Traddles  ;  "or  I  might  perhaps  have  waited  on  you 
long  ago,  Mr.  Heep." 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  this  reply,  which  made 
Uriah  look  at  the  speaker  again,  with  a  very  sinister  and 
suspicious  expression.  But,  seeing  only  Traddles,  with  his 
good-natured  face,  simple  manner,  and  hair  on  end,  he  dis 
missed  it  as  he  replied,  with  a  jerk  of  his  whole  body,  but 
especially  his  throat : 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that,  Mr.  Traddles.  You  would  have 
admired  him  as  much  as  we  all  do.  His  little  failings  would 
only  have  endeared  him  to  you  the  more.  But  if  you  would 
like  to  hear  my  fellow-partner  eloquently  spoken  of,  I  should 
refer  you  to  Copperfield.  The  family  is  a  subject  he's  very 
strong  upon,  if  you  never  heard  him." 

I  was  prevented  from  disclaiming  the  compliment  (if  I 
should  have  done  so,  in  any  case),  by  the  entrance  of  Agnes, 
now  ushered  in  by  Mr.  Micawber.  She  was  not  quite  so 
self-possessed  as  usual,  I  thought;  and  had  evidently  under 
gone  anxiety  and  fatigue.  But  her  earnest  cordiality,  and 
her  quiet  beauty,  shone  with  the  gentler  lustre  for  it 

I  saw  Uriah  watch  her  while  she  greeted  us ;  and  he  re 
minded  me  of  an  ugly  and  rebellious  genie  watching  a  good 
spirit.  In  the  meanwhile,  some  slight  sign  passed  between 
Mr.  Micawber  and  Traddles ;  and  Traddles,  unobserved  except 
by  me,  went  out. 

"Don't  wait,  Micawber,"  said  Uriah. 

Mr.  Micawber,  with  his  hand  upon  the  ruler  in  his  breast, 
stood  erect  before  the  door,  most  unmistakably  contemplating 
one  of  his  fellow-men,  and  that  man  his  employer. 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for  ?  "  said  Uriah.  "  Micawber ! 
did  you  hear  me  tell  you  not  to  wait  ? " 

"  Yes ! "  replied  the  immovable  Mr.  Micawber. 


URIAH  HEEP  BROUGHT  TO  BAY.          375 

"  Then  why  do  you  wait  ? "  said  Uriah. 

"Because  I — in  short  choose,"  replied  Mr.  Micawber,  with 
a  burst. 

Uriah's  cheeks  lost  colour,  and  an  unwholesome  paleness, 
still  faintly  tinged  by  his  pervading  red,  overspread  them. 
He  looked  at  Mr.  Micawber  attentively,  with  his  whole  face 
breathing  short  and  quick  in  every  feature. 

"  You  are  a  dissipated  fellow,  as  all  the  world  knows," 
he  said,  with  an  effort  at  a  smile,  "and  I  am  afraid  you'll 
oblige  me  to  get  rid  of  you.  Go  along !  Til  talk  to  you 
presently." 

"  If  there  is  a  scoundrel  on  this  earth,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
suddenly  breaking  out  again  with  the  utmost  vehemence, 
"  with  whom  I  have  already  talked  too  much,  that  scoundrel's 
name  is — HEEP  ! " 

Uriah  fell  back,  as  if  he  had  been  struck  or  stung.  Look 
ing  slowly  round  upon  us  with  the  darkest  and  wickedest 
expression  that  his  face  could  wear,  he  said,  in  a  lower  voice : 

"  Oho !  This  is  a  conspiracy !  You  have  met  here,  by 
appointment !  You  are  playing  Booty  with  my  clerk,  are 
you,  Copperfield?  Now,  take  care.  You'll  make  nothing  of 
this.  We  understand  each  other,  vou  and  me.  There's  no 
love  between  us.  You  were  always  a  puppy  with  a  proud 
stomach,  from  your  first  coming  here ;  and  you  envy  me 
my  rise,  do  you  ?  None  of  your  plots  against  me ;  I'll 
counterplot  you!  Micawber,  you  be  off.  I'll  talk  to  you 
presently." 

"  Mr.  Micawber,"  said  I,  "  there  is  a  sudden  change  in  this 
fellow,  in  more  respects  than  the  extraordinary  one  of  his 
speaking  the  truth  in  one  particular,  which  assures  me  that 
he  is  brought  to  bay.  Deal  with  him  as  he  deserves ! " 

"  You  are  a  precious  set  of  people,  ain't  you  ?  "  said  Uriah, 
in  the  same  low  voice,  and  breaking  out  into  a  clammy  heat, 
which  he  wiped  from  his  forehead,  with  his  long  lean  hand, 
"  to  buy  over  my  clerk,  who  is  the  very  scum  of  society, — as 
you  yourself  were,  Copperfield,  you  know  it,  before  any  one 


376  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

had  charity  on  you, — to  defame  me  with  his  lies?  Miss 
Trotwood,  you  had  better  stop  this;  or  I'll  stop  your 
husband  shorter  than  will  be  pleasant  to  you.  I  won't  know 
your  story  professionally,  for  nothing,  old  lady !  Miss  Wick- 
field,  if  you  have  any  love  for  your  father,  you  had  better 
not  join  that  gang.  I'll  ruin  him,  if  you  do.  Now,  come  ! 
I  have  got  some  of  you  under  the  harrow.  Think  twice, 
before  it  goes  over  you.  Think  twice,  you,  Micawber,  if  you 
don't  want  to  be  crushed.  I  recommend  you  to  take  yourself 
off,  and  be  talked  to  presently,  you  fool !  while  there's  time 
to  retreat !  Where's  mother  ?  "  he  said,  suddenly  appearing  to 
notice,  with  alarm,  the  absence  of  Traddles,  and  pulling  down 
the  bell-rope.  "  Fine  doings  in  a  person's  own  house  ! " 

"Mrs.  Keep  is  here,  sir,"  said  Traddles,  returning  with 
that  worthy  mother  of  a  worthy  son.  "  I  have  taken  the 
liberty  of  making  myself  known  to  her." 

"  Who  are  you  to  make  yourself  known  ?  "  retorted  Uriah. 
"  And  what  do  you  want  here  ?  " 

"I  am  the  agent  and  friend  of  Mr.  Wickfield,  sir,"  said 
Traddles,  in  a  composed  business-like  way.  "And  I  have  a 
power  of  attorney  from  him  in  my  pocket,  to  act  for  him 
in  all  matters." 

"The  old  ass  has  drunk  himself  into  a  state  of  dotage," 
said  Uriah,  turning  uglier  than  before,  "  and  it  has  been  got 
from  him  by  fraud  ! " 

"Something  has  been  got  from  him  by  fraud,  I  know," 
returned  Traddles  quietly ;  "  and  so  do  you,  Mr.  Heep.  We 
will  refer  that  question,  if  you  please,  to  Mr.  Micawber." 

"  Ury — ! "  Mrs.  Heep  began,  with  an  anxious  gesture. 

"  You  hold  your  tongue,  mother,"  he  returned ;  "  least 
said,  soonest  mended." 

"But,  my  Ury—" 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  mother,  and  leave  it  to  me  ? " 

Though  I  had  long  known  that  his  servility  was  false,  and 
all  his  pretences  knavish  and  hollow,  I  had  had  no  adequate 
conception  of  the  extent  of  his  hypocrisy,  until  I  now  saw 


URIAH  RETORTS  ON  ME.  377 

him  with  his  mask  off.  The  suddenness  with  which  he 
dropped  it,  when  he  perceived  that  it  was  useless  to  him; 
the  malice,  insolence,  and  hatred  he  revealed;  the  leer  with 
which  he  exulted,  even  at  this  moment,  in  the  evil  he  had 
done — all  this  time  being  desperate  too,  and  at  his  wits'  end 
for  the  means  of  getting  the  better  of  us — though  perfectly 
consistent  with  the  experience  I  had  of  him,  at  first  took 
even  me  by  surprise,  who  had  known  him  so  long,  and 
disliked  him  so  heartily. 

I  say  nothing  of  the  look  he  conferred  on  me,  as  he  stood 
eyeing  us,  one  after  another;  for  I  had  always  understood 
that  he  hated  me,  and  I  remembered  the  marks  of  my  hand 
upon  his  cheek.  But  when  his  eyes  passed  on  to  Agnes, 
and  I  saw  the  rage  with  which  he  felt  his  power  over  her 
slipping  away,  and  the  exhibition,  in  their  disappointment, 
of  the  odious  passions  that  had  led  him  to  aspire  to  one 
whose  virtues  he  could  never  appreciate  or  care  for,  I  was 
shocked  by  the  mere  thought  of  her  having  lived,  an  hour, 
within  sight  of  such  a  man. 

After  some  rubbing  of  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  and 
some  looking  at  us  with  those  bad  eyes,  over  his  gristly 
fingers,  he  made  one  more  address  to  me,  half  whining,  and 
half  abusive. 

"You  think  it  justifiable,  do  you,  Copperfield,  you  who 
pride  yourself  so  much  on  your  honour  and  all  the  rest  of 
it,  to  sneak  about  my  place,  eaves-dropping  with  my  clerk? 
If  it  had  been  me,  I  shouldn't  have  wondered;  for  I  don't 
make  myself  out  a  gentleman  (though  I  never  was  in  the 
streets  either,  as  you  were,  according  to  Micawber),  but  being 
ycnil — And  you're  not  afraid  of  doing  this,  either?  You 
don't  think  at  all  of  what  I  shall  do,  in  return ;  or  of  getting 
yourself  into  trouble  for  conspiracy  and  so  forth  ?  Very  well. 
We  shall  see !  Mr.  What's-your-name,  you  were  going  to 
refer  some  question  to  Micawber.  There's  your  referee.  Why 
don't  you  make  him  speak  ?  He  has  learnt  his  lesson,  I  see." 

Seeing  that  what  he  said  had  no  effect  on  me  or  any  of 


378  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

us,  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  table  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  one  of  his  splay  feet  twisted  round  the  other 
leg,  waiting  doggedly  for  what  might  follow. 

Mr.  Micawber,  whose  impetuosity  I  had  restrained  thus 
far  with  the  greatest  difficulty,  and  who  had  repeatedly 
interposed  with  the  first  syllable  of  ScouN-drel !  without 
getting  to  the  second,  now  burst  forward,  drew  the  ruler 
from  his  breast  (apparently  as  a  defensive  weapon),  and 
produced  from  his  pocket  a  foolscap  document,  folded  in  the 
form  of  a  large  letter.  Opening  this  packet,  with  his  old 
flourish,  and  glancing  at  the  contents,  as  if  he  cherished  an 
artistic  admiration  of  their  style  of  composition,  he  began  to 
read  as  follows : 

"'Dear  Miss  Trotwood  and  gentlemen '" 

"  Bless  and  save  the  man ! "  exclaimed  my  aunt  in  a  low 
voice.  "  He'd  write  letters  by  the  ream,  if  it  was  a  capital 
offence  !" 

Mr.  Micawber,  without  hearing  her,  went  on. 

" '  In  appearing  before  you  to  denounce  probably  the  most 
consummate  Villain  that  has  ever  existed,1"  Mr.  Micawber, 
without  looking  off  the  letter,  pointed  the  ruler,  like  a  ghostly 
truncheon,  at  Uriah  Heep,  " '  I  ask  no  consideration  for  my 
self.  The  victim,  from  my  cradle,  of  pecuniary  liabilities  to 
which  I  have  been  unable  to  respond,  I  have  ever  been  the 
sport  and  toy  of  debasing  circumstances.  Ignominy,  Want, 
Despair,  and  Madness,  have,  collectively  or  separately,  been 
the  attendants  of  my  career.1 " 

The  relish  with  which  Mr.  Micawber  described  himself,  as 
a  prey  to  these  dismal  calamities,  was  only  to  be  equalled  by 
the  emphasis  with  which  he  read  his  letter;  and  the  kind  of 
homage  he  rendered  to  it  with  a  roll  of  his  head,  when  he 
thought  he  had  hit  a  sentence  very  hard  indeed. 

"'In  an  accumulation  of  Ignominy,  Want,  Despair,  and 
Madness,  I  entered  the  office — or,  as  our  lively  neighbour  the 
Gaul  would  term  it,  the  Bureau — of  the  Firm,  nominally 
conducted  under  the  appellation  of  Wickfield  and — HEEP, 


MR.  MICAWBEITS  BILL  OF  INDICTMENT.     379 

but,  in  reality,  wielded  by — HEEP  alone.  HEEP,  and  only 
HEEP,  is  the  mainspring  of  that  machine.  HEEP,  and  only 
HEEP,  is  the  Forger  and  the  Cheat.'1' 

Uriah,  more  blue  than  white  at  these  words,  made  a  dart 
at  the  letter,  as  if  to  tear  it  in  pieces.  Mr.  Micawber,  with 
a  perfect  miracle  of  dexterity  or  luck,  caught  his  advancing 
knuckles  with  the  ruler,  and  disabled  his  right  hand.  It 
dropped  at  the  wrist,  as  if  it  were  broken.  The  blow  sounded 
as  if  it  had  fallen  on  wood. 

"  The  Devil  take  you ! "  said  Uriah,  writhing  in  a  new  way 
with  pain.  "  111  be  even  with  you." 

"Approach  me  again,  you — you — you  HEEP  of  infamy," 
gasped  Mr.  Micawber,  "  and  if  your  head  is  human,  111 
break  it.  Come  on,  come  on  ! " 

I  think  I  never  saw  anything  more  ridiculous — I  was 
sensible  of  it,  even  at  the  time — than  Mr.  Micawber  making 
broad-sword  guards  with  the  ruler,  and  crying,  "  Come  on ! " 
while  Traddles  and  I  pushed  him  back  into  a  corner,  from 
which,  as  often  as  we  got  him  into  it,  he  persisted  in  emerging 
again. 

His  enemy,  muttering  to  himself,  after  wringing  his  wounded 
hand  for  some  time,  slowly  drew  off  his  neck-kerchief  and 
bound  it  up;  then,  held  it  in  his  other  hand,  and  sat  upon 
his  table  with  his  sullen  face  looking  down. 

Mr.  Micawber,  when  he  was  sufficiently  cool,  proceeded 
with  his  letter. 

"'The  stipendiary  emoluments  in  consideration  of  which 
I  entered  into  the  service  of — HEEP,'"  always  pausing  before 
that  word  and  uttering  it  with  astonishing  vigour,  " '  were 
not  defined,  beyond  the  pittance,  of  twenty-two  shillings  and 
six  per  week.  The  rest  was  left  contingent  on  the  value  01 
my  professional  exertions ;  in  other  and  more  expressive 
words,  on  the  baseness  of  my  nature,  the  cupidity  of  my 
motives,  the  poverty  of  my  family,  the  general  moral  (or 
rather  immoral)  resemblance  between  myself  and — HEEP. 
Need  I  say,  that  it  soon  became  necessary  for  me  to  solicit 


380  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

from — HEEP — pecuniary  advances  towards  the  support  of  Mrs. 
Micawber,  and  our  blighted  but  rising  family  ?  Need  I  say 
that  this  necessity  had  been  foreseen  by — HEEP  ?  That  those 
advances  were  secured  by  I  O  IPs  and  other  similar  acknow 
ledgments,  known  to  the  legal  institutions  of  this  country  ? 
And  that  I  thus  became  immeshed  in  the  web  he  had  spun 
for  my  reception  ? ' v 

Mr.  Micawber's  enjoyment  of  his  epistolary  powers,  in 
describing  this  unfortunate  state  of  things,  really  seemed  to 
outweigh  any  pain  or  anxiety  that  the  reality  could  have 
caused  him.  He  read  on : 

"'Then  it  was  that — HEEP — began  to  favour  me  with  just 
so  much  of  his  confidence,  as  was  necessary  to  the  discharge 
of  his  infernal  business.  Then  it  was  that  I  began,  if  I  may 
so  Shakespearingly  express  myself,  to  dwindle,  peak,  and  pine. 
I  found  that  my  services  were  constantly  called  into  requi 
sition  for  the  falsification  of  business,  and  the  mystification 
of  an  individual  whom  I  will  designate  as  Mr.  W.  That 
Mr.  W.  was  imposed  upon,  kept  in  ignorance,  and  deluded, 
in  every  possible  way ;  yet,  that  all  this  while,  the  ruffian — • 
HEEP — was  professing  unbounded  gratitude  to,  and  unbounded 
friendship  for,  that  much-abused  gentleman.  This  was  bad 
enough ;  but,  as  the  philosophic  Dane  observes,  with  that 
universal  applicability  which  distinguishes  the  illustrious 
ornament  of  the  Elizabethan  Era,  worse  remains  behind  ! ' r 

Mr.  Micawber  was  so  very  much  struck  by  this  happy 
rounding  off  with  a  quotation,  that  he  indulged  himself,  and 
us,  with  a  second  reading  of  the  sentence,  under  pretence  of 
having  lost  his  place. 

" '  It  is  not  my  intention,' "  he  continued,  reading  on,  " '  to 
enter  on  a  detailed  list,  within  the  compass  of  the  present 
epistle  (though  it  is  ready  elsewhere),  of  the  various  mal 
practices  of  a  minor  nature,  affecting  the  individual  whom  I 
have  denominated  Mr.  W.,  to  which  I  have  been  a  tacitly 
consenting  party.  My  object,  when  the  contest  within  myself 
between  stipend  and  no  stipend,  baker  and  no  baker,  existence 


SERIOUS   CHARGES.  381 

and  non-existence,  ceased,  was  to  take  advantage  of  my 
opportunities  to  discover  and  expose  the  major  malpractices 
committed,  to  that  gentleman's  grievous  wrong  and  injury, 
by — KEEP.  Stimulated  by  the  silent  monitor  within,  and  by 
a  no  less  touching  and  appealing  monitor  without — to  whom 
I  will  briefly  refer  as  Miss  W. — I  entered  on  a  not  unlaborious 
task  of  clandestine  investigation,  protracted  now,  to  the  best 
of  my  knowledge,  information,  and  belief,  over  a  period 
exceeding  twelve  calendar  months.' " 

He  read  this  passage,  as  if  it  were  from  an  Act  of  Parlia 
ment;  and  appeared  majestically  refreshed  by  the  sound  of 
the  words. 

"4My  charges  against — HEEP,'"  he  read  on,  glancing  at 
him,  and  drawing  the  ruler  into  a  convenient  position  under 
his  left  arm,  in  case  of  need,  " '  are  as  follows.1 " 

We  all  held  our  breath,  I  think.     I  am  sure  Uriah  held  his. 

"  « First;  "  said  Mr.  Micawber.  " '  When  Mr.  W.'s  faculties 
and  memory  for  business  became,  through  causes  into  which 
it  is  not  necessary  or  expedient  for  me  to  enter,  weakened 
and  confused, — HEEP — designedly  perplexed  and  complicated 
the  whole  of  the  official  transactions.  When  Mr.  W.  was 
least  fit  to  enter  on  business, — HEEP  was  always  at  hand  to 
force  him  to  enter  on  it.  He  obtained  Mr.  W.'s  signature 
under  such  circumstances  to  documents  of  importance, 
representing  them  to  be  other  documents  of  no  importance. 
He  induced  Mr.  W.  to  empower  him  to  draw  out,  thus,  one 
particular  sum  of  trust-money,  amounting  to  twelve  six  fourteen, 
two  and  nine,  and  employed  it  to  meet  pretended  business 
charges  and  deficiencies  which  were  either  already  provided 
for,  or  had  never  really  existed.  He  gave  this  proceeding, 
throughout,  the  appearance  of  having  originated  in  Mr.  W.'s 
own  dishonest  intention,  and  of  having  been  accomplished  by 
Mr.  W.'s  own  dishonest  act ;  and  has  used  it,  ever  since,  to 
torture  and  constrain  him.1'''* 

"  You  shall  prove  this,  you  Copperfield  ! "  said  Uriah,  with 
a  threatening  shake  of  the  head.  "  All  in  good  time ! " 


382  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"Ask — KEEP — Mr.  Traddles,  who  lived  in  his  house  after 
him,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  breaking  off  from  the  letter; 
"  will  you  ?  " 

"The  fool  himself — and  lives  there  now,"  said  Uriah, 
disdainfully. 

«Ask — HEEP — if  he  ever  kept  a  pocket-book  in  that 
house,"  said  Mr.  Micawber;  "will  you?" 

I  saw  Uriah's  lank  hand  stop,  involuntarily,  in  the  scraping 
of  his  chin. 

"  Or  ask  him,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  if  he  ever  burnt  one 
there.  If  he  says  Yes,  and  asks  you  where  the  ashes  are, 
refer  him  to  Wilkins  Micawber,  and  he  will  hear  of  some 
thing  not  at  all  to  his  advantage  ! " 

The  triumphant  flourish  with  which  Mr.  Micawber  delivered 
himself  of  these  words,  had  a  powerful  effect  in  alarming  the 
mother ;  who  cried  out  in  much  agitation : 

"  Ury,  Ury  !     Be  umble,  and  make  terms,  my  dear ! " 

"  Mother  ! "  he  retorted,  "  will  you  keep  quiet  ?  You're  in 
a  fright,  and  don't  know  what  you  say  or  mean.  Umble ! " 
he  repeated,  looking  at  me,  with  a  snarl ;  "  I've  umbled  some 
of  'em  for  a  pretty  long  time  back,  umble  as  I  was ! " 

Mr.  Micawber,  genteelly  adjusting  his  chin  in  his  cravat, 
presently  proceeded  with  his  composition. 

"'Second.  HEEP  has,  on  several  occasions,  to  the  best  of 
my  knowledge,  information,  and  belief — "' 

"But  that  won't  do,"  muttered  Uriah,  relieved.  "Mother, 
you  keep  quiet." 

"We  will  endeavour  to  provide  something  that  WILL  do, 
and  do  for  you  finally,  sir,  very  shortly,"  replied  Mr. 
Micawber. 

"'Second.  HEEP  has,  on  several  occasions,  to  the  best  of 
my  knowledge,  information,  and  belief,  systematically  forged, 
to  various  entries,  books,  and  documents,  the  signature  of 
Mr.  W. ;  and  has  distinctly  done  so  in  one  instance,  capable 
of  proof  by  me.  To  wit,  in  manner  following,  that  is  to 
say:1" 


FORGERY.  383 

Again,  Mr.  Micawber  had  a  relish  in  this  formal  piling 
up  of  words,  which,  however  ludicrously  displayed  in  his  case, 
was,  I  must  say,  not  at  all  peculiar  to  him.  I  have  observed 
it,  in  the  course  of  my  life,  in  numbers  of  men.  It  seems  to 
me  to  be  a  general  rule.  In  the  taking  of  legal  oaths,  for 
instance,  deponents  seem  to  enjoy  themselves  mightily  when 
they  come  to  several  good  words  in  succession,  for  the  expres 
sion  of  one  idea ;  as,  that  they  utterly  detest,  abominate, 
and  abjure,  or  so  forth;  and  the  old  anathemas  were  made 
relishing  on  the  same  principle.  We  talk  about  the  tyranny 
of  words,  but  we  like  to  tyrannise  over  them  too;  we  are 
fond  of  having  a  large  superfluous  establishment  of  words  to 
wait  upon  us  on  great  occasions ;  we  think  it  looks  important, 
and  sounds  well.  As  we  are  not  particular  about  the  meaning 
of  our  liveries  on  state  occasions,  if  they  be  but  fine  and 
numerous  enough,  so,  the  meaning  or  necessity  of  our  words 
is  a  secondary  consideration,  if  there  be  but  a  great  parade 
of  them.  And  as  individuals  get  into  trouble  by  making 
too  great  a  show  of  liveries,  or  as  slaves  when  they  are  too 
numerous  rise  against  their  masters,  so  I  think  I  could  men 
tion  a  nation  that  has  got  into  many  great  difficulties,  and 
will  get  into  many  greater,  from  maintaining  too  large  a 
retinue  of  words. 

Mr.  Micawber  read  on,  almost  smacking  his  lips : 
"'To  wit,  in  manner  following,  that  is  to  say.  Mr.  W. 
being  infirm,  and  it  being  within  the  bounds  of  probability 
that  his  decease  might  lead  to  some  discoveries,  and  to  the 
downfall  of — KEEP'S — power  over  the  W.  family, — as  I, 
Wilkins  Micawber,  the  undersigned,  assume — unless  the  filial 
affection  of  his  daughter  could  be  secretly  influenced  from 
allowing  any  investigation  of  the  partnership  affairs  to  be 
ever  made,  the  said — HEEP — deemed  it  expedient  to  have  a 
bond  ready  by  him,  as  from  Mr.  W.,  for  the  before-men 
tioned  sum  of  twelve  six  fourteen,  two  and  nine,  with  interest, 
stated  therein  to  have  been  advanced  by — HEEP — to  Mr.  W. 
to  save  Mr.  Wf  from  dishonour ;  though  really  the  sum  was 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

never  advanced  by  him,  and  has  long  been  replaced.  The 
signatures  to  this  instrument  purporting  to  be  executed  by 
Mr.  W.  and  attested  by  Wilkins  Micawber,  are  forgeries 
by — HEEP.  I  have,  in  my  possession,  in  his  hand  and  pocket- 
book,  several  similar  imitations  of  Mr.  W.'s  signature,  here 
and  there  defaced  by  fire,  but  legible  to  any  one.  I  never 
attested  any  such  document.  And  I  have  the  document 
itself,  in  my  possession/" 

Uriah  Heep,  with  a  start,  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  bunch 
of  keys,  and  opened  a  certain  drawer;  then,  suddenly  be 
thought  himself  of  what  he  was  about,  and  turned  again 
towards  us,  without  looking  in  it. 

"'And  I  have  the  document,1 "  Mr.  Micawber  read  again, 
looking  about  as  if  it  were  the  text  of  a  sermon,  "'in  my 
possession,1 — that  is  to  say,  I  had,  early  this  morning,  when 
this  was  written,  but  have  since  relinquished  it  to  Mr. 
Traddles." 

"It  is  quite  true,"  assented  Traddles. 

"Ury,  Ury !."  cried  the  mother,  "be  umble  and  make  terms. 
I  know  my  son  will  be  umble,  gentlemen,  if  you'll  give  him 
time  to  think.  Mr.  Copperfield,  I'm  sure  you  know  that  he 
was  always  very  umble,  sir ! " 

It  was  singular  to  see  how  the  mother  still  held  to  the  old 
trick,  when  the  son  had  abandoned  it  as  useless. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  with  an  impatient  bite  at  the  handker 
chief  in  which  his  hand  was  wrapped,  "you  had  better  take 
and  fire  a  loaded  gun  at  me." 

"But  I  love  you,  Ury,"  cried  Mrs.  Heep.  And  I  have  no 
doubt  she  did ;  or  that  he  loved  her,  however  strange  it  may 
appear ;  though,  to  be  sure,  they  were  a  congenial  couple. 
"And  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  provoking  the  gentleman, 
and  endangering  of  yourself  more.  I  told  the  gentleman  at 
first,  when  he  told  me  up-stairs  it  was  come  to  light,  that  I 
would  answer  for  your  being  umble,  and  making  amends. 
Oh,  see  how  umble  /  am,  gentlemen,  and  don't  mind  him  ! " 

"Why,  there's  Copperfield,  mother,"  he   angrily  retorted, 


CONCLUSION   OF  THE  CHARGES.  385 

pointing  his  lean  finger  at  me,  against  whom  all  his  animosity 
was  levelled,  as  the  prime  mover  in  the  discovery ;  and  I  did 
not  undeceive  him ;  "  there's  Copperfield,  would  have  given 
you  a  hundred  pound  to  say  less  than  you've  blurted  out ! " 

u  I  can't  help  it,  Ury,11  cried  his  mother.  "  I  can't  see  you 
running  into  danger,  through  carrying  your  head  so  high. 
Better  be  umble,  as  you  always  was.11 

He  remained  for  a  little,  biting  the  handkerchief,  and  then 
said  to  me  with  a  scowl : 

"  What  more  have  you  got  to  bring  forward  ?  If  anything, 
go  on  with  it.  What  do  you  look  at  me  for  ?  " 

Mr.  Micawber  promptly  resumed  his  letter,  glad  to  revert 
to  a  performance  with  which  he  was  so  highly  satisfied. 

"'Third.  And  last.  I  am  now  in  a  condition  to  show, 
by — HEEP'S — false  books,  and — KEEP'S — real  memoranda, 
beginning  with  the  partially  destroyed  pocket-book  (which 
I  was  unable  to  comprehend,  at  the  time  of  its  accidental 
discovery  by  Mrs.  Micawber,  on  our  taking  possession  of  our 
present  abode,  in  the  locker  or  bin  devoted  to  the  recep 
tion  of  the  ashes  calcined  on  our  domestic  hearth),  that 
the  weaknesses,  the  faults,  the  very  virtues,  the  parental 
affections,  and  the  sense  of  honour,  of  the  unhappy  Mr. 
W.  have  been  for  years  acted  on  by,  and  warped  to  the 
base  purposes  of — HEEP.  That  Mr.  W.  has  been  for  years 
deluded  and  plundered,  in  every  conceivable  manner,  to  the 
pecuniary  aggrandisement  of  the  avaricious,  false,  and  grasp 
ing — HEEP.  That  the  engrossing  object  of — HEEP — was, 
next  to  gain,  to  subdue  Mr.  and  Miss  W.  (of  his  ulterior 
views  in  reference  to  the  latter  I  say  nothing)  entirely  to 
himself.  That  his  last  act,  completed  but  a  few  months 
since,  was  to  induce  Mr.  W.  to  execute  a  relinquishment  of 
his  share  in  the  partnership,  and  even  a  bill  of  sale  on  the 
very  furniture  of  his  house,  in  consideration  of  a  certain 
annuity,  to  be  well  and  truly  paid  by — HEEP — on  the  four 
common  quarter-days  in  each  and  every  year.  That  these 
meshes;  beginning  with  alarming  and  falsified  accounts  of 

VOL.   II.  %  C 


386  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

the  estate  of  which  Mr.  W.  is  the  receiver,  at  a  period 
when  Mr.  W.  had  launched  into  imprudent  and  ill-judged 
speculations,  and  may  not  have  had  the  money,  for  which  he 
was  morally  and  legally  responisble,  in  hand ;  going  on  with 
pretended  borrowings  of  money  at  enormous  interest,  really 
coming  from — HEEP — and  by — HEEP — fraudulently  obtained 
or  withheld  from  Mr.  W.  himself,  on  pretence  of  such  specula 
tions  or  otherwise  ;  perpetuated  by  a  miscellaneous  catalogue 
of  unscrupulous  chicaneries — gradually  thickened,  until  the 
unhappy  Mr.  W.  could  see  no  world  beyond.  Bankrupt,  as 
he  believed,  alike  in  circumstances,  in  all  other  hope,  and  in 
honour,  his  sole  reliance  was  upon  the  monster  in  the  garb 
of  man,'" — Mr.  Micawber  made  a  good  deal  of  this,  as  a 
new  turn  of  expression, — "  '  who,  by  making  himself  necessary 
to  him,  had  achieved  his  destruction.  All  this  I  undertake 
to  show.  Probably  much  more  ! " 

I  whispered  a  few  words  to  Agnes,  who  was  weeping,  half 
joyfully,  half  sorrowfully,  at  my  side ;  and  there  was  a  move 
ment  among  us,  as  if  Mr.  Micawber  had  finished.  He  said, 
with  exceeding  gravity,  "Pardon  me,"  and  proceeded,  with  a 
mixture  of  the  lowest  spirits  and  the  most  intense  enjoyment, 
to  the  peroration  of  his  letter. 

" '  I  have  now  concluded.  It  merely  remains  for  me  to 
substantiate  these  accusations  ;  and  then,  with  my  ill-starred 
family,  to  disappear  from  the  landscape  on  which  we  appear 
to  be  an  incumbrance.  That  is  soon  done.  It  may  be 
reasonably  inferred  that  our  baby  will  first  expire  of  inanition, 
as  being  the  frailest  member  of  our  circle  ;  and  that  our  twins 
will  follow  next  in  order.  So  be  it !  For  myself,  my  Canter 
bury  Pilgrimage  has  done  much ;  imprisonment  on  civil  process, 
and  want,  will  soon  do  more.  I  trust  that  the  labour  and 
hazard  of  an  investigation — of  which  the  smallest  results 
have  been  slowly  pieced  together,  in  the  pressure  of  arduous 
avocations,  under  grinding  penurious  apprehensions,  at  rise 
of  morn,  at  dewy  eve,  in  the  shadows  of  night,  under  the 
watchful  eye  of  one  whom  it  were  superfluous  to  call  Demon 


MY  AUNT  SEIZES  URIAH.  387 

— combined  with  the  struggle  of  parental  Poverty  to  turn 
it,  when  completed,  to  the  right  account,  may  be  as  the 
sprinkling  of  a  few  drops  of  sweet  water  on  my  funereal  pyre. 
I  ask  no  more.  Let  it  be,  in  justice,  merely  said  of  me,  as 
of  a  gallant  and  eminent  naval  Hero,  with  whom  I  have  no 
pretensions  to  cope,  that  what  I  have  done,  I  did,  in  despite 
of  mercenary  and  selfish  objects, 

"For  England,  home,  and  Beauty." 
"'  Remaining  always,  &c.  &c.,  WILKINS  MICAWBER.'" 

Much  affected,  but  still  intensely  enjoying  himself,  Mr. 
Micawber  folded  up  his  letter,  and  handed  it  with  a  bow  to 
my  aunt,  as  something  she  might  like  to  keep. 

There  was,  as  I  had  noticed  on  my  first  visit  long  ago, 
an  iron  safe  in  the  room.  The  key  was  in  it.  A  hasty  sus 
picion  seemed  to  strike  Uriah;  and,  with  a  glance  at  Mr. 
Micawber,  he  went  to  it,  and  threw  the  doors  clanking  open. 
It  was  empty. 

"Where  are  the  books?"  he  cried,  with  a  frightful  face. 
"  Some  thief  has  stolen  the  books  ! " 

Mr.  Micawber  tapped  himself  with  the  ruler.  "/  did, 
when  I  got  the  key  from  you  as  usual — but  a  little  earlier 
— and  opened  it  this  morning." 

"Don't  be  uneasy,"  said  Traddles.  "They  have  come  into 
my  possession.  I  will  take  care  of  them,  under  the  authority 
I  mentioned." 

"  You  receive  stolen  goods,  do  you  ?  "  cried  Uriah. 

"Under  such  circumstances,"  answered  Traddles,  "yes." 

What  was  my  astonishment  when  I  beheld  my  aunt,  who 
had  been  profoundly  quiet  and  attentive,  make  a  dart  at 
Uriah  Heep,  and  seize  him  by  the  collar  with  both  hands ! 

"  You  know  what  /  want  ?  "  said  my  aunt. 

"  A  strait- waistcoat,"  said  he. 

"  No.  My  property  ! "  returned  my  aunt.  "  Agnes,  my 
dear,  as  long  as  I  believed  it  had  been  really  made  away  with 
by  your  father,  I  wouldn't — and,  my  dear,  I  didn't,  even  to 


388  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

Trot,  as  he  knows — breathe  a  syllable  of  its  having  been 
placed  here  for  investment.  But  now  I  know  this  fellow's 
answerable  for  it,  and  I'll  have  it !  Trot,  come  and  take  it 
away  from  him  ! " 

Whether  my  aunt  supposed,  for  the  moment,  that  he  kept 
her  property  in  his  neck-kerchief,  I  am  sure  I  don't  know; 
but  she  certainly  pulled  at  it  as  if  she  thought  so.  I  hastened 
to  put  myself  between  them,  and  to  assure  her  that  we  would 
all  take  care  that  he  should  make  the  utmost  restitution  of 
everything  he  had  wrongly  got.  This,  and  a  few  moments' 
reflection,  pacified  her ;  but  she  was  not  at  all  disconcerted 
by  what  she  had  done  (though  I  cannot  say  as  much  for  her 
bonnet),  and  resumed  her  seat  composedly. 

During  the  last  few  minutes,  Mrs.  Heep  had  been  clamouring 
to  her  son  to  be  "umble;"  and  had  been  going  down  on 
her  knees  to  all  of  us  in  succession,  and  making  the  wildest 
promises.  Her  son  sat  her  down  in  his  chair;  and,  standing 
sulkily  by  her,  holding  her  arm  with  his  hand,  but  not  rudely, 
said  to  me,  with  a  ferocious  look : 

"  What  do  you  want  done  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  must  be  done,"  said  Traddles. 

"  Has  that  Copperfield  no  tongue  ?  "  muttered  Uriah.  "  I 
would  do  a  good  deal  for  you  if  you  could  tell  me,  without 
lying,  that  somebody  had  cut  it  out." 

"  My  Uriah  means  to  be  umble  !  "  cried  his  mother.  "  Don't 
mind  what  he  says,  good  gentlemen  ! " 

"  What  must  be  done,"  said  Traddles,  "  is  this.  First,  the 
deed  of  relinquishment,  that  we  have  heard  of,  must  be  given 
over  to  me  now — here." 

"  Suppose  I  haven't  got  it,"  he  interrupted. 

"  But  you  have,"  said  Traddles ;  "  therefore,  you  know,  we 
won't  suppose  so."  And  I  cannot  help  avowing  that  this 
was  the  first  occasion  on  which  I  really  did  justice  to  the 
clear  head,  and  the  plain,  patient,  practical  good  sense,  of  my 
old  schoolfellow.  "  Then,"  said  Traddles,  "  you  must  prepare 
to  disgorge  all  that  your  rapacity  has  become  possessed  of, 


TRADDLES  COMES  OUT  SURPRISINGLY.     389 

and  to  make  restoration  to  the  last  farthing.  All  the  partner 
ship  books  and  papers  must  remain  in  our  possession ;  all 
your  books  and  papers ;  all  money  accounts  and  securities,  of 
both  kinds.  In  short,  everything  here." 

"  Must  it  ?  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Uriah.  "  I  must  have 
time  to  think  about  that." 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Traddles  ;  "  but,  in  the  meanwhile, 
and  until  everything  is  done  to  our  satisfaction,  we  shall 
maintain  possession  of  these  things;  and  beg  you — in  short, 
compel  you — to  keep  your  own  room,  and  hold  no  communi 
cation  with  any  one." 

"  I  won't  do  it ! "  said  Uriah,  with  an  oath. 

"Maidstone  Jail  is  a  safer  place  of  detention,"  observed 
Traddles;  "and  though  the  law  may  be  longer  in  righting 
us,  and  may  not  be  able  to  right  us  so  completely  as  you 
can,  there  is  no  doubt  of  its  punishing  you.  Dear  me,  you 
know  that  quite  as  well  as  I !  Copperfield,  will  you  go  round 
to  the  Guildhall,  and  bring  a  couple  of  officers  ?  " 

Here,  Mrs.  Keep  broke  out  again,  crying  on  her  knees  to 
Agnes  to  interfere  in  their  behalf,  exclaiming  that  he  was 
very  humble,  and  it  was  all  true,  and  if  he  didn't  do  what 
we  wanted,  she  would,  and  much  more  to  the  same  purpose; 
being  half  frantic  with  fears  for  her  darling.  To  inquire 
what  he  might  have  done,  if  he  had  had  any  boldness,  would 
be  like  inquiring  what  a  mongrel  cur  might  do,  if  it  had  the 
spirit  of  a  tiger.  He  was  a  coward,  from  head  to  foot ;  and 
showed  his  dastardly  nature  through  his  sullenness  and  mor 
tification,  as  much  as  at  any  time  of  his  mean  life. 

"  Stop ! "  he  growled  to  me ;  and  wiped  his  hot  face  with 
his  hand.  "  Mother,  hold  your  noise.  Well !  Let  'em  have 
that  deed.  Go  and  fetch  it ! " 

"  Do  you  help  her,  Mr.  Dick,"  said  Traddles,  "  if  you  please." 

Proud  of  his  commission,  and  understanding  it,  Mr.  Dick 
accompanied  her  as  a  shepherd's  dog  might  accompany  a  sheep. 
But,  Mrs.  Heep  gave  him  little  trouble;  for  she  not  only 
returned  with  the  deed,  but  with  the  box  in  which  it  was, 


390  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

where  we  found  a  banker's  book  and  some  other  papers  that 
were  afterwards  serviceable. 

"  Good  ! "  said  Traddles,  when  this  was  brought.  "  Now, 
Mr.  Heep,  you  can  retire  to  think :  particularly  observing,  if 
you  please,  that  I  declare  to  you,  on  the  part  of  all  present, 
that  there  is  only  one  thing  to  be  done ;  that  it  is  what  I 
have  explained ;  and  that  it  must  be  done  without  delay ." 

Uriah,  without  lifting  his  eyes  from  the  ground,  shuffled 
across  the  room  with  his  hand  to  his  chin,  and  pausing  at 
the  door,  said  : 

"  Copperfield,  I  have  always  hated  you.  You've  always 
been  an  upstart,  and  you've  always  been  against  me."" 

"  As  I  think  I  told  you  once  before,"  said  I,  "  it  is  you  who 
have  been,  in  your  greed  and  cunning,  against  all  the  world. 
It  may  be  profitable  to  you  to  reflect,  in  future,  that  there 
never  were  greed  and  cunning  in  the  world  yet,  that  did  not 
do  too  much,  and  over-reach  themselves.  It  is  as  certain  as 
death." 

"  Or  as  certain  as  they  used  to  teach  at  school  (the  same 
school  where  I  picked  up  so  much  umbleness),  from  nine 
o'clock  to  eleven,  that  labour  was  a  curse;  and  from  eleven 
o'clock  to  one,  that  it  was  a  blessing  and  a  cheerfulness,  and 
a  dignity,  and  1  don't  know  what  all,  eh  ? "  said  he  with  a 
sneer.  "  You  preach,  about  as  consistent  as  they  did.  Won't 
umbleness  go  down  ?  I  shouldn't  have  got  round  my  gentle 
man  fellow-partner  without  it,  I  think. — Micawber,  you  old 
bully,  I'll  pay  you ! " 

Mr.  Micawber,  supremely  defiant  of  him  and  his  extended 
finger,  and  making  a  great  deal  of  his  chest  until  he  had 
slunk  out  at  the  door,  then  addressed  himself  to  me,  and 
proffered  me  the  satisfaction  of  "  witnessing  the  re-establish 
ment  of  mutual  confidence  between  himself  and  Mrs.  Micawber." 
After  which,  he  invited  the  company  generally  to  the  con 
templation  of  that  affecting  spectacle. 

"The  veil  that  has  long  been  interposed  between  Mrs. 
Micawber  and  myself,  is  now  withdrawn,"  said  Mr.  Micawber ; 


"-1      M'.'-'-U-T    sxrr*'i        '<   deiuait.  of  him  find  hi*  extended 

>» •«    i-.'-ikir-    i   ---^oat  deal   of  his  pherst  until  he  had 

llK-  \k>or,   then  addressed  himself  to  me,  and 

pi^jrurt-J  «r    5>-     -^itisfKction  of  a  witnessing  the  re-establish- 

meat  of  mutvm)  ipnfidence  between  himself  and  Mrs.  Micawber/' 

After  whii*bt  W   invited 'the  company  generally  to  the  cow* 

temptation  of  that  affecting  spectacle. 

•wThe  veil  that  has  kmg  been  interposed  .  b 
Mica^ber  and  myself,  is  BOW  ^tbamwa,"  sr 


MY  AUNT  MAKES  A   PROPOSAL.  393 

painter,  any  more  than  he  had  been  born  a  bird  ?  Whether 
he  could  go  into  the  next  street,  and  open  a  chemist's  shop  ? 
Whether  he  could  rush  to  the  next  assizes,  and  proclaim 
himself  a  lawyer?  Whether  he  could  come  out  by  force  at 
the  opera,  and  succeed  by  violence  ?  Whether  he  could  do 
anything,  without  being  brought  up  to  something  ? 

My  aunt  mused  a  little  while,  and  then  said : 

"Mr.  Micawber,  I  wonder  you  have  never  turned  your 
thoughts  to  emigration." 

"  Madam,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  "  it  was  the  dream  of 
my  youth,  and  the  fallacious  aspiration  of  my  riper  years." 
I  am  thoroughly  persuaded,  by  the  bye,  that  he  had  never 
thought  of  it  in  his  life. 

"  Aye  ?  "  said  my  aunt,  with  a  glance  at  me.  "  Why,  what 
a  thing  it  would  be  for  yourselves  and  your  family,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Micawber,  if  you  were  to  emigrate  now." 

"  Capital,  madam,  capital,"  urged  Mr.  Micawber,  gloomily. 

"  That  is  the  principal,  I  may  say  the  only  difficulty,  my 
dear  Mr.  Copperfield,"  assented  his  wife. 

"  Capital  ?  "  cried  my  aunt.  "  But  you  are  doing  us  a  great 
service — have  done  us  a  great  service,  I  may  say,  for  surely 
much  will  come  out  of  the  fire — and  what  could  we  do  for 
you,  that  would  be  half  so  good  as  to  find  the  capital  ?" 

"  I  could  not  receive  it  as  a  gift,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  full 
of  fire  and  animation,  "  but  if  a  sufficient  sum  could  be 
advanced,  say  at  five  per  cent,  interest  per  annum,  upon  my 
personal  liability — say  my  notes  of  hand,  at  twelve,  eighteen, 
and  twenty-four  months,  respectively,  to  allow  time  for 
something  to  turn  up " 

"Could  be?  Can  be  and  shall  be,  on  your  own  terms," 
returned  my  aunt,  "  if  you  say  the  word.  Think  of  this  now, 
both  of  you.  Here  are  some  people  David  knows,  going  out 
to  Australia  shortly.  If  you  decide  to  go,  why  shouldn't  you 
go  in  the  same  ship?  You  may  help  each  other.  Think 
of  this  now,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber.  Take  your  time,  and 
weigh  it  well." 


394  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"There  is  but  one  question,  my  dear  ma'am,  I  could  wish 
to  ask,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber.  "The  climate,  I  believe,  is 
healthy?" 

"  Finest  in  the  world  ! "  said  my  aunt. 

"Just  so,"  returned  Mrs.  Micawber.  "Then  my  question 
arises.  Now,  are  the  circumstances  of  the  country  such,  that 
a  man  of  Mr.  Micawber's  abilities  would  have  a  fair  chance 
of  rising  in  the  social  scale  ?  I  will  not  say,  at  present,  might 
he  aspire  to  be  Governor,  or  anything  of  that  sort ;  but 
would  there  be  a  reasonable  opening  for  his  talents  to  develop 
themselves — that,  would  be  amply  sufficient — and  find  their 
own  expansion  ?  " 

"  No  better  opening  anywhere,"  said  my  aunt,  "  for  a  man 
who  conducts  himself  well,  and  is  industrious." 

"For  a  man  who  conducts  himself  well,"  repeated  Mrs. 
Micawber,  with  her  clearest  business  manner,  "and  is  in 
dustrious.  Precisely.  It  is  evident  to  me  that  Australia  is 
the  legitimate  sphere  of  action  for  Mr.  Micawber ! " 

"I  entertain  the  conviction,  my  dear  madam,"  said  Mr. 
Micawber,  "  that  it  is,  under  existing  circumstances,  the  land, 
the  only  land,  for  myself  and  family ;  and  that  something  of 
an  extraordinary  nature  will  turn  up  on  that  shore.  It  is 
no  distance — comparatively  speaking ;  and  though  considera 
tion  is  due  to  the  kindness  of  your  proposal,  I  assure  you 
that  is  a  mere  matter  of  form." 

Shall  I  ever  forget  how,  in  a  moment,  he  was  the  most 
sanguine  of  men,  looking  on  to  fortune ;  or  how  Mrs.  Micawber 
presently  discoursed  about  the  habits  of  the  kangaroo  !  Shall 
I  ever  recall  that  street  of  Canterbury  on  a  market  day, 
without  recalling  him,  as  he  walked  back  with  us ;  expressing, 
in  the  hardy  roving  manner  he  assumed,  the  unsettled  habits 
of  a  temporary  sojourner  in  the  land;  and  looking  at  the 
bullocks,  as  they  came  by,  with  the  eye  of  an  Australian 
farmer ! 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

ANOTHER   RETROSPECT. 

I  MtisT  pause  yet  once  again.  Oh,  my  child- wife,  there  is 
a  figure  in  the  moving  crowd  before  my  memory,  quiet  and 
still,  saying  in  its  innocent  love  and  childish  beauty,  Stop  to 
think  of  me — turn  to  look  upon  the  Little  Blossom,  as  it 
flutters  to  the  ground ! 

I  do.  All  else  grows  dim,  and  fades  away.  I  am  again 
with  Dora,  in  our  cottage.  I  do  not  know  how  long  she  has 
been  ill.  I  am  so  used  to  it  in  feeling,  that  I  cannot  count 
the  time.  It  is  not  really  long,  in  weeks  or  months ;  but,  in 
my  usage  and  experience,  it  is  a  weary,  weary  while. 

They  have  left  off  telling  me  to  "  wait  a  few  days  more." 
I  have  begun  to  fear,  remotely,  that  the  day  may  never 
shine,  when  I  shall  see  my  child -wife  running  in  the  sunlight 
with  her  old  friend  Jip. 

He  is,  as  it  were  suddenly,  grown  very  old.  It  may  be, 
that  he  misses  in  his  mistress,  something  that  enlivened  him 
and  made  him  younger ;  but  he  mopes,  and  his  sight  is  weak, 
and  his  limbs  are  feeble,  and  my  aunt  is  sorry  that  he  objects 
to  her  no  more,  but  creeps  near  her  as  he  lies  on  Dora's 
bed — she  sitting  at  the  bedside — and  mildly  licks  her  hand. 

Dora  lies  smiling  on  us,  and  is  beautiful,  and  utters  no  hasty 
or  complaining  word.  She  says  that  we  are  very  good  to 
her ;  that  her  dear  old  careful  boy  is  tiring  himself  out,  she 
knows ;  that  my  aunt  has  no  sleep,  yet  is  always  wakeful, 


396  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

active,  and  kind.  Sometimes,  the  little  bird-like  ladies  come 
to  see  her ;  and  then  we  talk  about  our  wedding-day,  and  all 
that  happy  time. 

AVhat  a  strange  rest  and  pause  in  my  life  there  seems  to 
be — and  in  all  life,  within  doors  and  without — when  I  sit  in 
the  quiet,  shaded,  orderly  room,  with  the  blue  eyes  of  my 
child-wife  turned  towards  me,  and  her  little  fingers  twining 
round  my  hand !  Many  and  many  an  hour  I  sit  thus ;  but, 
of  all  those  times,  three  times  come  the  freshest  on  my  mind. 

It  is  morning ;  and  Dora,  made  so  trim  by  my  aunt's  hands, 
shows  me  how  her  pretty  hair  will  curl  upon  the  pillow  yet, 
and  how  long  and  bright  it  is,  and  how  she  likes  to  have  it 
loosely  gathered  in  that  net  she  wears. 

"  Not  that  I  am  vain  of  it,  now,  you  mocking  boy,"  she 
says,  when  I  smile ;  "  but  because  you  used  to  say  you  thought 
it  so  beautiful ;  and  because,  when  I  first  began  to  think 
about  you,  I  used  to  peep  in  the  glass,  and  wonder  whether 
you  would  like  very  much  to  have  a  lock  of  it.  Oh  what  a 
foolish  fellow  you  were,  Doady,  when  I  gave  you  one ! " 

"  That  was  on  the  day  when  you  were  painting  the  flowers 
I  had  given  you,  Dora,  and  when  I  told  you  how  much  in 
love  I  was."" 

"  Ah !  but  I  didn't  like  to  tell  you?  says  Dora,  "  then,  how 
I  had  cried  over  them,  because  I  believed  you  really  liked  me ! 
When  I  can  run  about  again  as  I  used  to  do,  Doady,  let 
us  go  and  see  those  places  where  we  were  such  a  silly  couple, 
shall  we  ?  And  take  some  of  the  old  walks  ?  And  not  forget 
poor  papa  ?  *" 

"  Yes,  we  will,  and  have  some  happy  days.  So  you  must 
make  haste  to  get  well,  my  dear.1' 

"Oh,  I  shall  soon  do  that!  I  am  so  much  better,  you 
don't  know ! " 

It  is  evening ;  and  I  sit  in  the  same  chair,  by  the  same  bed, 
with  the  same  face  turned  towards  me.  We  have  been  silent, 


MY  CHILD- WIFE  ASKS   FOR  AGNES.        397 

and  there  is  a  smile  upon  her  face.  I  have  ceased  to  carry 
my  light  burden  up  and  down  stairs  now.  She  lies  here  all 
the  day. 

"Doady!" 

"  My  dear  Dora !  " 

"  You  won't  think  what  I  am  going  to  say,  unreasonable, 
after  what  you  told  me,  such  a  little  while  ago,  of  Mr.  Wick- 
field's  not  being  well  ?  I  want  to  see  Agnes.  Very  much  I 
want  to  see  her." 

"  I  will  write  to  her,  my  dear." 

"Will  you?" 

"  Directly." 

"  What  a  good,  kind  boy  !  Doady,  take  me  on  your  arm. 
Indeed,  my  dear,  it's  not  a  whim.  It's  not  a  foolish  fancy. 
I  want,  very  much  indeed,  to  see  her ! " 

"I  am  certain  of  it.  I  have  only  to  tell  her  so,  and  she 
is  sure  to  come." 

"  You  are  very  lonely  when  you  go  down-stairs,  now  ? " 
Dora  whispers,  with  her  arm  about  my  neck. 

"How  can  I  be  otherwise,  my  own  love,  when  I  see  your 
empty  chair  ?  " 

"My  empty  chair!"  She  clings  to  me  for  a  little  while, 
in  silence.  "  And  you  really  miss  me,  Doady  ? "  looking  up, 
and  brightly  smiling.  "Even  poor,  giddy,  stupid  me?" 

"My  heart,  who  is  there  upon  earth  that  I  could  miss  so 
much  ?  " 

"  Oh,  husband  !  I  am  so  glad,  yet  so  sorry ! "  creeping 
closer  to  me,  and  folding  me  in  both  her  arms.  She  laughs 
and  sobs,  and  then  is  quiet,  and  quite  happy. 

"  Quite  ! "  she  says.  "  Only  give  Agnes  my  dear  love,  and 
tell  her  that  I  want  very,  very  much  to  see  her ;  and  I  have 
nothing  left  to  wish  for." 

"  Except  to  get  well  again,  Dora." 

"  Ah,  Doady !  Sometimes  I  think — you  know  I  always 
was  a  silly  little  thing  ! — that  that  will  never  be  ! " 

"  Don't  say  so,  Dora !     Dearest  love,  don't  think  so ! " 


398  DAVID  COPPERFIELD, 

"  I  won't,  if  I  can  help  it,  Doady.  But  I  am  very  happy ; 
though  my  dear  boy  is  so  lonely  by  himself,  before  his  child' 
wife's  empty  chair!1' 

It  is  night;  and  I  am  with  her  still.  Agnes  has  arrived; 
has  been  among  us,  for  a  whole  day  and  an  evening.  She, 
my  aunt,  and  I,  have  sat  with  Dora  since  the  morning,  all 
together.  We  have  not  talked  much,  but  Dora  has  been 
perfectly  contented  and  cheerful.  We  are  now  alone. 

Do  I  know,  now,  that  my  child-wife  will  soon  leave  me? 
They  have  told  me  so;  they  have  told  me  nothing  new  to 
my  thoughts;  but  I  am  far  from  sure  that  I  have  taken 
that  truth  to  heart.  I  cannot  master  it.  I  have  withdrawn 
by  myself,  many  times  to-day,  to  weep.  I  have  remembered 
Who  wept  for  a  parting  between  the  living  and  the  dead. 
I  have  bethought  me  of  all  that  gracious  and  compassionate 
history.  I  have  tried  to  resign  myself,  and  to  console  myself; 
and  that,  I  hope,  1  may  have  done  imperfectly ;  but  what  I 
cannot  firmly  settle  in  my  mind  is,  that  the  end  will  absolutely 
come.  I  hold  her  hand  in  mine,  I  hold  her  heart  in  mine, 
I  see  her  love  for  me,  alive  in  all  its  strength.  I  cannot 
shut  out  a  pale  lingering  shadow  of  belief  that  she  will  be 
spared. 

"  I  am  going  to  speak  to  you,  Doady.  I  am  going  to  say 
something  I  have  often  thought  of  saying,  lately.  You  won't 
mind  ?  "  with  a  gentle  look. 

"Mind,  my  darling?1' 

"  Because  I  don  t  know  what  you  will  think,  or  what 
you  may  have  thought  sometimes.  Perhaps  you  have  often 
thought  the  same.  Doady,  dear,  I  am  afraid  I  was  too 
young.11 

I  lay  my  face  upon  the  pillow  by  her,  and  she  looks  into 
my  eyes,  and  speaks  very  softly.  Gradually,  as  she  goes  on, 
I  feel,  with  a  stricken  heart,  that  she  is  speaking  of  herself 
as  past. 

"I  am  afraid,  dear,  I  was  too  young.     I  don't  mean  in 


A  LAST   PROMISE.  399 

years  only,  but  in  experience,  and  thoughts,  and  everything. 
I  was  such  a  silly  little  creature !  I  am  afraid  it  would  have 
been  better,  if  we  had  only  loved  each  other  as  a  boy  and 
girl,  and  forgotten  it.  I  have  begun  to  think  I  was  not  fit 
to  be  a  wife." 

I  try  to  stay  my  tears,  and  to  reply,  "  Oh,  Dora,  love,  as  fit 
as  I  to  be  a  husband ! " 

"  I  don't  know,"  with  the  old  shake  of  her  curls.  "  Perhaps  ! 
But,  if  I  had  been  more  fit  to  be  married,  I  might  have  made 
you  more  so,  too.  Besides,  you  are  very  clever,  and  I  never 
was." 

"We  have  been  very  happy,  my  sweet  Dora." 

"I  was  very  happy,  very.  But,  as  years  went  on,  my 
dear  boy  would  have  wearied  of  his  child-wife.  She  would 
have  been  less  and  less  a  companion  for  him.  He  would 
have  been  more  and  more  sensible  of  what  was  wanting  in 
his  home.  She  wouldn't  have  improved.  It  is  better  as 
it  is." 

"  Oh,  Dora,  dearest,  dearest,  do  not  speak  to  me  so.  Every 
word  seems  a  reproach  ! " 

"  No,  not  a  syllable  ! "  she  answers,  kissing  me.  "  Oh,  my 
dear,  you  never  deserved  it,  and  I  loved  you  far  too  well,  to 
say  a  reproachful  word  to  you,  in  earnest — it  was  all  the 
merit  I  had,  except  being  pretty — or  you  thought  me  so. 
Is  it  lonely,  down-stairs,  Doady  ?  " 

"Very!     Very!" 

"  Don't  cry  !     Is  my  chair  there  ?  " 

"  In  its  old  place." 

"  Oh,  how  my  poor  boy  cries  !  Hush,  hush !  Now,  make 
me  one  promise.  I  want  to  speak  to  Agnes.  When  you  go 
down-stairs,  tell  Agnes  so,  and  send  her  up  to  me ;  and  while 
I  speak  to  her,  let  no  one  come — not  even  aunt.  I  want  to 
speak  to  Agnes  by  herself.  I  want  to  speak  to  Agnes,  quite 
alone." 

I  promise  that  she  shall,  immediately;  but  I  cannot  leave 
her,  for  my  grief. 


400  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  I  said  that  it  was  better  as  it  is ! "  she  whispers,  as  she 
holds  me  in  her  arms.  "  Oh,  Doady,  after  more  years,  you 
never  could  have  loved  your  child-wife  better  than  you  do ; 
and,  after  more  years,  she  would  so  have  tried  and  disappointed 
you,  that  you  might  not  have  been  able  to  love  her  half  so 
well !  I  know  I  was  too  young  and  foolish.  It  is  much 
better  as  it  is ! " 

Agnes  is  down-stairs,  when  I  go  into  the  parlour;  and 
I  give  her  the  message.  She  disappears,  leaving  me  alone 
with  Jip. 

His  Chinese  house  is  by  the  (ire ;  and  he  lies  within  it,  on 
his  bed  of  flannel,  querulously  trying  to  sleep.  The  bright 
moon  is  high  and  clear.  As  I  look  out  on  the  night,  my 
tears  fall  fast,  and  my  undisciplined  heart  is  chastened  heavily 
— heavily. 

I  sit  down  by  the  fire,  thinking  with  a  blind  remorse  of 
all  those  secret  feelings  I  have  nourished  since  my  marriage. 
I  think  of  every  little  trifle  between  me  and  Dora,  and  feel 
the  truth,  that  trifles  make  the  sum  of  life.  Ever  rising 
from  the  sea  of  my  remembrance,  is  the  image  of  the  dear 
child  as  I  knew  her  first,  graced  by  my  young  love,  and 
by  her  own,  with  every  fascination  wherein  such  love  is  rich. 
Would  it,  indeed,  have  been  better  if  we  had  loved  each 
other  as  a  boy  and  girl,  and  forgotten  it?  Undisciplined 
heart,  reply ! 

How  the  time  wears,  I  know  not;  until  I  am  recalled  by 
my  child-wife's  old  companion.  More  restless  than  he  was, 
he  crawls  out  of  his  house,  and  looks  at  me,  and  wanders  to 
the  door,  and  whines  to  go  up-stairs. 

"  Not  to-night,  Jip  !     Not  to-night ! " 

He  comes  very  slowly  back  to  me,  licks  my  hand,  and  lifts 
his  dim  eyes  to  my  face. 

"  Oh,  Jip  !     It  may  be,  never  again  ! " 

He  lies  down  at  my  feet,  stretches  himself  out  as  if  to 
sleep,  and  with  a  plaintive  cry,  is  dead. 


I  ail's  i veal  led  by 
less  thai)  he  was, 
?,  and  wanders  to 


•  at  to-jiisrht.  Jip  !     Not  to-night !  " 

OIM^S  very  slowly  back  to  me,  licks  my  hand,  an* 
-  J   ,    *\y.t:s  to  my  lace. 
"M  ;i5   J;;>  •      Ifc  umv  be,  never  again  i" 
He  lies  do^n   At   my  feet,  stretches  himself  Q 
wp»  and  with  a  pUiiiitive  crv,  is  dead. 


MY   AUNTS  EMIGRATION  PROPOSAL.       403 

prophetic  foreshadowing  of  what  she  would  be  to  me,  in  the 
calamity  that  was  to  happen  in  the  fulness  of  time,  had 
found  a  way  into  my  mind.  In  all  that  sorrow,  from  the 
moment,  never  to  be  forgotten,  when  she  stood  before  me 
with  her  upraised  hand,  she  was  like  a  sacred  presence  in  my 
lonely  house.  When  the  Angel  of  Death  alighted  there,  my 
child-wife  fell  asleep — they  told  me  so  when  I  could  bear  to 
hear  it — on  her  bosom,  with  a  smile.  From  my  swoon,  I 
first  awoke  to  a  consciousness  of  her  compassionate  tears,  her 
words  of  hope  and  peace,  her  gentle  face  bending  down  as 
from  a  purer  region  nearer  Heaven,  over  my  undisciplined 
heart,  and  softening  its  pain. 

Let  me  go  on. 

I  was  to  go  abroad.  That  seemed  to  have  been  determined 
among  us  from  the  first.  The  ground  now  covering  all  that 
could  perish  of  my  departed  wife,  I  waited  only  for  what  Mr. 
Micawber  called  the  "  final  pulverisation  of  Heep,"  and  for 
the  departure  of  the  emigrants. 

At  the  request  of  Traddles,  most  affectionate  and  devoted 
of  friends  in  my  trouble,  we  returned  to  Canterbury :  I  mean 
my  aunt,  Agnes,  and  I.  We  proceeded  by  appointment 
straight  to  Mr.  Micawber's  house ;  where,  and  at  Mr.  Wick- 
field's,  my  friend  had  been  labouring  ever  since  our  explosive 
meeting.  When  poor  Mrs.  Micawber  saw  me  come  in,  in  my 
black  clothes,  she  was  sensibly  affected.  There  was  a  great 
deal  of  good  in  Mrs.  Micawber*s  heart,  which  had  not  been 
dunned  out  of  it  in  all  those  many  years. 

"Well,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber,"  was  my  aunt's  first 
salutation  after  we  were  seated.  "Pray,  have  you  thought 
about  that  emigration  proposal  of  mine  ? " 

"My  dear  madam,"  returned  Mr.  Micawber,  "perhaps  I 
cannot  better  express  the  conclusion  at  which  Mrs.  Micawber, 
your  humble  servant,  and  I  may  add  our  children,  have  jointly 
and  severally  arrived,  than  by  borrowing  the  language  of  an 
illustrious  poet,  to  reply  that  our  Boat  is  on  the  shore,  and 
our  Bark  is  on  the  sea.11 


404  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  That's  right,"  said  my  aunt.  "  I  augur  all  sorts  of  good 
from  your  sensible  decision." 

"Madam,  you  do  us  a  great  deal  of  honour,"  he  rejoined. 
He  then  referred  to  a  memorandum.  "  With  respect  to  the 
pecuniary  assistance  enabling  us  to  launch  our  frail  canoe  on 
the  ocean  of  enterprise,  I  have  reconsidered  that  important 
business  point ;  and  would  beg  to  propose  my  notes  of  hand 
— drawn,  it  is  needless  to  stipulate,  on  stamps  of  the  amounts 
respectively  required  by  the  various  Acts  of  Parliament 
applying  to  such  securities — at  eighteen,  twenty-four,  and 
thirty  months.  The  proposition  I  originally  submitted,  was 
twelve,  eighteen,  and  twenty-four ;  but  I  am  apprehensive 
that  such  an  arrangement  might  not  allow  sufficient  time  for 
the  requisite  amount  of — Something — to  turn  up.  We  might 
not,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  looking  round  the  room  as  if  it 
represented  several  hundred  acres  of  highly  cultivated  land, 
"  on  the  first  responsibility  becoming  due,  have  been  successful 
in  our  harvest,  or  we  might  not  have  got  our  harvest  in. 
Labour,  I  believe,  is  sometimes  difficult  to  obtain  in  that 
portion  of  our  colonial  possessions  where  it  will  be  our  lot  to 
combat  with  the  teeming  soil." 

"Arrange  it  in  any  way  you  please,  sir,"  said  my  aunt. 

"Madam,"  he  replied,  "Mrs.  Micawber  and  myself  are 
deeply  sensible  of  the  very  considerate  kindness  of  our  friends 
and  patrons.  What  I  wish  is,  to  be  perfectly  business-like, 
and  perfectly  punctual.  Turning  over,  as  we  are  about  to 
turn  over,  an  entirely  new  leaf;  and  falling  back,  as  we  are 
now  in  the  act  of  falling  back,  for  a  Spring  of  no  common 
magnitude ;  it  is  important  to  my  sense  of  self-respect,  besides 
being  an  example  to  my  son,  that  these  arrangements  should 
be  concluded  as  between  man  and  man." 

I  don't  know  that  Mr.  Micawber  attached  any  meaning  to 
this  last  phrase ;  I  don't  know  that  anybody  ever  does,  or  did ; 
but  he  appeared  to  relish  it  uncommonly,  and  repeated,  with 
an  impressive  cough,  "as  between  man  and  man." 

"  I  propose,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  Bills — a  convenience  to 


DOMESTIC   PREPARATIONS.  405 

the  mercantile  world,  for  which,  I  believe,  we  are  originally 
indebted  to  the  Jews,  who  appear  to  me  to  have  had  a 
devilish  deal  too  much  to  do  with  them  ever  since — because 
they  are  negotiable.  But  if  a  Bond,  or  any  other  description 
of  security,  would  be  preferred,  I  should  be  happy  to  execute 
any  such  instrument.  As  between  man  and  man." 

My  aunt  observed,  that  in  a  case  where  both  parties  were 
willing  to  agree  to  anything,  she  took  it  for  granted  there 
would  be  no  difficulty  in  settling  this  point.  Mr.  Micawber 
was  of  her  opinion. 

"In  reference  to  our  domestic  preparations,  madam,"  said 
Mr.  Micawber,  with  some  pride,  "for  meeting  the  destiny 
to  which  we  are  now  understood  to  be  self-devoted,  I  beg- 
to  report  them.  My  eldest  daughter  attends  at  five  every 
morning  in  a  neighbouring  establishment,  to  acquire  the 
process — if  process  it  may  be  called — of  milking  cows.  My 
younger  children  are  instructed  to  observe,  as  closely  as 
circumstances  will  permit,  the  habits  of  the  pigs  and  poultry 
maintained  in  the  poorer  parts  of  this  city :  a  pursuit  from 
which  they  have,  on  two  occasions,  been  brought  home, 
within  an  inch  of  being  run  over.  I  have  myself  directed 
some  attention,  during  the  past  week,  to  the  art  of  baking ; 
and  my  son  Wilkins  has  issued  forth  with  a  walking-stick 
and  driven  cattle,  when  permitted,  by  the  rugged  hirelings 
who  had  them  in  charge,  to  render  any  voluntary  service  in 
that  direction — which  I  regret  to  say,  for  the  credit  of  our 
nature,  was  not  often;  he  being  generally  warned,  with  im 
precations,  to  desist." 

"All  very  right  indeed,"  said  my  aunt,  encouragingly. 
"  Mrs.  Micawber  has  been  busy,  too,  I  have  no  doubt." 

"  My  dear  madam,"  returned  Mrs.  Micawber,  with  her 
business-like  air,  "I  am  free  to  confess,  that  I  have  not  been 
actively  engaged  in  pursuits  immediately  connected  with 
cultivation  or  with  stock,  though  well  aware  that  both  will 
claim  my  attention  on  a  foreign  shore.  Such  opportunities 
as  I  have  been  enabled  to  alienate  from  my  domestic  duties, 


406  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  have  devoted  to  corresponding  at  some  length  with  my 
family.  For  I  own  it  seems  to  me,  my  dear  Mr.  Copper- 
field,'"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  who  always  fell  back  on  me  (I 
suppose  from  old  habit)  to  whomsoever  else  she  might 
address  her  discourse  at  starting,  "that  the  time  is  come 
when  the  past  should  be  buried  in  oblivion ;  when  my  family 
should  take  Mr.  Micawber  by  the  hand,  and  Mr.  Micawber 
should  take  my  family  by  the  hand ;  when  the  lion  should 
lie  down  with  the  lamb,  and  my  family  be  on  terms  with 
Mr.  Micawber." 

I  said  I  thought  so  too. 

"This,  at  least,  is  the  light,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield," 
pursued  Mrs.  Micawber,  "in  which  /  view  the  subject.  When 
I  lived  at  home  with  my  papa  and  mama,  my  papa  was 
accustomed  to  ask,  when  any  point  was  under  discussion  in 
our  limited  circle,  'In  what  light  does  my  Emma  view  the 
subject?'  That  my  papa  was  too  partial,  I  know;  still,  on 
such  a  point  as  the  frigid  coldness  which  has  ever  subsisted 
between  Mr.  Micawber  and  my  family,  I  necessarily  have 
formed  an  opinion,  delusive  though  it  may  be." 

"  No  doubt.     Of  course  you  have,  ma'am,"  said  my  aunt. 

"Precisely  so,"  assented  Mrs.  Micawber.  "Now,  I  may  be 
wrong  in  my  conclusions;  it  is  very  likely  that  I  am;  but 
my  individual  impression  is,  that  the  gulf  between  my  family 
and  Mr.  Micawber  may  be  traced  to  an  apprehension,  on 
the  part  of  my  family,  that  Mr.  Micawber  would  require 
pecuniary  accommodation.  I  cannot  help  thinking,"  said  Mrs. 
Micawber,  with  an  air  of  deep  sagacity,  "that  there  are 
members  of  my  family  who  have  been  apprehensive  that  Mr. 
Micawber  would  solicit  them  for  their  names. — I  do  not  mean 
to  be  conferred  in  Baptism  upon  our  children,  but  to  be 
inscribed  on  Bills  of  Exchange,  and  negotiated  in  the  Money 
Market." 

The  look  of  penetration  with  which  Mrs.  Micawber  an 
nounced  this  discovery,  as  if  no  one  had  ever  thought  of 
it  before,  seemed  rather  to  astonish  my  aunt;  who  abruptly 


MR.  MICAWBER  ON  HIS  WIFE'S  FAMILY.    407 

replied,  "  Well,  ma'am,  upon  the  whole,  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  you  were  right ! " 

"  Mr.  Micawber  being  now  on  the  eve  of  casting  off  the 
pecuniary  shackles  that  have  so  long  enthralled  him,"  said 
Mrs.  Micawber,  "and  of  commencing  a  new  career  in  a 
country  where  there  is  sufficient  range  for  his  abilities, — which, 
in  my  opinon,  is  exceedingly  important;  Mr.  Micawber's 
abilities  peculiarly  requiring  space, — it  seems  to  me  that  my 
family  should  signalise  the  occasion  by  coming  forward. 
What  I  could  wish  to  see,  would  be  a  meeting  between  Mr. 
Micawber  and  my  family  at  a  festive  entertainment,  to  be 
given  at  my  family's  expense ;  where  Mr.  Micawber's  health 
and  prosperity  being  proposed,  by  some  leading  member  of 
my  family,  Mr.  Micawber  might  have  an  opportunity  of 
developing  his  views." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  with  some  heat,  "it  may 
be  better  for  me  to  state  distinctly,  at  once,  that  if  I  were 
to  develop  my  views  to  that  assembled  group,  they  would 
possibly  be  found  of  an  offensive  nature ;  my  impression  being 
that  your  family  are,  in  the  aggregate,  impertinent  Snobs ; 
and,  in  detail,  unmitigated  Ruffians." 

"  Micawber,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  shaking  her  head,  "  no ! 
You  have  never  understood  them,  and  they  have  never 
understood  you." 

Mr.  Micawber  coughed. 

"  They  have  never  understood  you,  Micawber,"  said  his  wife. 
"They  may  be  incapable  of  it.  If  so,  that  is  their  mis 
fortune.  I  can  pity  their  misfortune." 

"  I  am  extremely  sorry,  my  dear  Emma,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
relenting,  "to  have  been  betrayed  into  any  expressions  that 
might,  even  remotely,  have  the  appearance  of  being  strong 
expressions.  All  I  would  say,  is,  that  I  can  go  abroad 
without  your  family  coming  forward  to  favour  me, — in  short, 
with  a  parting  Shove  of  their  cold  shoulders ;  and  that,  upon 
the  whole,  I  would  rather  leave  England  with  such  impetus 
as  I  possess,  than  derive  any  acceleration  of  it  from  that 


408  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

quarter.  At  the  same  time,  my  dear,  if  they  should  con 
descend  to  reply  to  your  communications — which  our  joint 
experience  renders  most  improbable — far  be  it  from  me  to  be 
a  barrier  to  your  wishes." 

The  matter  being  thus  amicably  settled,  Mr.  Micawber  gave 
Mrs.  Micawber  his  arm,  and  glancing  at  the  heap  of  books 
and  papers  lying  before  Traddles  on  the  table,  said  they 
would  leave  us  to  ourselves  ;  which  they  ceremoniously  did. 

"  My  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Traddles,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair  when  they  were  gone,  and  looking  at  me  with  an 
affection  that  made  his  eyes  red,  and  his  hair  all  kinds  of 
shapes,  "  I  don't  make  any  excuse  for  troubling  you  with 
business,  because  I  know  you  are  deeply  interested  in  it, 
and  it  may  divert  your  thoughts.  My  dear  boy,  I  hope  you 
are  not  worn  out  ? 

"  I  am  quite  myself,"  said  I,  after  a  pause.  "  We  have 
more  cause  to  think  of  my  aunt  than  of  any  one.  You 
know  how  much  she  has  done." 

"  Surely,  surely,"  answered  Traddles.   "  Who  can  forget  it ! " 

"But  even  that  is  not  all,"  said  I.  "During  the  last 
fortnight,  some  new  trouble  has  vexed  her;  and  she  has 
been  in  and  out  of  London  every  day.  Several  times  she 
has  gone  out  early,  and  been  absent  until  evening.  Last 
night,  Traddles,  with  this  journey  before  her,  it  was  almost 
midnight  before  she  came  home.  You  know  what  her  con 
sideration  for  others  is.  She  will  not  tell  me  what  has 
happened  to  distress  her." 

My  aunt,  very  pale,  and  with  deep  lines  in  her  face,  sat 
immovable  until  I  had  finished  ;  when  some  stray  tears  found 
their  way  to  her  cheeks,  and  she  put  her  hand  on  mine. 

"  It's  nothing,  Trot ;  it's  nothing.  There  will  be  no  more 
of  it.  You  shall  know  by  and  by.  Now,  Agnes,  my  dear, 
let  us  attend  to  these  affairs." 

"  I  must  do  Mr.  Micawber  the  justice  to  say,"  Traddles 
began,  "  that  although  he  would  appear  not  to  have  worked 
to  any  good  account  for  himself,  he  is  a  most  untiring  man 


TRADDLES   EXTOLS  MR.  MICAWBER.      409 

when  he  works  for  other  people.  I  never  saw  such  a  fellow. 
If  he  always  goes  on  in  the  same  way,  he  must  be,  virtually, 
about  two  hundred  years  old,  at  present.  The  heat  into 
which  he  has  been  continually  putting  himself;  and  the 
distracted  and  impetuous  manner  in  which  he  has  been  diving, 
day  and  night,  among  papers  and  books  ;  to  say  nothing 
of  the  immense  number  of  letters  he  has  written  me  between 
this  house  and  Mr.  WickfiekTs,  and  often  across  the  table 
when  he  has  been  sitting  opposite,  and  might  much  more 
easily  have  spoken  ;  is  quite  extraordinary." 

"  Letters  ! "  cried  my  aunt.  "  I  believe  he  dreams  in 
letters  !  " 

"There's  Mr.  Dick,  too,11  said  Traddles,  "has  been  doing 
wonders !  As  soon  as  he  was  released  from  overlooking 
Uriah  Heep,  whom  he  kept  in  such  charge  as  /  never  saw 
exceeded,  he  began  to  devote  himself  to  Mr.  Wickfield. 
And  really  his  anxiety  to  be  of  use  in  the  investigations 
we  have  been  making,  and  his  real  usefulness  in  extracting, 
and  copying,  and  fetching,  and  carrying,  have  been  quite 
stimulating  to  us." 

"  Dick  is  a  very  remarkable  man,"  exclaimed  my  aunt ; 
"  and  I  always  said  he  was.  Trot,  you  know  it." 

"  I  am  happy  to  say,  Miss  Wickfield,"  pursued  Traddles, 
at  once  with  great  delicacy  and  with  great  earnestness,  "  that 
in  your  absence  Mr.  Wickfield  has  considerably  improved. 
Relieved  of  the  incubus  that  had  fastened  upon  him  for  so 
long  a  time,  and  of  the  dreadful  apprehensions  under  which 
he  had  lived,  he  is  hardly  the  same  person.  At  times,  even 
his  impaired  power  of  concentrating  his  memory  and  atten 
tion  on  particular  points  of  business,  has  recovered  itself 
very  much ;  and  he  has  been  able  to  assist  us  in  making 
some  things  clear,  that  we  should  have  found  very  difficult 
indeed,  if  not  hopeless,  without  him.  But,  what  I  have  to 
do  is  to  come  to  results  ;  which  are  short  enough ;  not  to 
gossip  on  all  the  hopeful  circumstances  I  have  observed,  or 
I  shall  never  have  done." 


410  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

His  natural  manner  and  agreeable  simplicity  made  it 
transparent  that  he  said  this  to  put  us  in  good  heart,  and 
to  enable  Agnes  to  hear  her  father  mentioned  with  greater 
confidence  ;  but  it  was  not  the  less  pleasant  for  that. 

"  Now,  let  me  see,"  said  Traddles,  looking  among  the  papers 
on  the  table.  "  Having  counted  our  funds,  and  reduced  to 
order  a  great  mass  of  unintentional  confusion  in  the  first 
place,  and  of  wilful  confusion  and  falsification  in  the  second, 
we  take  it  to  be  clear  that  Mr.  Wickfield  might  now  wind 
up  his  business,  and  his  agency-trust,  and  exhibit  no  deficiency 
or  defalcation  whatever." 

"  Oh,  thank  Heaven  !"  cried  Agnes,  fervently. 

"But,"  said  Traddles,  "the  surplus  that  would  be  left 
as  his  means  of  support — and  I  suppose  the  house  to  be 
sold,  even  in  saying  this — would  be  so  small,  not  exceeding 
in  all  probability  some  hundreds  of  pounds,  that  perhaps, 
Miss  Wickfield,  it  would  be  best  to  consider  whether  he 
might  not  retain  his  agency  of  the  estate  to  which  he  has 
so  long  been  receiver.  His  friends  might  advise  him,  you 
know;  now  he  is  free.  You  yourself,  Miss  Wickfield — Cop- 
perfield— I—  "' 

"I  have  considered  it,  Trot  wood,"  said  Agnes,  looking  to 
me,  "  and  I  feel  that  it  ought  not  to  be,  and  must  not  be ; 
even  on  the  recommendation  of  a  friend  to  whom  I  am  so 
grateful,  and  owe  so  much."'' 

"  I  will  not  say  that  I  recommend  it,"  observed  Traddles. 
"  I  think  it  right  to  suggest  it.  No  more/' 

"  I  am  happy  to  hear  you  say  so,"  answered  Agnes, 
steadily,  "  for  it  gives  me  hope,  almost  assurance,  that  we 
think  alike.  Dear  Mr.  Traddles  and  dear  Trotwood,  papa 
once  free  with  honour,  what  could  I  wish  for !  I  have 
always  aspired,  if  I  could  have  released  him  from  the  toils 
in  which  he  was  held,  to  render  back  some  little  portion  of 
the  love  and  care  I  owe  him,  and  to  devote  my  life  to  him. 
It  has  been,  for  years,  the  utmost  height  of  my  hopes.  To 
take  our  future  on  myself,  will  be  the  next  great  happiness 


MY  AUNT  RECOVERS   HER  MONEY.        411 

— the  next  to  his  release  from  all  trust  and  responsibility — 
that  I  can  know.11 

"  Have  you  thought  how,  Agnes  ?  " 

"  Often  !  I  am  not  afraid,  dear  Trotwood.  I  am  certain 
of  success.  So  many  people  know  me  here,  and  think  kindly 
of  me,  that  I  am  certain.  Don't  mistrust  me.  Our  wants 
are  not  many.  If  I  rent  the  dear  old  house,  and  keep  a 
school,  I  shall  be  useful  and  happy." 

The  calm  fervour  of  her  cheerful  voice  brought  back  so 
vividly,  first  the  dear  old  house  itself,  and  then  my  solitary 
home,  that  my  heart  was  too  full  for  speech.  Traddles  pre 
tended  for  a  little  while  to  be  busily  looking  among  the 
papers. 

"  Next,  Miss  Trotwood,11  said  Traddles,  "  that  property  of 
yours.11 

"  Well,  sir,1'  sighed  my  aunt.  "  All  I  have  got  to  say 
about  it,  is,  that  if  it's  gone,  I  can  bear  it ;  and  if  it's  not 
gone,  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  it  back.11 

"  It    was    originally,    I    think,    eight    thousand    pounds, 
Consols  ?  "  said  Traddles. 
"  Right ! "  replied  my  aunt. 

"I  can't  account  for  more  than  five,11  said  Traddles,  with 
an  air  of  perplexity. 

"  — thousand,  do  you  mean  ? "  inquired  my  aunt,  with 
uncommon  composure,  "  or  pounds  ?  " 
"  Five  thousand  pounds,11  said  Traddles. 
"  It  was  all  there  was,11  returned  my  aunt.  "  I  sold  three, 
myself.  One,  I  paid  for  your  articles,  Trot,  my  dear ;  and 
the  other  two  I  have  by  me.  When  I  lost  the  rest,  I 
thought  it  wise  to  say  nothing  about  that  sum,  but  to  keep 
it  secretly  for  a  rainy  day.  I  wanted  to  see  how  you  would 
come  out  of  the  trial,  Trot;  and  you  came  out  nobly — 
persevering,  self-reliant,  self-denying !  So  did  Dick.  Don't 
speak  to  me,  for  I  find  my  nerves  a  little  shaken  ! " 

Nobody  would  have  thought  so,  to  see  her  sitting  upright, 
with  her  arms  folded  ;  but  she  had  wonderful  self-command. 


412  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"Then  I  am  delighted  to  say,"  cried  Traddles,  beaming 
with  joy,  "  that  we  have  recovered  the  whole  money  ! " 

"  Don't  congratulate  me,  anybody ! "  exclaimed  my  aunt. 
"  How  so,  sir  ?  " 

"You  believed  it  had  been  misappropriated  by  Mr.  Wick- 
field?"  said  Traddles. 

"  Of  course  I  did,1'  said  my  aunt,  "  and  was  therefore  easily 
silenced.  Agnes,  not  a  word  !  " 

"  And  indeed,"  said  Traddles,  "  it  was  sold,  by  virtue  of 
the  power  of  management  he  held  from  you ;  but  I  needn't 
say  by  whom  sold,  or  on  whose  actual  signature.  It  was 
afterwards  pretended  to  Mr.  Wickfield,  by  that  rascal, — and 
proved,  too,  by  figures, — that  he  had  possessed  himself  of  the 
money  (on  general  instructions,  he  said)  to  keep  other  defi 
ciencies  and  difficulties  from  the  light.  Mr.  Wickfield,  being 
so  weak  and  helpless  in  his  hands  as  to  pay  you,  afterwards, 
several  sums  of  interest  on  a  pretended  principal  which  he 
knew  did  not  exist,  made  himself,  unhappily,  a  party  to  the 
fraud." 

"And  at  last  took  the  blame  upon  himself,"  added  my 
aunt;  "and  wrote  me  a  mad  letter,  charging  himself  with 
robbery,  and  wrong  unheard  of.  Upon  which  I  paid  him 
a  visit  early  one  morning,  called  for  a  candle,  burnt  the 
letter,  and  told  him  if  he  ever  could  right  me  and  himself, 
to  do  it ;  and  if  he  couldn't,  to  keep  his  own  counsel  for 
his  daughter's  sake. — If  anybody  speaks  to  me,  I'll  leave 
the  house ! " 

We  all  remained  quiet ;  Agnes  covering  her  face. 

"  Well,  my  dear  friend,"  said  my  aunt,  after  a  pause,  "  and 
you  have  really  extorted  the  money  back  from  him  ? " 

"Why,  the  fact  is,"  returned  Traddles,  "Mr.  Micawber 
had  so  completely  hemmed  him  in,  and  was  always  ready  with 
so  many  new  points  if  an  old  one  failed,  that  he  could  not 
escape  from  us.  A  most  remarkable  circumstance  is,  that  I 
really  don't  think  he  grasped  this  sum  even  so  much  for  the 
gratification  of  his  avarice,  which  was  inordinate,  as  in  the 


TRADDLES  DOES    NOT  EXTOL  URIAH.     413 

hatred  he  felt  for  Copperfield.  He  said  so  to  me,  plainly. 
He  said  he  would  even  have  spent  as  much,  to  baulk  or  injure 
Copperfield." 

"  Ha ! "  said  my  aunt,  knitting  her  brows  thoughtfully,  and 
glancing  at  Agnes.  "  And  what's  become  of  him  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  He  left  here,1'  said  Traddles,  "  with  his 
mother,  who  had  been  clamouring,  and  beseeching,  and  dis 
closing,  the  whole  time.  They  went  away  by  one  of  the 
London  night  coaches,  and  I  know  no  more  about  him  ;  except 
that  his  malevolence  to  me  at  parting  was  audacious.  He 
seemed  to  consider  himself  hardly  less  indebted  to  me,  than 
to  Mr.  Micawber;  which  I  consider  (as  I  told  him)  quite  a 
compliment." 

"  Do  you  suppose  he  has  any  money,  Traddles  ?  "  I  asked. 
"  Oh  dear,  yes,  I  should  think  so,"  he  replied,  shaking  his 
head,  seriously.  "I  should  say  he  must  have  pocketed  a 
good  deal,  in  one  way  or  other.  But,  I  think  you  would  find, 
Copperfield,  if  you  had  an  opportunity  of  observing  his  course, 
that  money  would  never  keep  that  man  out  of  mischief.  He 
is  such  an  incarnate  hypocrite,  that  whatever  object  he  pur 
sues,  he  must  pursue  crookedly.  It's  his  only  compensation 
for  the  outward  restraints  he  puts  upon  himself.  Always 
creeping  along  the  ground  to  some  small  end  or  other,  he 
will  always  magnify  every  object  in  the  way ;  and  conse 
quently  will  hate  and  suspect  everybody  that  comes,  in  the 
most  innocent  manner,  between  him  and  it.  So,  the  crooked 
courses  will  become  crookeder,  at  any  moment,  for  the  least 
reason,  or  for  none.  It's  only  necessary  to  consider  his 
history  here,"  said  Traddles,  "  to  know  that." 
"  He's  a  monster  of  meanness  ! "  said  my  aunt. 
"Really  I  don't  know  about  that,"  observed  Traddles, 
thoughtfully.  "Many  people  can  be  very  mean,  when  they 
give  their  minds  to  it." 

"And  now,  touching  Mr.  Micawber,"  said  my  aunt. 
"Well,   really,"   said  Traddles,  cheerfully,   "I  must,  once 
more,  give  Mr.  Micawber  high  praise      But  for  his  having 


414  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

been  so  patient  and  persevering  for  so  long  a  time,  we  never 
could  have  hoped  to  do  anything  worth  speaking  of.  And  I 
think  we  ought  to  consider  that  Mr.  Micawber  did  right,  for 
right's  sake,  when  we  reflect  what  terms  he  might  have  made 
with  Uriah  Heep  himself,  for  his  silence.11 

"  I  think  so  too,11  said  I. 

"  Now,  what  would  you  give  him  ?  "  inquired  my  aunt. 

"  Oh  !  Before  you  come  to  that,11  said  Traddles,  a  little 
disconcerted,  "  I  am  afraid  I  thought  it  discreet  to  omit  (not 
being  able  to  carry  everything  before  me)  two  points,  in 
making  this  lawless  adjustment — for  it's  perfectly  lawless  from 
beginning  to  end — of  a  difficult  affair.  Those  I.  O.  LVs,  and 
so  forth,  which  Mr.  Micawber  gave  him  for  the  advances  he 
had—11 

"  Well !     They  must  be  paid,11  said  my  aunt. 

"  Yes,  but  I  don't  know  when  they  may  be  proceeded  on, 
or  where  they  are,11  rejoined  Traddles,  opening  his  eyes; 
"and  I  anticipate,  that,  between  this  time  and  his  de 
parture,  Mr.  Micawber  will  be  constantly  arrested,  or  taken 
in  execution.11 

"Then  he  must  be  constantly  set  free  again,  and  taken 
out  of  execution,"  said  my  aunt.  "  What's  the  amount 
altogether  ?  " 

"Why,  Mr.  Micawber  has  entered  the  transactions — he 
calls  them  transactions — with  great  form,  in  a  book,"  re 
joined  Traddles,  smiling;  "and  he  makes  the  amount  a 
hundred  and  three  pounds,  five." 

"  Now,  what  shall  we  give  him,  that  sum  included  ? "  said 
my  aunt.  "Agnes,  my  dear,  you  and  I  can  talk  about 
division  of  it  afterwards.  What  should  it  be  ?  Five  hundred 
pounds  ? " 

Upon  this,  Traddles  and  I  both  struck  in  at  once.  We 
both  recommended  a  small  sum  in  money,  and  the  payment, 
without  stipulation  to  Mr.  Micawber,  of  the  Uriah  claims  as 
they  came  in.  We  proposed  that  the  family  should  have 
their  passage  and  their  outfit,  and  a  hundred  pounds ;  and 


A  PAINFUL  THEME.  415 

that  Mr.  Micawbers  arrangement  for  the  repayment  of  the 
advances  should  be  gravely  entered  into,  as  it  might  be 
wholesome  for  him  to  suppose  himself  under  that  responsi 
bility.  To  this,  I  added  the  suggestion,  that  I  should  give 
some  explanation  of  his  character  and  history  to  Mr.  Peggotty, 
who  I  knew  could  be  relied  on;  and  that  to  Mr.  Peggotty 
should  be  quietly  entrusted  the  discretion  of  advancing 
another  hundred.  I  further  proposed  to  interest  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber  in  Mr.  Peggotty,  by  confiding  so  much  of  Mr.  Peggotty's 
story  to  him  as  I  might  feel  justified  in  relating,  or  might 
think  expedient ;  and  to  endeavour  to  bring  each  of  them  to 
bear  upon  the  other,  for  the  common  advantage.  We  all 
entered  warmly  into  these  views ;  and  I  may  mention  at 
once,  that  the  principals  themselves  did  so,  shortly  afterwards, 
with  perfect  good  will  and  harmony. 

Seeing  that  Traddles  now  glanced  anxiously  at  my  aunt 
again,  I  reminded  him  of  the  second  and  last  point  to  which 
he  had  adverted. 

"  You  and  your  aunt  will  excuse  me,  Copperfield,  if  I 
touch  upon  a  painful  theme,  as  I  greatly  fear  I  shall,"  said 
Traddles,  hesitating ;  "  but  I  think  it  necessary  to  bring  it  to 
your  recollection.  On  the  day  of  Mr.  Micawbers  memorable 
denunciation,  a  threatening  allusion  was  made  by  Uriah  Heep 
to  your  aunt's — husband." 

My  aunt,  retaining  her  stiff  position,  and  apparent  com 
posure,  assented  with  a  nod. 

"Perhaps,"  observed  Traddles,  "it  was  mere  purposeless 
Impertinence  ?  " 

"  No,"  returned  my  aunt. 

"  There  was — pardon  me — really  such  a  person,  and  at  all 
in  his  power?"  hinted  Traddles. 

"Yes,  my  good  friend,"  said  my  aunt. 

Traddles,  with  a  perceptible  lengthening  of  his  face,  ex 
plained  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  approach  this  subject ; 
that  it  had  shared  the  fate  of  Mr.  Micawber's  liabilities,  in 
not  being  comprehended  in  the  terms  he  had  made;  that  we 


416  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

were  no  longer  of  any  authority  with  Uriah  Heep ;  and  that 

if  he  could  do  us,  or  any  of  us,  any  injury  or  annoyance,  no 

doubt  he  would. 

My   aunt   remained    quiet;  until   again    some   stray   tears 

found  their  way  to  her  cheeks. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  she  said.     "  It  was  very  thoughtful 

to  mention  it." 

"Can  I — or  Copperfield — do  anything?"  asked  Traddles, 

gently. 

"Nothing,"  said  my    aunt.     "I    thank   you   many   times, 

Trot,  my  dear,  a  vain  threat !     Let  us  have  Mr.  and  Mrs. 

Micawber    back.     And    don't    any    of   you    speak   to   me ! " 

With    that    she    smoothed    her    dress,   and    sat,    with    her 

upright  carriage,  looking  at  the  door. 

"  Well,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber ! "  said  my  aunt,  when 
they  entered.  "We  have  been  discussing  your  emigration, 
with  many  apologies  to  you  for  keeping  you  out  of  the 
room  so  long;  and  Fll  tell  you  what  arrangements  we 
propose." 

These  she  explained  to  the  unbounded  satisfaction  of  the 
family, — children  and  all  being  then  present, — and  so  much 
to  the  awakening  of  Mr.  Micawber's  punctual  habits  in  the 
opening  stage  of  all  bill  transactions,  that  he  could  not  be 
dissuaded  from  immediately  rushing  out,  in  the  highest 
spirits,  to  buy  the  stamps  for  his  notes  of  hand.  But,  his 
joy  received  a  sudden  check;  for  within  five  minutes,  he  re 
turned  in  the  custody  of  a  sheriff's  officer,  informing  us,  in 
a  flood  of  tears,  that  all  was  lost.  We,  being  quite  prepared 
for  this  event,  which  was  of  course  a  proceeding  of  Uriah 
Heep's,  soon  paid  the  money ;  and  in  five  minutes  more 
Mr.  Micawber  was  seated  at  the  table,  filling  up  the  stamps 
with  an  expression  of  perfect  joy,  which  only  that  congenial 
employment,  or  the  making  of  punch,  could  impart  in  full 
completeness  to  his  shining  face.  To  see  him  at  work  on 
the  stamps,  with  the  relish  of  an  artist,  touching  them  like 
pictures,  looking  at  them  sideways,  taking  weighty  notes  of 


MR.  MICAWBER  ABOUT  TO  EMIGRATE.     417 

dates  and  amounts  in  his  pocket-book,  and  contemplating 
them  when  finished,  with  a  high  sense  of  their  precious  value, 
was  a  sight  indeed. 

"  Now,  the  best  thing  you  can  do,  sir,  if  you'll  allow  me 
to  advise  you,"  said  my  aunt,  after  silently  observing  him, 
"is  to  abjure  that  occupation  for  evermore." 

"Madam,"  replied  Mr.  Micawber,  "it  is  my  intention  to 
register  such  a  vow  on  the  virgin  page  of  the  future.  Mrs. 
Micawber  will  attest  it.  I  trust,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
solemnly,  "that  my  son  Wilkins  will  ever  bear  in  mind, 
that  he  had  infinitely  better  put  his  fist  in  the  fire,  than  use 
it  to  handle  the  serpents  that  have  poisoned  the  life-blood 
of  his  unhappy  parent!"  Deeply  affected,  and  changed  in 
a  moment  to  the  image  of  despair,  Mr.  Micawber  regarded 
the  serpents  with  a  look  of  gloomy  abhorrence  (in  which  his 
late  admiration  of  them  was  not  quite  subdued),  folded  them 
up  and  put  them  in  his  pocket. 

This  closed  the  proceedings  of  the  evening.  We  were 
weary  with  sorrow  and  fatigue,  and  my  aunt  and  I  were  to 
return  to  London  on  the  morrow.  It  was  arranged  that  the 
Micawbers  should  follow  us,  after  effecting  a  sale  of  their 
goods  to  a  broker;  that  Mr.  WickfiekPs  affairs  should  be 
brought  to  a  settlement,  with  all  convenient  speed,  under 
the  direction  of  Traddles ;  and  that  Agnes  should  also  come 
to  London,  pending  those  arrangements.  We  passed  the 
night  at  the  old  house,  which,  freed  from  the  presence  of  the 
Keeps,  seemed  purged  of  a  disease ;  and  I  lay  in  my  old  room, 
like  a  shipwrecked  wanderer  come  home. 

We  went  back  next  day  to  my  aunVs  house — not  to  mine ; 
and  when  she  and  I  sat  alone,  as  of  old,  before  going  to  bed, 
she  said : 

"  Trot,  do  you  really  wish  to  know  what  I  have  had  upon 
my  mind  lately?" 

"  Indeed  I  do,  aunt.  If  there  ever  was  a  time  when  I  felt 
unwilling  that  you  should  have  a  sorrow  or  anxiety  which 
I  could  not  share,  it  is  now." 

VOL.  ii.  £  E 


418  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"You  have  had  sorrow  enough,  child,1''  said  my  aunt, 
affectionately,  "  without  the  addition  of  my  little  miseries. 
I  could  have  no  other  motive,  Trot,  in  keeping  anything 
from  you." 

"I  know  that  well,"  said  I.     "But  tell  me  now." 

"Would  you  ride  with  me  a  little  way  to-morrow  morn 
ing?'"  asked  my  aunt. 

"Of  course." 

"At  nine,"  said  she.     "Til  tell  you  then,  my  dear." 

At  nine,  accordingly,  we  went  out  in  a  little  chariot,  and 
drove  to  London.  We  drove  a  long  way  through  the  streets 
until  we  came  to  one  of  the  large  hospitals.  Standing  hard 
by  the  building  was  a  plain  hearse.  The  driver  recognised 
my  aunt,  and  in  obedience  to  a  motion  of  her  hand  at  the 
window,  drove  slowly  off;  we  following. 

"You  understand  it  now,  Trot,"  said  my  aunt.  "He  is 
gone!" 

"Did  he  die  in  the  hospital?" 

"  Yes." 

She  sat  immovable  beside  me;  but,  again  I  saw  the  stray 
tears  on  her  face. 

"  He  was  there  once  before,"  said  my  aunt  presently. 
"  He  was  ailing  a  long  time — a  shattered,  broken  man,  these 
many  years.  When  he  knew  his  state  in  this  last  illness, 
he  asked  them  to  send  for  me.  He  was  sorry  then.  Vrery 
sorry." 

"  You  went,  I  know,  aunt." 

"  I  went.     I  was  with  him  a  good  deal  afterwards." 

"He  died  the  night  before  we  went  to  Canterbury?" 
said  I. 

My  aunt  nodded.  "  No  one  can  harm  him  now,"  she  said. 
"It  was  a  vain  threat." 

We  drove  away,  out  of  town,  to  the  churchyard  at 
Hornsey.  "Better  here  than  in  the  streets,"  said  my  aunt. 
"  He  was  born  here." 

We  alighted ;  and  followed  the  plain  coffin  to  a  corner  I 


I  KNOW  MY  AUNTS  SECRET.  419 

remember  well,  where  the  service  was  read  consigning  it  to 
the  dust. 

"  Six-and-thirty  years  ago,  this  day,  my  dear,"  said  my 
aunt,  as  we  walked  back  to  the  chariot,  "  I  was  married. 
God  forgive  us  all ! " 

We  took  our  seats  in  silence ;  and  so  she  sat  beside  me  for 
a  long  time,  holding  my  hand.  At  length  she  suddenly 
burst  into  tears,  and  said : 

"He  was  a  fine-looking  man  when  I  married  him,  Trot — 
and  he  was  sadly  changed ! " 

It  did  not  last  long.  After  the  relief  of  tears,  she  soon 
became  composed,  and  even  cheerful.  Her  nerves  were  a 
little  shaken,  she  said,  or  she  would  not  have  given  way  to 
it.  God  forgive  us  all  ! 

So  we  rode  back  to  her  little  cottage  at  Highgate,  where 
we  found  the  following  short  note,  which  had  arrived  by  that 
morning's  post  from  Mr,  Micawber  : 

"  Canterbury, 

"Friday. 
"  My  dear  Madam,  and  Copperfield, 

"The  fair  land  of  promise  lately  looming  on  the 
horizon  is  again  enveloped  in  impenetrable  mists,  and  for 
ever  withdrawn  from  the  eyes  of  a  drifting  wretch  whose 
Doom  is  sealed  ! 

"Another  writ  has  been  issued  (in  His  Majesty's  High 
Court  of  King's  Bench  at  Westminster),  in  another  cause  of 
HEEP  v.  MIC  A  WEEK,  and  the  defendant  in  that  cause  is  the 
prey  of  the  sheriff  having  legal  jurisdiction  in  this  bailiwick. 

"  *  Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour, 
See  the  front  of  battle  lower, 
See  approach  proud  EDWARD'S  power- 
Chains  and  slavery ! ' 

Consigned  to  which,  and  to  a  speedy  end  (for  mental  torture 
is  not  supportable  beyond  a  certain  point,  and  that  point  I 
feel  I  have  attained),  my  course  is  run.  Bless  you,  bless  you  ! 


420  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Some  future  traveller,  visiting,  from  motives  of  curiosity, 
not  unmingled,  let  us  hope,  with  sympathy,  the  place  of 
confinement  allotted  to  debtors  in  this  city,  may,  and  I 
trust  will,  Ponder,  as  he  traces  on  its  wall,  inscribed  with  a 
rusty  nail, 

"  The  obscure  initials 

"W.  M. 

"P.S.  I  re-open  this  to  say  that  our  common  friend,  Mr. 
Thomas  Traddles  (who  has  not  yet  left  us,  and  is  looking 
extremely  well),  has  paid  the  debt  and  costs,  in  the  noble 
name  of  Miss  Trotwood ;  and  that  myself  and  family  are  at 
the  height  of  earthly  bliss." 


CHAPTER    LV. 

TEMPEST. 

I  NOW  approach  an  event  in  my  life,  so  indelible,  so  awful, 
so  bound  by  an  infinite  variety  of  ties  to  all  that  has  preceded 
it,  in  these  pages,  that,  from  the  beginning  of  my  narrative, 
I  have  seen  it  growing  larger  and  larger  as  I  advanced,  like 
a  great  tower  in  a  plain,  and  throwing  its  fore-cast  shadow 
even  on  the  incidents  of  my  childish  days. 

For  years  after  it  occurred,  I  dreamed  of  it  often.  I  have 
started  up  so  vividly  impressed  by  it,  that  its  fury  has  yet 
seemed  raging  in  my  quiet  room,  in  the  still  night.  I  dream 
of  it  sometimes,  though  at  lengthened  and  uncertain  intervals, 
to  this  hour.  I  have  an  association  between  it  and  a  stormy 
wind,  or  the  lightest  mention  of  a  sea-shore,  as  strong  as  any 
of  which  my  mind  is  conscious.  As  plainly  as  I  behold  what 
happened,  I  will  try  to  write  it  down.  I  do  not  recall  it, 
but  see  it  done ;  for  it  happens  again  before  me. 

The  time  drawing  on  rapidly  for  the  sailing  of  the  emigrant- 
ship,  my  good  old  nurse  (almost  broken-hearted  for  me,  when 
we  first  met)  came  up  to  London.  I  was  constantly  with 
her,  and  her  brother,  and  the  Micawbers  (they  being  very 
much  together) ;  but  Emily  I  never  saw. 

One  evening  when  the  time  was  close  at  hand,  I  was  alone 
with  Peggotty  and  her  brother.  Our  conversation  turned  on 
Ham.  She  described  to  us  how  tenderly  he  had  taken  leave 
of  her,  and  how  manfully  and  quietly  he  had  borne  himself, 


422  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Most  of  all,  of  late,  when  she  believed  he  was  most  tried. 
It  was  a  subject  of  which  the  affectionate  creature  never 
tired ;  and  our  interest  in  hearing  the  many  examples  which 
she,  who  was  so  much  with  him,  had  to  relate,  was  equal  to 
hers  in  relating  them. 

My  aunt  and  I  were  at  that  time  vacating  the  two  cottages 
at  Highgate ;  I  intending  to  go  abroad,  and  she  to  return  to 
her  house  at  Dover.  We  had  a  temporary  lodging  in  Covent 
Garden.  As  I  walked  home  to  it,  after  this  evening's  con 
versation,  reflecting  on  what  had  passed  between  Ham  and 
myself  when  I  was  last  at  Yarmouth,  I  wavered  in  the  original 
purpose  I  had  formed,  of  leaving  a  letter  for  Emily  when  I 
should  take  leave  of  her  uncle  on  board  the  ship,  and  thought 
it  would  be  better  to  write  to  her  now.  She  might  desire, 
I  thought,  after  receiving  my  communication,  to  send  some 
parting  word  by  me  to  her  unhappy  lover.  I  ought  to  give 
her  the  opportunity. 

I  therefore  sat  down  in  my  room,  before  going  to  bed, 
and  wrote  to  her.  I  told  her  that  I  had  seen  him,  and 
that  he  had  requested  me  to  tell  her  what  I  have  already 
written  in  its  place  in  these  sheets.  I  faithfully  repeated  it. 
I  had  no  need  to  enlarge  upon  it,  if  I  had  had  the  right. 
Its  deep  fidelity  and  goodness  were  not  to  be  adorned  by  me 
or  any  man.  I  left  it  out,  to  be  sent  round  in  the  morning ; 
with  a  line  to  Mr.  Peggotty,  requesting  him  to  give  it  to 
her;  and  went  to  bed  at  day-break. 

I  was  weaker  than  I  knew  then ;  and,  not  falling  asleep 
until  the  sun  was  up,  lay  late,  and  unrefreshed,  next  day. 
I  was  roused  by  the  silent  presence  of  my  aunt  at  my 
bedside.  I  felt  it  in  my  sleep,  as  I  suppose  we  all  do  feel 
such  things. 

"  Trot,  my  dear,11  she  said,  when  I  opened  my  eyes,  "  I 
couldn't  make  up  my  mind  to  disturb  you.  Mr.  Peggotty 
is  here  ;  shall  he  come  up  ?  " 

I  replied  yes,  and  he  soon  appeared. 

"  Mas1!-  Daw,11  he  said,  when  we  had   shaken  hands,  "  I 


EMILY'S  ANSWER   TO  HAM'S  MESSAGE.     423 

giv  Em'ly  your  letter,  sir,  and  she  writ,  this  heer;  and 
begged  of  me  fur  to  ask  you  to  read  it,  and  if  you  see  no 
hurt  in't,  to  be  so  kind  as  take  charge  on't." 

"  Have  you  read  it  ? "  said  I. 

He  nodded  sorrowfully.     I  opened  it,  and  read  as  follows  : 

"  I  have  got  your  message.  Ob,  what  can  I  write,  to  thank  you  for  your 
good  and  blessed  kindness  to  me  ! 

"  I  have  put  the  words  close  to  my  heart.  I  shall  keep  them  till  I  die. 
They  are  sharp  thorns,  but  they  are  such  comfort.  I  have  prayed  over  them, 
oh,  I  have  prayed  so  much.  When  I  find  what  you  are,  and  what  uncle  is,  I 
think  what  God  must  be,  and  can  cry  to  him. 

"  Good-bye  for  ever.  Now,  my  dear,  my  friend,  good-bye  for  ever  in  this 
world.  In  another  world,  if  I  am  forgiven,  I  may  wake  a  child  and  come  to 
you.  All  thanks  and  blessings.  Farewell,  evermore." 

This,  blotted  with  tears,  was  the  letter. 

"May  I  tell  her  as  you  doen't  see  no  hurt  in't,  and  as 
you'll  be  so  kind  as  take  charge  on't,  Mas'r  Davy  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Peggotty,  when  I  had  read  it. 

"  Unquestionably,"  said  I — "  but  I  am  thinking —  " 

"Yes,  Mas'r  Davy?" 

"I  am  thinking,"  said  I,  "that  Til  go  down  again  to 
Yarmouth,  There's  time,  and  to  spare,  for  me  to  go  and 
come  back  before  the  ship  sails.  My  mind  is  constantly 
running  on  him,  in  his  solitude ;  to  put  this  letter  of  her 
writing  in  his  hand  at  this  time,  and  to  enable  you  to  tell 
her,  in  the  moment  of  parting,  that  he  has  got  it,  will  be  a 
kindness  to  both  of  them.  I  solemnly  accepted  his  commis 
sion,  dear  good  fellow,  and  cannot  discharge  it  too  completely. 
The  journey  is  nothing  to  me.  I  am  restless,  and  shall  be 
better  in  motion.  I'll  go  down  to-night." 

Though  he  anxiously  endeavoured  to  dissuade  me,  I  saw 
that  he  was  of  my  mind ;  and  this,  if  I  had  required  to  be 
confirmed  in  my  intention,  would  have  had  the  effect.  He 
went  round  to  the  coach-office,  at  my  request,  and  took  the 
box-seat  for  me  on  the  mail.  In  the  evening  I  started,  by 
that  conveyance,  down  the  road  I  had  traversed  under  so 
many  vicissitudes. 

"  Don't  you  think  that,"  I  asked  the  coachman,  in  the  first 


424  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

stage   out   of   London,    "  a   very   remarkable    sky  ?     I   don't 
remember  to  have  seen  one  like  it." 

"  Nor  I — not  equal  to  it,"1  he  replied.  "  That's  wind,  sir. 
There'll  be  mischief  done  at  sea,  I  expect,  before  long." 

It  was  a  murky  confusion — here  and  there  blotted  with  a 
colour  like  the  colour  of  the  smoke  from  damp  fuel — of  flying 
clouds  tossed  up  into  most  remarkable  heaps,  suggesting 
greater  heights  in  the  clouds  than  there  were  depths  below 
them  to  the  bottom  of  the  deepest  hollows  in  the  earth, 
through  which  the  wild  moon  seemed  to  plunge  headlong,  as 
if,  in  a  dread  disturbance  of  the  laws  of  nature,  she  had  lost 
her  way  and  were  frightened.  There  had  been  a  wind  all 
day;  and  it  was  rising  then,  with  an  extraordinary  great 
sound.  In  another  hour  it  had  much  increased,  and  the  sky 
was  more  overcast,  and  blew  hard. 

But  as  the  night  advanced,  the  clouds  closing  in  and 
densely  overspreading  the  whole  sky,  then  very  dark,  it  came 
on  to  blow,  harder  and  harder.  It  still  increased,  until  our 
horses  could  scarcely  face  the  wind  Many  times,  in  the  dark 
part  of  the  night  (it  was  then  late  in  September,  when  the 
nights  were  not  short),  the  leaders  turned  about,  or  came  to 
a  dead  stop ;  and  we  were  often  in  serious  apprehension  that 
the  coach  would  be  blown  over.  Sweeping  gusts  of  rain  came 
up  before  this  storm,  like  showers  of  steel ;  and,  at  those 
times,  when  there  was  any  shelter  of  trees  or  lee  walls  to  be 
got,  we  were  fain  to  stop,  in  a  sheer  impossibility  of  continuing 
the  struggle. 

When  the  day  broke,  it  blew  harder  and  harder.  I  had 
been  in  Yarmouth  when  the  seamen  said  it  blew  great  guns, 
but  I  had  never  known  the  like  of  this,  or  anything  ap 
proaching  to  it.  We  came  to  Ipswich — very  late,  having 
had  to  fight  every  inch  of  ground  since  we  were  ten  miles 
out  of  London ;  and  found  a  cluster  of  people  in  the  market 
place,  who  had  risen  from  their  beds  in  the  night,  fearful  of 
falling  chimneys.  Some  of  these,  congregating  about  the 
inn-yard  while  we  changed  horses,  told  us  of  great  sheets  of 


I  GO  DOWN  TO  THE  BEACH.  425 

lead  having  been  ripped  off  a  high  church-tower,  and  flung 
into  a  bye-street,  which  they  then  blocked  up.  Others  had 
to  tell  of  country  people,  coming  in  from  neighbouring 
villages,  who  had  seen  great  trees  lying  torn  out  of  the  earth, 
and  whole  ricks  scattered  about  the  roads  and  fields.  Still, 
there  was  no  abatement  in  the  storm,  but  it  blew  harder. 

As  we  struggled  on,  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  sea,  from 
which  this  mighty  wind  was  blowing  dead  on  shore,  its  force 
became  more  and  more  terrific.  Long  before  we  saw  the  sea, 
its  spray  was  on  our  lips,  and  showered  salt  rain  upon  us.  The 
water  was  out,  over  miles  and  miles  of  the  flat  country  adjacent 
to  Yarmouth ;  and  every  sheet  and  puddle  lashed  its  banks, 
and  had  its  stress  of  little  breakers  setting  heavily  towards 
us.  When  we  came  within  sight  of  the  sea,  the  waves  on  the 
horizon,  caught  at  intervals  above  the  rolling  abyss,  were  like 
glimpses  of  another  shore  with  towers  and  buildings.  When 
at  last  we  got  into  the  town,  the  people  came  out  to  their 
doors,  all  aslant,  and  with  streaming  hair,  making  a  wonder 
of  the  mail  that  had  come  through  such  a  night. 

I  put  up  at  the  old  inn,  and  went  down  to  look  at  the 
sea;  staggering  along  the  street,  which  was  strewn  with  sand 
and  seaweed,  and  with  flying  blotches  of  sea-foam ;  afraid 
of  falling  slates  and  tiles ;  and  holding  by  people  I  met,  at 
angry  corners.  Coming  near  the  beach,  I  saw,  not  only  the 
boatmen,  but  half  the  people  of  the  town,  lurking  behind 
buildings  ;  some,  now  and  then  braving  the  fury  of  the  storm 
to  look  away  to  sea,  and  blown  sheer  out  of  their  course  in 
trying  to  get  zigzag  back. 

Joining  these  groups,  I  found  bewailing  women  whose 
husbands  were  away  in  herring  or  oyster  boats,  which  there 
was  too  much  reason  to  think  might  have  foundered  before 
they  could  run  in  anywhere  for  safety.  Grizzled  old  sailors 
were  among  the  people,  shaking  their  heads,  as  they  looked 
from  water  to  sky,  and  muttering  to  one  another ;  ship 
owners,  excited  and  uneasy ;  children,  huddling  together,  and 
peering  into  older  faces;  even  stout  mariners,  disturbed  and 


426  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

anxious,  levelling  their  glasses  at  the  sea  from  behind  places 
of  shelter,  as  if  they  were  surveying  an  enemy. 

The  tremendous  sea  itself,  when  I  could  find  sufficient 
pause  to  look  at  it,  in  the  agitation  of  the  blinding  wind,  the 
flying  stones  and  sand,  and  the  awful  noise,  confounded  me. 
As  the  high  watery  walls  came  rolling  in,  and,  at  their  highest, 
tumbled  into  surf,  they  looked  as  if  the  least  would  engulf 
the  town.  As  the  receding  wave  swept  back  with  a  hoarse 
roar,  it  seemed  to  scoop  out  deep  caves  in  the  beach,  as  if  its 
purpose  were  to  undermine  the  earth.  When  some  white- 
headed  billows  thundered  on,  and  dashed  themselves  to  pieces 
before  they  reached  the  land,  every  fragment  of  the  late  whole 
seemed  possessed  by  the  full  might  of  its  wrath,  rushing  to 
be  gathered  to  the  composition  of  another  monster.  Undu 
lating  hills  were  changed  to  valleys,  undulating  valleys  (with 
a  solitary  storm-bird  sometimes  skimming  through  them) 
were  lifted  up  to  hills ;  masses  of  water  shivered  and  shook 
the  beach  with  a  booming  sound  ;  every  shape  tumultuously 
rolled  on,  as  soon  as  made,  to  change  its  shape  and  place, 
and  beat  another  shape  and  place  away ;  the  ideal  shore  on 
the  horizon,  with  its  towers  and  buildings,  rose  and  fell ; 
the  clouds  fell  fast  and  thick  ;  I  seemed  to  see  a  rending  and 
upheaving  of  all  nature. 

Not  finding  Ham  among  the  people  whom  this  memorable 
wind — for  it  is  still  remembered  down  there,  as  the  greatest 
ever  known  to  blow  upon  that  coast — had  brought  together, 
I  made  my  way  to  his  house.  It  was  shut;  and  as  no  one 
answered  to  my  knocking,  I  went,  by  back  ways  and  bye- 
lanes,  to  the  yard  where  he  worked.  I  learned,  there,  that 
he  had  gone  to  Lowestoft,  to  meet  some  sudden  exigency  of 
ship-repairing  in  which  his  skill  was  required;  but  that  he 
would  be  back  to-morrow  morning,  in  good  time. 

I  went  back  to  the  inn;  and  when  I  had  washed  and 
dressed,  and  tried  to  sleep,  but  in  vain,  it  was  five  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon.  I  had  not  sat  five  minutes  by  the  coffee- 
room  fire,  when  the  waiter  coming  to  stir  it,  as  an  excuse  for 


I  BECOME   UNEASY   ABOUT   HAM.          427 

talking,  told  me  that  two  colliers  had  gone  down,  with  all 
hands,  a  few  miles  away;  and  that  some  other  ships  had 
been  seen  labouring  hard  in  the  Roads,  and  trying,  in  great 
distress,  to  keep  off  shore.  Mercy  on  them,  and  on  all  poor 
sailors,  said  he,  if  we  had  another  night  like  the  last ! 

I  was  very  much  depressed  in  spirits ;  very  solitary ;  and 
felt  an  uneasiness  in  Ham's  not  being  there,  disproportionate 
to  the  occasion.  I  was  seriously  affected,  without  knowing 
how  much,  by  late  events ;  and  my  long  exposure  to  the 
fierce  wind  had  confused  me.  There  was  that  jumble  in  my 
thoughts  and  recollections,  that  I  had  lost  the  clear  arrange 
ment  of  time  and  distance.  Thus,  if  I  had  gone  out  into 
the  town,  I  should  not  have  been  surprised,  I  think,  to 
encounter  some  one  who  I  knew  must  be  then  in  London. 
So  to  speak,  there  was  in  these  respects  a  curious  inattention 
in  my  mind.  Yet  it  was  busy,  too,  with  all  the  remembrances 
the  place  naturally  awakened ;  and  they  were  particularly 
distinct  and  vivid. 

In  this  state,  the  waiter's  dismal  intelligence  about  the 
ships  immediately  connected  itself,  without  any  effort  of  my 
volition,  with  my  uneasiness  about  Ham.  I  was  persuaded 
that  I  had  an  apprehension  of  his  returning  from  Lowestoft 
by  sea,  and  being  lost.  This  grew  so  strong  with  me,  that 
I  resolved  to  go  back  to  the  yard  before  I  took  my  dinner, 
and  ask  the  boat-builder  if  he  thought  his  attempting  to 
return  by  sea  at  all  likely?  If  he  gave  me  the  least  reason 
to  think  so,  I  would  go  over  to  Lowestoft  and  prevent  it  by 
bringing  him  with  me. 

I  hastily  ordered  my  dinner,  and  went  back  to  the  yard. 
I  was  none  too  soon ;  for  the  boat-builder,  with  a  lantern 
in  his  hand,  was  locking  the  yard-gate.  He  quite  laughed 
when  I  asked  him  the  question,  and  said  there  was  no  fear; 
no  man  in  his  senses,  or  out  of  them,  would  put  off  in  such 
a  gale  of  wind,  least  of  all  Ham  Peggotty,  who  had  been 
born  to  seafaring. 

So  sensible  of  this,  beforehand,  that  I  had  really  felt  ashamed 


428  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

of  doing  what  I  was  nevertheless  impelled  to  do,  I  went  back 
to  the  inn.  If  such  a  wind  could  rise,  I  think  it  was  rising. 
The  howl  and  roar,  the  rattling  of  the  doors  and  windows, 
the  rumbling  in  the  chimneys,  the  apparent  rocking  of  the 
very  house  that  sheltered  me,  and  the  prodigious  tumult  of 
the  sea,  were  more  fearful  than  in  the  morning.  But  there 
was  now  a  great  darkness  besides;  and  that  invested  the 
storm  with  new  terrors,  real  and  fanciful. 

I  could  not  eat,  I  could  not  sit  still,  I  could  not  continue 
stedfast  to  anything.  Something  within  me,  faintly  answer 
ing  to  the  storm  without,  tossed  up  the  depths  of  my  memory 
and  made  a  tumult  in  them.  Yet,  in  all  the  hurry  of  my 
thoughts,  wild  running  with  the  thundering  sea, — the  storm 
and  my  uneasiness  regarding  Ham,  were  always  in  the  fore 
ground. 

My  dinner  went  away  almost  untasted,  and  I  tried  to 
refresh  myself  with  a  glass  or  two  of  wine.  In  vain.  I  fell 
into  a  dull  slumber  before  the  fire,  without  losing  my 
consciousness,  either  of  the  uproar  out  of  doors,  or  of  the 
place  in  which  I  was.  Both  became  overshadowed  by  a  new 
and  indefinable  horror;  and  when  I  awoke — or  rather  when 
I  shook  off  the  lethargy  that  bound  me  in  my  chair — my 
whole  frame  thrilled  with  objectless  and  unintelligible  fear. 

I  walked  to  and  fro,  tried  to  read  an  old  gazetteer,  listened 
to  the  awful  noises :  looked  at  faces,  scenes,  and  figures  in 
the  fire.  At  length,  the  steady  ticking  of  the  undisturbed 
clock  on  the  wall,  tormented  me  to  that  degree  that  I  resolved 
to  go  to  bed. 

It  was  reassuring,  on  such  a  night,  to  be  told  that  some  of 
the  inn-servants  had  agreed  together  to  sit  up  until  morning. 
I  went  to  bed,  exceedingly  weaiy  and  heavy;  but,  on  my 
lying  down,  all  such  sensations  vanished,  as  if  by  magic,  and 
I  was  broad  awake,  with  every  sense  refined. 

For  hours  I  lay  there,  listening  to  the  wind  and  water; 
imagining,  now,  that  I  heard  shrieks  out  at  sea;  now,  that 
I  distinctly  heard  the  firing  of  signal  guns ;  and  now,  the  fall 


ANOTHER  STORMY  NIGHT.  429 

of  houses  in  the  town.  I  got  up,  several  times,  and  looked 
out ;  but  could  see  nothing,  except  the  reflection  in  the 
window-panes  of  the  faint  candle  I  had  left  burning,  and  of 
my  own  haggard  face  looking  in  at  me  from  the  black  void. 

At  length,  my  restlessness  attained  to  such  a  pitch,  that  I 
hurried  on  my  clothes,  and  went  down-stairs.  In  the  large 
kitchen,  where  I  dimly  saw  bacon  and  ropes  of  onions  hanging 
from  the  beams,  the  watchers  were  clustered  together,  in 
various  attitudes,  about  a  table,  purposely  moved  away  from 
the  great  chimney,  and  brought  near  the  door.  A  pretty 
girl,  who  had  her  ears  stopped  with  her  apron,  and  her  eyes 
upon  the  door,  screamed  when  I  appeared,  supposing  me  to 
be  a  spirit ;  but  the  others  had  more  presence  of  mind,  and 
were  glad  of  an  addition  to  their  company.  One  man, 
referring  to  the  topic  they  had  been  discussing,  asked  me 
whether  I  thought  the  souls  of  the  collier-crews  who  had 
gone  down,  were  out  in  the  storm  ? 

I  remained  there,  I  dare  say,  two  hours.  Once,  I  opened 
the  yard-gate,  and  looked  into  the  empty  street.  The  sand, 
the  seaweed,  and  the  flakes  of  foam,  were  driving  by  ;  and  I 
was  obliged  to  call  for  assistance  before  I  could  shut  the  gate 
again,  and  make  it  fast  against  the  wind. 

There  was  a  dark  gloom  in  my  solitary  chamber,  when  I 
at  length  returned  to  it;  but  I  was  tired  now,  and,  getting 
into  bed  again,  fell — off  a  tower  and  down  a  precipice — into 
the  depths  of  sleep.  I  have  an  impression  that  for  a  long 
time,  though  I  dreamed  of  being  elsewhere  and  in  a  variety 
of  scenes,  it  was  always  blowing  in  my  dream.  At  length, 
I  lost  that  feeble  hold  upon  reality,  and  was  engaged  with 
two  dear  friends,  but  who  they  were  I  don't  know,  at  the 
siege  of  some  town  in  a  roar  of  cannonading. 

The  thunder  of  the  cannon  was  so  loud  and  incessant,  that 
I  could  not  hear  something  I  much  desired  to  hear,  until  I 
made  a  great  exertion  and  awoke.  It  was  broad  day — eight 
or  nine  o'clock ;  the  storm  raging,  in  lieu  of  the  batteries  ; 
and  some  one  knocking  and  calling  at  my  door. 


430  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  I  cried. 

"  A  wreck  !     Close  by  ! " 

I  sprung  out  of  bed,  and  asked,  what  wreck  ? 

"  A  schooner,  from  Spain  or  Portugal,  laden  with  fruit  and 
wine.  Make  haste,  sir,  if  you  want  to  see  her  !  It's  thought, 
down  on  the  beach,  she'll  go  to  pieces  every  moment." 

The  excited  voice  went  clamouring  along  the  staircase; 
and  I  wrapped  myself  in  my  clothes  as  quickly  as  I  could, 
and  ran  into  the  street. 

Numbers  of  people  were  there  before  me,  all  running  in 
one  direction,  to  the  beach.  I  ran  the  same  way,  outstripping 
a  good  many,  and  soon  came  facing  the  wild  sea. 

The  wind  might  by  this  time  have  lulled  a  little,  though 
not  more  sensibly  than  if  the  cannonading  I  had  dreamed 
of,  had  been  diminished  by  the  silencing  of  half-a-dozen 
guns  out  of  hundreds.  But,  the  sea,  having  upon  it  the 
additional  agitation  of  the  whole  night,  was  infinitely  more 
terrific  than  when  I  had  seen  it  last.  Every  appearance  it 
had  then  presented,  bore  the  expression  of  being  swelled ; 
and  the  height  to  which  the  breakers  rose,  and,  looking  over 
one  another,  bore  one  another  down,  and  rolled  in,  in  inter 
minable  hosts,  was  most  appalling. 

In  the  difficulty  of  hearing  anything  but  wind  and  waves, 
and  in  the  crowd,  and  the  unspeakable  confusion,  and  my 
first  breathless  efforts  to  stand  against  the  weather,  I  was  so 
confused  that  I  looked  out  to  sea  for  the  wreck,  and  saw 
nothing  but  the  foaming  heads  of  the  great  waves.  A  half- 
dressed  boatman,  standing  next  me,  pointed  with  his  bare 
arm  (a  tattoo'd  arrow  on  it,  pointing  in  the  same  direction)  to 
the  left.  Then,  O  great  Heaven,  I  saw  it,  close  in  upon  us ! 

One  mast  was  broken  short  off,  six  or  eight  feet  from  the 
deck,  and  lay  over  the  side,  entangled  in  a  maze  of  sail  and 
rigging ;  and  all  that  ruin,  as  the  ship  rolled  and  beat — which 
she  did  without  a  moment's  pause,  and  with  a  violence  quite 
inconceivable — beat  the  side  as  if  it  would  stave  it  in.  Some 
efforts  were  even  then  being  made,  to  cut  this  portion  of  the 


A   SHIPWRECK  OFF  YARMOUTH.  431 

wreck  away ;  for,  as  the  ship,  which  was  broadside  on,  turned 
towards  us  in  her  rolling,  I  plainly  descried  her  people  at 
work  with  axes,  especially  one  active  figure  with  long  curling 
hair,  conspicuous  among  the  rest.  But,  a  great  cry,  which 
was  audible  even  above  the  wind  and  water,  rose  from  the 
shore  at  this  moment;  the  sea,  sweeping  over  the  rolling- 
wreck,  made  a  clean  breach,  and  carried  men,  spars,  casks, 
planks,  bulwarks,  heaps  of  such  toys,  into  the  boiling  surge. 

The  second  mast  was  yet  standing,  with  the  rags  of  a  rent 
sail,  and  a  wild  confusion  of  broken  cordage  flapping  to  and 
fro.  The  ship  had  struck  once,  the  same  boatman  hoarsely 
said  in  my  ear,  and  then  lifted  in  and  struck  again.  I  under 
stood  him  to  add  that  she  was  parting  amidships,  and  I  could 
readily  suppose  so,  for  the  rolling  and  beating  were  too 
tremendous  for  any  human  work  to  suffer  long.  As  he  spoke, 
there  was  another  great  cry  of  pity  from  the  beach;  four 
men  arose  with  the  wreck  out  of  the  deep,  clinging  to  the 
rigging  of  the  remaining  mast ;  uppermost,  the  active  figure 
with  the  curling  hair. 

There  was  a  bell  on  board;  and  as  the  ship  rolled  and 
dashed,  like  a  desperate  creature  driven  mad,  now  showing 
us  the  whole  sweep  of  her  deck,  as  she  turned  on  her  beam- 
ends  towards  the  shore,  now  nothing  but  her  keel,  as  she 
sprung  wildly  over  and  turned  towards  the  sea,  the  bell  rang ; 
and  its  sound,  the  knell  of  those  unhappy  men,  was  borne 
towards  us  on  the  wind.  Again  we  lost  her,  and  again  she 
rose.  Two  men  were  gone.  The  agony  on  shore  increased. 
Men  groaned,  and  clasped  their  hands ;  women  shrieked,  and 
turned  away  their  faces.  Some  ran  wildly  up  and  down 
along  the  beach,  crying  for  help  where  no  help  could  be.  I 
found  myself  one  of  these,  frantically  imploring  a  knot  of 
sailors  whom  I  knew,  not  to  let  those  two  lost  creatures 
perish  before  our  eyes. 

They  were  making  out  to  me,  in  an  agitated  way — I  don't 
know  how,  for  the  little  I  could  hear  I  was  scarcely  composed 
enough  to  understand — that  the  lifeboat  had  been  bravely 


432  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

manned  an  hour  ago,  and  could  do  nothing ;  and  that  as 
no  man  would  be  so  desperate  as  to  attempt  to  wade  off 
with  a  rope,  and  establish  a  communication  with  the  shore, 
there  was  nothing  left  to  try ;  when  I  noticed  that  some 
new  sensation  moved  the  people  on  the  beach,  and  saw  them 
part,  and  Ham  come  breaking  through  them  to  the  front. 

I  ran  to  him — as  well  as  I  know,  to  repeat  my  appeal  for 
help.  But,  distracted  though  I  was,  by  a  sight  so  new  to 
me  and  terrible,  the  determination  in  his  face,  and  his  look, 
out  to  sea — exactly  the  same  look  as  I  remembered  in  con 
nexion  with  the  morning  after  Emily's  flight— -awoke  me  to  a 
knowledge  of  his  danger.  I  held  him  back  with  both  arms ; 
and  implored  the  men  with  whom  I  had  been  speaking,  not 
to  listen  to  him,  not  to  do  murder,  not  to  let  him  stir  from 
off  that  sand ! 

Another  cry  arose  on  shore  ;  and  looking  to  the  wreck,  we 
saw  the  cruel  sail,  with  blow  on  blow,  beat  off  the  lower  of 
the  two  men,  and  fly  up  in  triumph  round  the  active  figure 
left  alone  upon  the  mast. 

Against  suc,h  a  sight,  and  against  such  determination  as 
that  of  the  calmly  desperate  man  who  was  already  accustomed 
to  lead  half  the  people  present,  I  might  as  hopefully  have 
entreated  the  wind.  "  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  said,  cheerily  grasping 
me  by  both  hands,  "  if  my  time  is  come,  'tis  come.  If  'tan't, 
Til  bide  it.  Lord  above  bless  you,  and  bless  all !  Mates, 
make  me  ready  !  I'm  a  going  off ! " 

I  was  swept  away,  but  not  unkindly,  to  some  distance, 
where  the  people  around  me  made  me  stay;  urging,  as  I 
confusedly  perceived,  that  he  was  bent  on  going,  with  help 
or  without,  and  that  I  should  endanger  the  precautions  for 
his  safety  by  troubling  those  with  whom  they  rested.  I  don't 
know  what  I  answered,  or  what  they  rejoined  ;  but,  I  saw 
hurry  on  the  beach,  and  men  running  with  ropes  from  a 
capstan  that  was  there,  and  penetrating  into  a  circle  of 
figures  that  hid  him  from  me.  Then,  I  saw  him  standing 
alone,  in  a  seaman's  frock  and  trowsers :  a  rope  in  his  hand, 


HAM   AND  THE  WRECKED  SHIP.  433 

or  slung  to  his  wrist :  another  round  his  body  :  and  several 
of  the  best  men  holding,  at  a  little  distance,  to  the  latter, 
which  he  laid  out  himself,  slack  upon  the  shore,  at  his  feet. 

The  wreck,  even  to  my  unpractised  eye,  was  breaking  up. 
I  saw  that  she  Avas  parting  in  the  middle,  and  that  the  life 
of  the  solitary  man  upon  the  mast  hung  by  a  thread.  Still, 
he  clung  to  it.  He  had  a  singular  red  cap  on, — not  like  a 
sailor's  cap,  but  of  a  finer  colour;  and  as  the  few  yielding 
planks  between  him  and  destruction  rolled  and  bulged,  and 
his  anticipative  death-knell  rung,  he  was  seen  by  all  of  us  to 
wave  it.  I  saw  him  do  it  now,  and  thought  I  was  going 
distracted,  when  his  action  brought  an  old  remembrance  to 
my  mind  of  a  once  dear  friend. 

Ham  watched  the  sea,  standing  alone,  with  the  silence  of 
suspended  breath  behind  him,  and  the  storm  before,  until 
there  was  a  great  retiring  wave,  when,  with  a  backward  glance 
at  those  who  held  the  rope  which  was  made  fast  round  his 
body,  he  dashed  in  after  it,  and  in  a  moment  was  buffetting 
with  the  water ;  rising  with  the  hills,  falling  with  the  valleys, 
lost  beneath  the  foam  ;  then  drawn  again  to  land.  They 
hauled  in  hastily. 

He  was  hurt.  I  saw  blood  on  his  face,  from  where  I 
stood ;  but  he  took  no  thought  of  that.  He  seemed  hurriedly 
to  give  them  some  directions  for  leaving  him  more  free — or 
so  I  judged  from  the  motion  of  his  arm — and  was  gone  as 
before. 

And  now  he  made  for  the  wreck,  rising  with  the  hills, 
falling  with  the  valleys,  lost  beneath  the  rugged  foam,  borne 
in  towards  the  shore,  borne  on  towards  the  ship,  striving 
hard  and  valiantly.  The  distance  was  nothing,  but  the 
power  of  the  sea  and  wind  made  the  strife  deadly.  At  length 
he  neared  the  wreck.  He  was  so  near,  that  with  one  more 
of  his  vigorous  strokes  he  would  be  clinging  to  it, — when,  a 
high,  green,  vast  hill-side  of  water,  moving  on  shoreward, 
from  beyond  the  ship,  he  seemed  to  leap  up  into  it  with  a 
mighty  bound,  and  the  ship  was  gone ! 

VOL.  II.  2  F 


434  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Some  eddying  fragments  I  saw  in  the  sea,  as  if  a  mere  cask 
had  been  broken,  in  running  to  the  spot  where  they  were 
hauling  in.  Consternation  was  in  every  face.  They  drew 
him  to  my  very  feet — insensible — dead.  He  was  carried  to 
the  nearest  house;  and,  no  one  preventing  me  now,  I 
remained  near  him,  busy,  while  every  means  of  restoration 
were  tried;  but  he  had  been  beaten  to  death  by  the  great 
wave,  and  his  generous  heart  was  stilled  for  ever. 

As  I  sat  beside  the  bed,  when  hope  was  abandoned  and  all 
was  done,  a  fisherman,  who  had  known  me  when  Emily  and 
I  were  children,  and  ever  since,  whispered  my  name  at  the 
door. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  with  tears  starting  to  his  weather-beaten 
face,  which,  with  his  trembling  lips,  was  ashy  pale,  "  will  you 
come  over  yonder  ?  " 

The  old  remembrance  that  had  been  recalled  to  me,  was 
in  his  look.  I  asked  him,  terror-stricken,  leaning  on  the 
arm  he  held  out  to  support  me : 

"  Has  a  body  come  ashore  ? " 

He  said,  "Yes." 

"Do  I  know  it?"  I  asked  then. 

He  answered  nothing. 

But,  he  led  me  to  the  shore.  And  on  that  part  of  it 
where  she  and  I  had  looked  for  shells,  two  children — on  that 
part  of  it  where  some  lighter  fragments  of  the  old  boat, 
blown  down  last  night,  had  been  scattered  by  the  wind — - 
among  the  ruins  of  the  home  he  had  wronged — I  saw  him 
lying  with  his  head  upon  his  arm,  as  I  had  often  seen  him 
lie  at  school. 


CHAPTER    LVL 

THE   NEW   WOUND,    AND   THE   OLD. 

No  need,  O  Steerforth,  to  have  said,  when  we  last  spoke 
together,  in  that  hour  which  I  so  little  deemed  to  be  our 
parting-hour — no  need  to  have  said,  "Think  of  me  at  my 
best ! "  I  had  done  that  ever ;  and  could  I  change  now, 
looking  on  this  sight ! 

They  brought  a  hand-bier,  and  laid  him  on  it,  and  covered 
him  with  a  flag,  and  took  him  up  and  bore  him  on  towards 
the  houses.  All  the  men  who  carried  him  had  known  him, 
and  gone  sailing  with  him,  and  seen  him  merry  and  bold. 
They  carried  him  through  the  wild  roar,  a  hush  in  the  midst 
of  all  the  tumult ;  and  took  him  to  the  cottage  where  Death 
was  already. 

But,  when  they  set  the  bier  down  on  the  threshold,  they 
looked  at  one  another,  and  at  me,  and  whispered.  I  knew 
why.  They  felt  as  if  it  were  not  right  to  lay  him  down  in 
the  same  quiet  room. 

We  went  into  the  town,  and  took  our  burden  to  the  inn. 
So  soon  as  I  could  at  all  collect  my  thoughts,  I  sent  for 
Joram,  and  begged  him  to  provide  me  a  conveyance  in  which 
it  could  be  got  to  London  in  the  night.  I  knew  that  the 
care  of  it,  and  the  hard  duty  of  preparing  his  mother  to 
receive  it,  could  only  rest  with  me;  and  I  was  anxious  to 
discharge  that  duty  as  faithfully  as  I  could. 

I  chose  the  night  for  the  journey,  that  there  might  be  less 
curiosity  when  I  left  the  town.  But,  although  it  was  nearly 


436  DAVID  COPPERF1ELD. 

midnight  when  I  came  out  of  the  yard  in  a  chaise,  followed 
by  what  I  had  in  charge,  there  were  many  people  waiting. 
At  intervals,  along  the  town,  and  even  a  little  way  out  upon 
the  road,  I  saw  more;  but  at  length  only  the  bleak  night 
and  the  open  country  were  around  me,  and  the  ashes  of  my 
youthful  friendship. 

Upon  a  mellow  autumn  day,  about  noon,  when  the  ground 
was  perfumed  by  fallen  leaves,  and  many  more,  in  beautiful 
tints  of  yellow,  red,  and  brown,  yet  hung  upon  the  trees, 
through  which  the  sun  was  shining,  I  arrived  at  Highgate. 
I  walked  the  last  mile,  thinking  as  I  went  along  of  what 
I  had  to  do;  and  left  the  carriage  that  had  followed  me 
nil  through  the  night,  awaiting  orders  to  advance. 

The  house,  when  I  came  up  to  it,  looked  just  the  same. 
Not  a  blind  was  raised ;  no  sign  of  life  was  in  the  dull 
paved  court,  with  its  covered  way  leading  to  the  disused 
door.  The  wind  had  quite  gone  down,  and  nothing  moved. 

I  had  not,  at  first,  the  courage  to  ring  at  the  gate ;  and 
when  I  did  ring,  my  errand  seemed  to  me  to  be  expressed 
in  the  very  sound  of  the  bell.  The  little  parlour-maid  came 
out,  with  the  key  in  her  hand  ;  and  looking  earnestly  at  me 
as  she  unlocked  the  gate,  said  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.     Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  much  agitated,  and  am  fatigued." 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  sir  ? — Mr.  James  ? M 

"  Hush  ! "  said  I.  "  Yes,  something  has  happened,  that 
I  have  to  break  to  Mrs.  Steerforth.  She  is  at  home  ?  " 

The  girl  anxiously  replied  that  her  mistress  was  very 
seldom  out  now,  even  in  a  carriage  ;  that  she  kept  her  room  ; 
that  she  saw  no  company,  but  would  see  me.  Her  mistress 
was  up,  she  said,  and  Miss  Dartle  was  with  her.  What 
message  should  she  take  up-stairs  ? 

Giving  her  a  strict  charge  to  be  careful  of  her  manner, 
and  only  to  carry  in  my  card  and  say  I  waited,  I  sat  down 
in  the  drawing-room  (which  we  had  now  reached)  until  she 
should  come  back.  Its  former  pleasant  air  of  occupation  was 


ss 


rriage  ;  that  she  kept  he 
ut   would  sf:e  r:ie.     Her  mist 
< 


['  should  she -lake  np-stairs  ? 

;  j   her  a  strict  charge   to   be  careful   of  her  nift 
Iv  to  carry  in  my  card  and  say   I   waited,  I  §6i 
drawing-nwm  (which  we  had  now  re* 
cuino  back.     Its  former  pleasant  air  of  occupy* 


MISS  DARTLE  TURNS  UPON  HIS  MOTHER.    439 

Now  has  he  made  atonement  to  you with  his  life  !     Do 

you  hear  ? — His  life  ! " 

Mrs.  Steerforth,  fallen  back  stiffly  in  her  chair,  and  making 
no  sound  but  a  moan,  cast  her  eyes  upon  her  with  a  wide 
stare. 

"  Aye ! "  cried  Rosa,  smiting  herself  passionately  on  the 
breast,  "  look  at  me !  Moan,  and  groan,  and  look  at  me ! 
Look  here !  *"  striking  the  scar,  "  at  your  dead  child's 
handiwork  ! " 

The  moan  the  mother  uttered,  from  time  to  time,  went 
to  my  heart.  Always  the  same.  Always  inarticulate  and 
stifled.  Always  accompanied  with  an  incapable  motion  of 
the  head,  but  with  no  change  of  face.  Always  proceeding 
from  a  rigid  mouth  and  closed  teeth,  as  if  the  jaw  were 
locked  and  the  face  frozen  up  in  pain. 

"  Do  you  remember  when  he  did  this  ? "  she  proceeded. 
"  Do  you  remember  when,  in  his  inheritance  of  your  nature, 
and  in  your  pampering  of  his  pride  and  passion,  he  did  this, 
and  disfigured  me  for  life  ?  Look  at  me,  marked  until  I  die 
with  his  high  displeasure ;  and  moan  and  groan  for  what  you 
made  him  ! " 

"  Miss  Dartle,"  I  entreated  her.     "  For  Heaven's  sake " 

"  I  will  speak  !  "  she  said,  turning  on  me  with  her  lightning 
eyes.  "  Be  silent,  you  !  Look  at  me,  I  say,  proud  mother 
of  a  proud  false  son  !  Moan  for  your  nurture  of  him,  moan 
for  your  corruption  of  him,  moan  for  your  loss  of  him,  moan 
for  mine ! " 

She  clenched  her  hand,  and  trembled  through  her  spare 
worn  figure,  as  if  her  passion  were  killing  her  by  inches. 

"  You,  resent  his  self-will !"  she  exclaimed.  "  You,  injured 
by  his  haughty  temper !  You,  who  opposed  to  both,  when 
your  hair  was  grey,  the  qualities  which  made  both  when  you 
gave  him  birth  !  You,  who  from  his  cradle  reared  him  to  be 
what  he  was,  and  stunted  what  he  should  have  been !  Are 
you  rewarded,  now ,  for  your  years  of  trouble  ?  " 
"  Oh  Miss  Dartle,  shame !  Oh  cruel ! " 


440  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 


"  I  tell  you,"  she  returned,  "  I  will  speak  to  her.  No  power 
on  earth  should  stop  me,  while  I  was  standing  here  !  Have  I 
been  silent  all  these  years,  and  shall  I  not  speak  now  ?  I  loved 
him  better  than  you  ever  loved  him  !  "  turning  on  her  fiercely. 
"I  could  have  loved  him,  and  asked  no  return.  If  I  had 
been  his  wife,  I  could  have  been  the  slave  of  his  caprices  for 
a  word  of  love  a-year.  I  should  have  been.  Who  knows  it 
better  than  I  ?  You  were  exacting,  proud,  punctilious,  selfish. 
My  love  would  have  been  devoted  —  would  have  trod  your 
paltry  whimpering  under  foot  !  " 

With  flashing  eyes,  she  stamped  upon  the  ground  as  if  she 
actually  did  it. 

"  Look  here  !  "  she  said,  striking  the  scar  again,  with  a 
relentless  hand.  "  When  he  grew  into  the  better  understand 
ing  of  what  he  had  done,  he  saw  it,  and  repented  of  it  !  I 
could  sing  to  him,  and  talk  to  him,  and  show  the  ardour  that 
I  felt  in  all  he  did,  and  attain  with  labour  to  such  knowledge 
as  most  interested  him;  and  I  attracted  him.  When  he  was 
freshest  and  truest,  he  loved  me.  Yes,  he  did  !  Many  a  time, 
when  you  were  put  off  with  a  slight  word,  he  has  taken  Me 
to  his  heart  !  " 

She  said  it  with  a  taunting  pride  in  the  midst  of  her 
frenzy  —  for  it  was  little  less  —  yet  with  an  eager  remembrance 
of  it,  in  which  the  smouldering  embers  of  a  gentler  feeling 
kindled  for  the  moment. 

"I  descended  —  as  I  might  have  known  I  should,  but  that 
he  fascinated  me  with  his  boyish  courtship  —  into  a  doll,  a 
trifle  for  the  occupation  of  an  idle  hour,  to  be  dropped,  and 
taken  up,  and  trifled  with,  as  the  inconstant  humour  took 
him.  When  he  grew  weary,  I  grew  weary.  As  his  fancy 
died  out,  I  would  no  more  have  tried  to  strengthen  any 
power  I  had,  than  I  would  have  married  him  on  his  being 
forced  to  take  me  for  his  wife.  We  fell  away  from  one 
another  without  a  word.  Perhaps  you  saw  it,  and  were  not 
sorry.  Since  then,  I  have  been  a  mere  disfigured  piece  of 
furniture  between  you  both  ;  having  no  eyes,  no  ears,  no 


MISS  DARTLE  TURNS  UPON   ME.  441 

feelings,  no  remembrances.  Moan  ?  Moan  for  what  you 
made  him  ;  not  for  your  love.  I  tell  you  that  the  time  was, 
when  I  loved  him  better  than  you  ever  did  ! " 

She  stood  with  her  bright  angry  eyes  confronting  the  wide 
stare,  and  the  set  face;  and  softened  no  more,  when  the 
moaning  was  repeated,  than  if  the  face  had  been  a  picture. 

"Miss  Dartle,"  said  I,  "if  you  can  be  so  obdurate  as  not 
to  feel  for  this  afflicted  mother " 

"  Who  feels  for  me  ?  '  she  sharply  retorted.  "  She  has 
sown  this.  Let  her  moan  for  the  harvest  that  she  reaps 
to-day  ! " 

"  And  if  his  faults "  I  began. 

"Faults  !"  she  cried,  bursting  into  passionate  tears.  "  Who 
dares  malign  him  ?  He  had  a  soul  worth  millions  of  the 
friends  to  whom  he  stooped  !  " 

"No  one  can  have  loved  him  better,  no  one  can  hold  him 
in  dearer  remembrance  than  I,"  I  replied.  "  I  meant  to  say, 
if  you  have  no  compassion  for  his  mother ;  or  if  his  faults — 
you  have  been  bitter  on  them " 

"  It's  false,"  she  cried,  tearing  her  black  hair ;  "  I  loved 
him ! " 

"  — if  his  faults  cannot,1'  I  went  on,  "  be  banished  from 
your  remembrance,  in  such  an  hour ;  look  at  that  figure,  even 
as  one  you  have  never  seen  before,  and  render  it  some  help  ! " 

All  this  time,  the  figure  was  unchanged,  and  looked  un 
changeable.  Motionless,  rigid,  staring;  moaning  in  the  same 
dumb  way  from  time  to  time,  with  the  same  helpless  motion 
of  the  head ;  but  giving  no  other  sign  of  life.  Miss  Dartle 
suddenly  kneeled  down  before  it,  and  began  to  loosen  the 
dress. 

"  A  curse  upon  you  ! "  she  said,  looking  round  at  me,  with 
a  mingled  expression  of  rage  and  grief.  "  It  was  in  an  evil 
hour  that  you  ever  came  here  !  A  curse  upon  you  !  Go ! " 

After  passing  out  of  the  room,  I  hurried  back  to  ring  the 
bell,  the  sooner  to  alarm  the  servants.  She  had  then  taken 
the  impassive  figure  in  her  arms,  and,  still  upon  her  knees, 


442  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

was  weeping  over  it,  kissing  it,  calling  to  it,  rocking  it  to 
and  fro  upon  her  bosom  like  a  child,  and  trying  every  tender 
means  to  rouse  the  dormant  senses.  No  longer  afraid  of 
leaving  her,  I  noiselessly  turned  back  again ;  and  alarmed  the 
house  as  I  went  out. 

Later  in  the  day,  I  returned,  and  we  laid  him  in  his 
mother's  room.  She  was  just  the  same,  they  told  me;  Miss 
Dartle  never  left  her;  doctors  were  in  attendance,  many 
things  had  been  tried ;  but  she  lay  like  a  statue,  except  for 
the  low  sound  now  and  then. 

I  went  through  the  dreary  house,  and  darkened  the  windows. 
The  windows  of  the  chamber  where  he  lay,  I  darkened  last. 
I  lifted  up  the  leaden  hand,  and  held  it  to  my  heart;  and 
all  the  world  seemed  death  and  silence,  broken  only  by  his 
mother's  moaning. 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

THE   EMIGRANTS. 

ONE  thing  more,  I  had  to  do,  before  yielding  myself  to  the 
shock  of  these  emotions.  It  was,  to  conceal  what  had  occurred, 
from  those  who  were  going  away;  and  to  dismiss  them  on 
their  voyage  in  happy  ignorance.  In  this,  no  time  was  to 
be  lost. 

I  took  Mr.  Micawber  aside  that  same  night,  and  confided 
to  him  the  task  of  standing  between  Mr.  Peggotty  and  in 
telligence  of  the  late  catastrophe.  He  zealously  undertook 
to  do  so,  and  to  intercept  any  newspaper  through  which  it 
might,  without  such  precautions,  reach  him. 

"  If  it  penetrates  to  him,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  striking 
himself  on  the  breast,  "  it  shall  first  pass  through  this  body !  " 

Mr.  Micawber,  I  must  observe,  in  his  adaptation  of  himself 
to  a  new  state  of  society,  had  acquired  a  bold  buccaneering 
air,  not  absolutely  lawless,  but  defensive  and  prompt.  One 
might  have  supposed  him  a  child  of  the  wilderness,  long  ac 
customed  to  live  out  of  the  confines  of  civilisation,  and  about 
to  return  to  his  native  wilds. 

He  had  provided  himself,  among  other  things,  with  a  com 
plete  suit  of  oil-skin,  and  a  straw  hat  with  a  very  low  crown, 
pitched  or  caulked  on  the  outside.  In  this  rough  clothing, 
with  a  common  mariner's  telescope  under  his  arm,  and  a 
shrewd  trick  of  casting  up  his  eye  at  the  sky  as  looking  out 
for  dirty  weather,  he  was  far  more  nautical,  after  his  manner, 
than  Mr.  Peggotty.  His  whole  family,  if  I  may  so  express  it, 


444  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

were  cleared  for  action.  I  found  Mrs.  Micawber  in  the  closest 
and  most  uncompromising  of  bonnets,  made  fast  under  the 
chin ;  and  in  a  shawl  which  tied  her  up  (as  I  had  been  tied 
up,  when  my  aunt  first  received  me)  like  a  bundle,  and  was 
secured  behind  at  the  waist,  in  a  strong  knot.  Miss  Micawber 
I  found  made  snug  for  stormy  weather,  in  the  same  manner; 
with  nothing  superfluous  about  her.  Master  Micawber  was 
hardly  visible  in  a  Guernsey  shirt,  and  the  shaggiest  suit  of 
slops  I  ever  saw  ;  and  the  children  were  done  up,  like  preserved 
meats,  in  impervious  cases.  Both  Mr.  Micawber  and  his  eldest 
son  wore  their  sleeves  loosely  turned  back  at  the  wrists,  as 
being  ready  to  lend  a  hand  in  any  direction,  and  to  "  tumble 
up,"  or  sing  out,  "  Yeo — Heave — Yeo ! "  on  the  shortest  notice. 

Thus  Traddles  and  I  found  them  at  nightfall,  assembled 
on  the  wooden  steps,  at  that  time  known  as  Hungerford 
Stairs,  watching  the  departure  of  a  boat  with  some  of  their 
property  on  board.  I  had  told  Traddles  of  the  terrible 
event,  and  it  had  greatly  shocked  him ;  but  there  could  be 
no  doubt  of  the  kindness  of  keeping  it  a  secret,  and  he  had 
come  to  help  ,me  in  this  last  service.  It  was  here  that  I 
took  Mr.  Micawber  aside,  and  received  his  promise. 

The  Micawber  family  were  lodged  in  a  little,  dirty,  tumble 
down  public-house,  which  in  those  days  was  close  to  the  stairs, 
and  whose  protruding  wooden  rooms  overhung  the  river. 
The  family,  as  emigrants,  being  objects  of  some  interest  in 
and  about  Hungerford,  attracted  so  many  beholders,  that  we 
were  glad  to  take  refuge  in  their  room.  It  was  one  of  the 
wooden  chambers  up-stairs,  with  the  tide  flowing  underneath. 
My  aunt  and  Agnes  were  there,  busily  making  some  little 
extra  comforts,  in  the  way  of  dress,  for  the  children. 
Peggotty  was  quietly  assisting,  with  the  old  insensible  work- 
box,  yard  measure,  and  bit  of  wax  candle  before  her,  that 
had  now  outlived  so  much. 

It  was  not  easy  to  answer  her  inquiries ;  still  less  to  whisper 
Mr.  Peggotty,  when  Mr.  Micawber  brought  him  in,  that  I 
had  given  the  letter,  and  all  was  well.  But  I  did  both,  and 


THE  EMIGRANTS'  LAST   DAY  ON   SHORE.    445 

made  them  happy.     If  I  showed  any  trace  of  what  I  felt,  my 
own  sorrows  were  sufficient  to  account  for  it. 

"And  when  does  the  ship  sail,  Mr.  Micawber?"  asked  my 
aunt. 

Mr.  Micawber  considered  it  necessary  to  prepare  either  my 
aunt  or  his  wife,  by  degrees,  and  said,  sooner  than  he  had 
expected  yesterday. 

"  The  boat  brought  you  word,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  my  aunt. 

"It  did,  ma'am,"  he  returned. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  my  aunt.     "  And  she  sails —  " 

"  Madam,1'  he  replied,  "  I  am  informed  that  we  must  posi 
tively  be  on  board  before  seven  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Heyday  ! "  said  my  aunt,  "  that's  soon.  Is  it  a  sea-going 
fact,  Mr.  Peggotty  ?  " 

"'Tis  so,  ma'am.  She'll  drop  down  the  river  with  that 
theer  tide.  If  Mas'r  Davy  and  my  sister  comes  aboard  at 
Gravesen',  arternoon  o'  next  day,  they'll  see  the  last  on  us." 

"  And  that  we  shall  do,"  said  I,  "  be  sure !  " 

"  Until  then,  and  until  we  are  at  sea,"  observed  Mr.  Micaw 
ber,  with  a  glance  of  intelligence  at  me,  "  Mr.  Peggotty  and 
myself  will  constantly  keep  a  double  look-out  together,  on 
our  goods  and  chattels.  Emma,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
clearing  his  throat  in  his  magnificent  way,  "my  friend  Mr. 
Thomas  Traddles  is  so  obliging  as  to  solicit,  in  my  ear,  that 
he  should  have  the  privilege  of  ordering  the  ingredients 
necessary  to  the  composition  of  a  moderate  portion  of  that 
Beverage  which  is  peculiarly  associated,  in  our  minds,  with 
the  Roast  Beef  of  Old  England.  I  allude  to— in  short, 
Punch.  Under  ordinary  circumstances,  I  should  scruple  to 
entreat  the  indulgence  of  Miss  Trotwood  and  Miss  Wickfield, 
but—" 

"I  can  only  say  for  myself,"  said  my  aunt,  "that  I  will 
drink  all  happiness  and  success  to  you,  Mr.  Micawber,  with 
the  utmost  pleasure." 

"  And  I  too  1 "  said  Agnes,  with  a  smile. 

Mr.  Micawber  immediately  descended  to  the  bar,  where  he 


446  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

appeared  to  be  quite  at  home;  and  in  due  time  returned 
with  a  steaming  jug.  I  could  not  but  observe  that  he  had 
been  peeling  the  lemons  with  his  own  clasp-knife,  which,  as 
became  the  knife  of  a  practical  settler,  was  about  a  foot  long ; 
and  which  he  wiped,  not  wholly  without  ostentation,  on  the 
sleeve  of  his  coat.  Mrs.  Micawber  and  the  two  elder  members 
of  the  family  I  now  found  to  be  provided  with  similar  formid 
able  instruments,  while  every  child  had  its  own  wooden  spoon 
attached  to  its  body  by  a  strong  line.  In  a  similar  anticipa 
tion  of  life  afloat,  and  in  the  Bush,  Mr.  Micawber,  instead 
of  helping  Mrs.  Micawber  and  his  eldest  son  and  daughter 
to  punch,  in  wine-glasses,  which  he  might  easily  have  done, 
for  there  was  a  shelf-full  in  the  room,  served  it  out  to  them 
in  a  series  of  villainous  little  tin  pots ;  and  I  never  saw  him 
enjoy  anything  so  much  as  drinking  out  of  his  own  par 
ticular  pint  pot,  and  putting  it  in  his  pocket  at  the  close 
of  the  evening. 

"The  luxuries  of  the  old  country,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
with  an  intense  satisfaction  in  their  renouncement,  "we 
abandon.  The  denizens  of  the  forest  cannot,  of  course, 
expect  to  participate  in  the  refinements  of  the  land  of  the 
Free." 

Here,  a  boy  came  in  to  say  that  Mr.  Micawber  was  wanted 
down-stairs. 

"  I  have  a  presentiment,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  setting  down 
her  tin  pot,  "  that  it  is  a  member  of  my  family  ! " 

"If  so,  my  dear,"  observed  Mr.  Micawber,  Avith  his  usual 
suddenness  of  warmth  on  that  subject,  "as  the  member  of 
your  family — whoever  he,  she,  or  it,  may  be — has  kept  us 
waiting  for  a  considerable  period,  perhaps  the  Member  may 
now  wait  my  convenience." 

"Micawber,"  said  his  wife,  in  a  low  tone,  "at  such  a  time 
as  this—  " 

" '  It  is  not  meet,' "  said  Mr.  Micawber,  rising,  " '  that  every 
nice  offence  should  bear  its  comment ! '  Emma,  I  stand 
reproved/' 


MR.  MICAWBER  ARRESTED   AGAIN.        447 

"The  loss,  Micawber,"  observed  his  wife,  "has  been  my 
family's,  not  yours.  If  my  family  are  at  length  sensible  of 
the  deprivation  to  which  their  own  conduct  has,  in  the  past, 
exposed  them,  and  now  desire  to  extend  the  hand  of  fellow 
ship,  let  it  not  be  repulsed/1 

"  My  dear,"  he  returned,  "  so  be  it ! " 

"  If  not  for  their  sakes ;  for  mine,  Micawber,"  said  his  wife. 

"  Emma,"  he  returned,  "  that  view  of  the  question  is,  at 
such  a  moment,  irresistible.  I  cannot,  even  now,  distinctly 
pledge  myself  to  fall  upon  your  family's  neck  ;  but  the  member 
of  your  family,  who  is  now  in  attendance,  shall  have  no  genial 
warmth  frozen  by  me." 

Mr.  Micawber  withdrew,  and  was  absent  some  little  time ; 
in  the  course  of  which  Mrs.  Micawber  was  not  wholly  free 
from  an  apprehension  that  words  might  have  arisen  between 
him  and  the  Member.  At  length  the  same  boy  re-appeared, 
and  presented  me  with  a  note  written  in  pencil,  and  headed, 
in  a  legal  manner,  "  Heep  v.  Micawber."  From  this  document, 
I  learned  that  Mr.  Micawber  being  again  arrested,  was  in  a 
final  paroxysm  of  despair;  and  that  he  begged  me  to  send 
him  his  knife  and  pint  pot,  by  bearer,  as  they  might  prove 
serviceable  during  the  brief  remainder  of  his  existence  in  jail. 
He  also  requested,  as  a  last  act  of  friendship,  that  I  would 
see  his  family  to  the  Parish  Workhouse,  and  forget  that  such 
a  Being  ever  lived. 

Of  course  I  answered  this  note  by  going  down  with  the  boy 
to  pay  the  money,  where  I  found  Mr.  Micawber  sitting  in  a 
corner,  looking  darkly  at  the  Sheriff's  Officer  who  had  effected 
the  capture.  On  his  release,  he  embraced  me  with  the  utmost 
fervour ;  and  made  an  entry  of  the  transaction  in  his  pocket- 
book — being  very  particular,  I  recollect,  about  a  halfpenny  I 
inadvertently  omitted  from  my  statement  of  the  total. 

This  momentous  pocket-book  was  a  timely  reminder  to 
him  of  another  transaction.  On  our  return  to  the  room  up 
stairs  (where  he  accounted  for  his  absence  by  saying  that  it 
had  been  occasioned  by  circumstances  over  which  he  had  no 


448  DAVID    COPPERFIELD. 

control),  he  took  out  of  it  a  large  sheet  of  paper,  folded  small, 
and  quite  covered  with  long  sums,  carefully  worked.  From 
the  glimpse  I  had  of  them,  I  should  say  that  I  never  saw 
such  sums  out  of  a  school  ciphering-book.  These,  it  seemed, 
were  calculations  of  compound  interest  on  what  he  called 
"  the  principal  amount  of  forty-one,  ten,  eleven  and  a  half," 
for  various  periods.  After  a  careful  consideration  of  these, 
and  an  elaborate  estimate  of  his  resources,  he  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  to  select  that  sum  which  represented  the  amount 
with  compound  interest  to  two  years,  fifteen  calendar  months, 
and  fourteen  days,  from  that  date.  For  this  he  had  drawn 
a  note-of-hand  with  great  neatness,  which  he  handed  over  to 
Traddles  on  the  spot,  a  discharge  of  his  debt  in  full  (as 
between  man  and  man),  with  many  acknowledgments. 

"  I  have  still  a  presentiment,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  pensively 
shaking  her  head,  "that  my  family  will  appear  on  board, 
before  we  finally  depart." 

Mr.  Micawber  evidently  had  his  presentiment  on  the  subject 
too,  but  he  put  it  in  his  tin  pot  and  swallowed  it. 

"If  you  have  any  opportunity  of  sending  letters  home,  on 
your  passage,  Mrs.  Micawber,"  said  my  aunt,  "you  must  let 
us  hear  from  you,  you  know." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Trotwood,"  she  replied,  "  I  shall  only  be 
too  happy  to  think  that  any  one  expects  to  hear  from  us.  I 
shall  not  fail  to  correspond.  Mr.  Copperfield,  I  trust,  as  an 
old  and  familiar  friend,  will  not  object  to  receive  occasional 
intelligence,  himself,  from  one  who  knew  him  when  the  twins 
were  yet  unconscious  ?  " 

I  said  that  I  should  hope  to  hear,  whenever  she  had  an 
opportunity  of  writing. 

"Please  Heaven,  there  will  be  many  such  opportunities," 
said  Mr.  Micawber.  "  The  ocean,  in  these  times,  is  a  perfect 
fleet  of  ships ;  and  we  can  hardly  fail  to  encounter  many,  in 
running  over.  It  is  merely  crossing,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
trifling  with  his  eye-glass,  "merely  crossing.  The  distance 
is  quite  imaginary." 


A  MERE  QUESTION  OF  CROSSING.          449 

I  think,  now,  how  odd  it  was,  but  how  wonderfully  like 
Mr.  Micawber,  that,  when  he  went  from  London  to  Canter 
bury,  he  should  have  talked  as  if  he  were  going  to  the  farthest 
limits  of  the  earth;  and,  when  he  went  from  England  to 
Australia,  as  if  he  were  going  for  a  little  trip  across  the 
channel. 

"On  the  voyage,  I  shall  endeavour,"  said  Mr.  Micawber, 
"  occasionally  to  spin  them  a  yarn ;  and  the  melody  of  my 
son  Wilkins  will,  I  trust,  be  acceptable  at  the  galley -fire. 
When  Mrs.  Micawber  has  her  sea-legs  on — an  expression  in 
which  I  hope  there  is  no  conventional  impropriety — she  will 
give  them,  I  dare  say,  Little  Tafflin.  Porpoises  and  dolphins, 
I  believe,  will  be  frequently  observed  athwart  our  Bows,  and, 
either  on  the  Starboard  or  the  Larboard  Quarter,  objects  of 
interest  will  be  continually  descried.  In  short,"  said  Mr. 
Micawber,  with  the  old  genteel  air,  "the  probability  is,  all 
will  be  found  so  exciting,  alow  and  aloft,  that  when  the 
look-out,  stationed  in  the  main-top,  cries  Land-oh !  we  shall 
be  very  considerably  astonished  ! " 

With  that  he  flourished  off  the  contents  of  his  little  tin 
pot,  as  if  he  had  made  the  voyage,  and  had  passed  a  first- 
class  examination  before  the  highest  naval  authorities. 

"What  /  chiefly  hope,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said 
Mrs.  Micawber,  "  is,  that  in  some  branches  of  our  family  we 
may  live  again  in  the  old  country.  Do  not  frown,  Micawber ! 
I  do  not  now  refer  to  my  own  family,  but  to  our  children's 
children.  However  vigorous  the  sapling,"  said  Mrs.  Micaw 
ber,  shaking  her  head,  "  I  cannot  forget  the  parent-tree ;  and 
when  our  race  attains  to  eminence  and  fortune,  I  own  I  should 
wish  that  fortune  to  flow  into  the  coffers  of  Britannia." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Micawber,  "  Britannia  must  take 
her  chance.  I  am  bound  to  say  that  she  has  never  done 
much  for  me,  and  that  I  have  no  particular  wish  upon  the 
subject." 

"  Micawber,"  returned  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  there  you  are 
wrong.  You  are  going  out,  Micawber,  to  this  distant  clime, 

VOL.    II.  %  G 


450  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

to  strengthen,  not  to  weaken,  the  connexion  between  yourself 
and  Albion." 

"The  connexion  in  question,  my  love,"  rejoined  Mr.  Micaw- 
ber,  "has  not  laid  me,  I  repeat,  under  that  load  of  personal 
obligation,  that  I  am  at  all  sensitive  as  to  the  formation  of 
another  connexion." 

"  Micawber,"  returned  Mrs.  Micawber,  "  there,  I  again  say, 
you  are  wrong.  You  do  not  know  your  power,  Micawber. 
It  is  that  which  will  strengthen,  even  in  this  step  you 
are  about  to  take,  the  connexion  between  yourself  and 
Albion." 

Mr.  Micawber  sat  in  his  elbow-chair,  with  his  eyebrows 
raised;  half  receiving  and  half  repudiating  Mrs.  Micawber's 
views  as  they  were  stated,  but  very  sensible  of  their  foresight. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "I  wish 
Mr.  Micawber  to  feel  his  position.  It  appears  to  me  highly 
important  that  Mr.  Micawber  should,  from  the  hour  of  his 
embarkation,  feel  his  position.  Your  old  knowledge  of  me, 
my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  will  have  told  you  that  I  have  not 
the  sanguine  disposition  of  Mr.  Micawber.  My  disposition 
is,  if  I  may  say  so,  eminently  practical.  I  know  that  this  is 
a  long  voyage.  I  know  that  it  will  involve  many  privations 
and  inconveniences.  I  cannot  shut  my  eyes  to  those  facts. 
But,  I  also  know  what  Mr.  Micawber  is.  I  know  the  latent 
power  of  Mr.  Micawber.  And  therefore  I  consider  it  vitally 
important  that  Mr.  Micawber  should  feel  his  position." 

"  My  love,"  he  observed,  "  perhaps  you  will  allow  me  to 
remark  that  it  is  barely  possible  that  I  do  feel  my  position  at 
the  present  moment."  , 

"I  think  not,  Micawber,"  she  rejoined.  "Not  fully.  My 
dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  Mr.  Micawber's  is  not  a  common  case. 
Mr.  Micawber  is  going  to  a  distant  country  expressly  in 
order  that  he  may  be  fully  understood  and  appreciated  for 
the  first  time.  I  wish  Mr.  Micawber  to  take  his  stand  upon 
that  vessel's  prow,  and  firmly  say,  'This  country  I  am  come 
to  conquer !  Have  you  honours  ?  Have  you  riches  ?  Have 


MRS.   MICAWBEITS  ANTICIPATIONS.         451 

you  posts  of  profitable  pecuniary  emolument  ?     Let  them  be 
brought  forward.     They  are  mine  ! ' ' 

Mr.  Micawber,  glancing  at  us  all,  seemed  to  think  there 
was  a  good  deal  in  this  idea. 

"  I  wish  Mr.  Micawber,  if  I  make  myself  understood,"  said 
Mrs.  Micawber,  in  her  argumentative  tone,  "to  be  the  Caesar 
of  his  own  fortunes.  That,  my  dear  Mr.  Copperfield,  appears 
to  me  to  be  his  true  position.  From  the  first  moment  of 
this  voyage,  I  wish  Mr.  Micawber  to  stand  upon  that  vessel's 
prow  and  say,  '  Enough  of  delay :  enough  of  disap 
pointment  :  enough  of  limited  means.  That  was  in  the  old 
country.  This  is  the  new.  Produce  your  reparation.  Bring 
it  forward!'" 

Mr.  Micawber  folded  his  arms  in  a  resolute  manner,  as  if 
he  were  then  stationed  on  the  figure-head. 

"And  doing  that,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  " — feeling  his 
position — am  I  not  right  in  saying  that  Mr.  Micawber  will 
strengthen,  and  not  weaken,  his  connexion  with  Britain? 
An  important  public  character  arising  in  that  hemisphere, 
shall  I  be  told  that  its  influence  will  not  be  felt  at  home  ? 
Can  I  be  so  weak  as  to  imagine  that  Mr.  Micawber,  wielding 
the  rod  of  talent  and  of  power  in  Australia,  will  be  nothing 
in  England  ?  I  am  but  a  woman ;  but  I  should  be  unworthy 
of  myself,  and  of  my  papa,  if  I  were  guilty  of  such  absurd 
weakness." 

Mrs.  Micawber's  conviction  that  her  arguments  were  un 
answerable,  gave  a  moral  elevation  to  her  tone  which  I  think 
I  had  never  heard  in  it  before. 

"And  therefore  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Micawber,  "that  I  the 
more  wish,  that,  at  a  future  period,  we  may  live  again  on 
the  parent  soil.  Mr.  Micawber  may  be — I  cannot  disguise 
from  myself  that  the  probability  is,  Mr.  Micawber  will  be 
— a  page  of  History;  and  he  ought  then  to  be  represented 
in  the  country  which  gave  him  birth,  and  did  not  give  him 
employment ! " 

"  My  love,"  observed  Mr.  Micawber,  "  it  is  impossible  for 


452  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

me  not  to  be  touched  by  your  affection.  I  am  always 
willing  to  defer  to  your  good  sense.  What  will  be — will  be. 
Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  grudge  my  native  country  any 
portion  of  the  wealth  that  may  be  accumulated  by  our 
descendants ! " 

"  That's  well,"  said  my  aunt,  nodding  towards  Mr.  Peggotty, 
"  and  I  drink  my  love  to  you  all,  and  every  blessing  and 
success  attend  you  !  " 

Mr.  Peggotty  put  down  the  two  children  he  had  been 
nursing,  one  on  each  knee,  to  join  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Micawber 
in  drinking  to  all  of  us  in  return  ;  and  when  he  and  the 
Micawbers  cordially  shook  hands  as  comrades,  and  his  brown 
face  brightened  with  a  smile,  I  felt  that  he  would  make  his 
way,  establish  a  good  name,  and  be  beloved,  go  where  he 
would. 

Even  the  children  were  instructed,  each  to  dip  a  wooden 
spoon  into  Mr.  Micawbers  pot,  and  pledge  us  in  its  contents. 
When  this  was  done,  my  aunt  and  Agnes  rose,  and  parted 
from  the  emigrants.  It  was  a  sorrowful  farewell.  They 
were  all  crying;  the  children  hung  about  Agnes  to  the  last; 
and  we  left  poor  Mrs.  Micawber  in  a  very  distressed  con 
dition,  sobbing  and  weeping  by  a  dim  candle,  that  must 
have  made  the  room  look,  from  the  river,  like  a  miserable 
lighthouse. 

I  went  down  again  next  morning  to  see  that  they  were 
away.  They  had  departed,  in  a  boat,  as  early  as  five  o'clock. 
It  was  a  wonderful  instance  to  me  of  the  gap  such  partings 
make,  that  although  my  association  of  them  with  the  tumble 
down  public-house  and  the  wooden  stairs  dated  only  from 
last  night,  both  seemed  dreary  and  deserted,  now  that  they 
were  gone. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  my  old  nurse  and  I  went 
down  to  Gravesend.  We  found  the  ship  in  the  river, 
surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  boats ;  a  favourable  wind  blowing ; 
the  signal  for  sailing  at  her  mast  head.  I  hired  a  boat 
directly,  and  we  put  off  to  her;  and  getting  through  the 


OFF  GRAVESEND,   OUTWARD   BOUND.      453 

little  vortex  of  confusion  of  which  she  was  the  centre,  went 
on  board. 

Mr.  Peggotty  was  waiting  for  us  on  deck.  He  told  me 
that  Mr.  Micawber  had  just  now  been  arrested  again  (and 
for  the  last  time)  at  the  suit  of  Keep,  and  that,  in  com 
pliance  with  a  request  I  had  made  to  him,  he  had  paid  the 
money  :  which  I  repaid  him.  He  then  took  us  down  between 
decks ;  and  there,  any  lingering  fears  I  had  of  his  having 
heard  any  rumours  of  what  had  happened,  were  dispelled  by 
Mr.  Micawber's  coming  out  of  the  gloom,  taking  his  arm 
with  an  air  of  friendship  and  protection,  and  telling  me 
that  they  had  scarcely  been  asunder  for  a  moment,  since  the 
night  before  last. 

It  was  such  a  strange  scene  to  me,  and  so  confined  and 
dark,  that,  at  first,  I  could  make  out  hardly  anything ;  but, 
by  degrees,  it  cleared,  as  my  eyes  became  more  accustomed 
to  the  gloom,  and  I  seemed  to  stand  in  a  picture  by  OSTADE. 
Among  the  great  beams,  bulks,  and  ringbolts  of  the  ship, 
and  the  emigrant-berths,  and  chests,  and  bundles,  and  barrels, 
and  heaps  of  miscellaneous  baggage — lighted  up,  here  and 
there,  by  dangling  lanterns ;  and  elsewhere  by  the  yellow 
daylight  straying  down  a  windsail  or  a  hatchway — were 
crowded  groups  of  people,  making  new  friendships,  taking 
leave  of  one  another,  talking,  laughing,  crying,  eating  and 
drinking ;  some,  already  settled  down  into  the  possession  of 
their  few  feet  of  space,  with  their  little  households  arranged, 
and  tiny  children  established  on  stools,  or  in  dwarf  elbow- 
chairs;  others,  despairing  of  a  resting-place,  and  wandering 
disconsolately.  From  babies  who  had  but  a  week  or  two  of 
life  behind  them,  to  crooked  old  men  and  women  who  seemed 
to  have  but  a  week  or  two  of  life  before  them ;  and  from 
ploughmen  bodily  carrying  out  soil  of  England  on  their 
boots,  to  smiths  taking  away  samples  of  its  soot  and  smoke 
upon  their  skins;  every  age  and  occupation  appeared  to  be 
crammed  into  the  narrow  compass  of  the  'tween  decks. 

As   my   eye   glanced   round   this   place,   I   thought   I  saw 


454  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

sitting,  by  an  open  port,  with  one  of  the  Micawber  children 
near  her,  a  figure  like  Emily's  ;  it  first  attracted  my  attention, 
by  another  figure  parting  from  it  with  a  kiss ;  and  as  it 
glided  calmly  away  through  the  disorder,  reminding  me  of — 
Agnes !  But  in  the  rapid  motion  and  confusion,  and  in  the 
unsettlement  of  my  own  thoughts,  I  lost  it  again;  and  only 
knew  that  the  time  was  come  when  all  visitors  were  being 
warned  to  leave  the  ship;  that  my  nurse  was  crying  on  a 
chest  beside  me ;  and  that  Mrs.  Gummidge,  assisted  by  some 
younger  stooping  woman  in  black,  was  busily  arranging  Mr. 
Peggotty's  goods. 

"Is  there  any  last  wured,  MasY  Davy?"  said  he.  "Is 
there  any  one  forgotten  thing  afore  we  parts  ? " 

"  One  thing  !  "  said  I.     "  Martha !  " 

He  touched  the  younger  woman  I  have  mentioned  on  the 
shoulder,  and  Martha  stood  before  me. 

"  Heaven  bless  you,  you  good  man  ! "  cried  I.  "  You  take 
her  with  you  !  " 

She  answered  for  him,  with  a  burst  of  tears.  I  could  speak 
no  more,  at  that  time,  but  I  wrung  his  hand ;  and  if  ever  I 
have  loved  and  honoured  any  man,  I  loved  and  honoured 
that  man  in  my  soul. 

The  ship  was  clearing  fast  of  strangers.  The  greatest  trial 
that  I  had,  remained.  I  told  him  what  the  noble  spirit  that 
was  gone,  had  given  me  in  charge  to  say  at  parting.  It 
moved  him  deeply.  But  when  he  charged  me,  in  return, 
with  many  messages  of  affection  and  regret  for  those  deaf 
ears,  he  moved  me  more. 

The  time  was  come.  I  embraced  him,  took  my  weeping 
nurse  upon  my  arm,  and  hurried  away.  On  deck,  I  took 
leave  of  poor  Mrs.  Micawber.  She  was  looking  distractedly 
about  for  her  family,  even  then ;  and  her  last  words  to  me 
were,  that  she  never  would  desert  Mr.  Micawber. 

We  went  over  the  side  into  our  boat,  and  lay  at  a  little 
distance  to  see  the  ship  wafted  on  her  course.  It  was  then 
calm,  radiant  sunset.  She  lay  between  us,  and  the  red  light ; 


WIELD. 


KT 

»•  attention. 

mil    as   it 


•':-,;      It 

-.-:(!    cwvph.       Bur    wh.vfi    h-.     .-^5-..r-;oti    ui^,   in   return, 
fti.-tnv    i/i^-is.^vf-.    o*'   ;ut:-<'t;<>n   avi.i    roifivl   tor  those  deaf 

-   tii^x-   \vas  <;oriic.     I  eushi'aced  him,  took  my  weeping 
-upon   nnf  ami,  aiul   hurried  away.     On   iieck5  1   took 
of  poor  Mrs.  Micavber,     Site  was  looking  distractedly 
for  her  family,  even  then ;   and  her   last  words  I 
that'  she  never  would  desert  Mr.  Micawber. 
We  went  over  the  side  into  our  boat,  and  ; 
istance  to  *ee  the  ship  wafted  on  her  course.     t\ 
ftlni.  radiant  sunset.     8hc  ij.iv  bt-twet  :• 


A  HEAVY   CLOUD  IS   ON  ME.  457 

stormy  sea;  and  for  the  wandering  remnants  of  the  simple 
home,  where  I  had  heard  the  night-wind  blowing,  when  I 
was  a  child. 

From  the  accumulated  sadness  into  which  I  fell,  I  had  at 
length  no  hope  of  ever  issuing  again.  I  roamed  from  place 
to  place,  carrying  my  burden  with  me  everywhere.  I  felt 
its  whole  weight  now  ;  and  I  drooped  beneath  it,  and  I  said 
in  my  heart  that  it  could  never  be  lightened. 

When  this  despondency  was  at  its  worst,  I  believed  that 
I  should  die.  Sometimes,  I  thought  that  I  would  like  to 
die  at  home ;  and  actually  turned  back  on  my  road,  that  I 
might  get  there  soon.  At  other  times,  I  passed  on  farther 
away,  from  city  to  city,  seeking  I  know  not  what,  and  trying 
to  leave  I  know  not  what  behind. 

It  is  not  in  my  power  to  retrace,  one  by  one,  all  the  weary 
phases  of  distress  of  mind  through  which  I  passed.  There 
are  some  dreams  that  can  only  be  imperfectly  and  vaguely 
described ;  and  when  I  oblige  myself  to  look  back  on  this 
time  of  my  life,  I  seem  to  be  recalling  such  a  dream.  I  see 
myself  passing  on  among  the  novelties  of  foreign  towns, 
palaces,  cathedrals,  temples,  pictures,  castles,  tombs,  fantastic 
streets — the  old  abiding  places  of  History  and  Fancy — as  a 
dreamer  might;  bearing  my  painful  load  through  all,  and 
hardly  conscious  of  the  objects  as  they  fade  before  me. 
Listlessness  to  everything,  but  brooding  sorrow,  was  the 
night  that  fell  on  my  undisciplined  heart.  Let  me  look  up 
from  it — as  at  last  I  did,  thank  Heaven ! — and  from  its 
long,  sad,  wretched  dream,  to  dawn. 

For  many  months  I  travelled  with  this  ever-darkening 
cloud  upon  my  mind.  Some  blind  reasons  that  I  had  for  not 
returning  home — reasons  then  struggling  within  me,  vainly, 
for  more  distinct  expression — kept  me  on  my  pilgrimage. 
Sometimes,  I  had  proceeded  restlessly  from  place  to  place, 
stopping  nowhere ;  sometimes,  I  had  lingered  long  in  one 
spot.  I  had  had  no  purpose,  no  sustaining  soul  within  me, 
anywhere. 


458  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

I  was  in  Switzerland.  I  had  come  out  of  Italy,  over  one 
of  the  great  passes  of  the  Alps,  and  had  since  wandered 
with  a  guide  among  the  by-ways  of  the  mountains.  If  those 
awful  solitudes  had  spoken  to  my  heart,  I  did  not  know  it. 
I  had  found  sublimity  and  wonder  in  the  dread  heights  and 
precipices,  in  the  roaring  torrents,  and  the  wastes  of  ice  and 
snow ;  but  as  yet,  they  had  taught  me  nothing  else. 

I  came,  one  evening  before  sunset,  down  into  a  valley, 
where  I  was  to  rest.  In  the  course  of  my  descent  to  it,  by 
the  winding  track  along  the  mountain-side,  from  which  I 
saw  it  shining  far  below,  I  think  some  long-unwonted  sense 
of  beauty  and  tranquillity,  some  softening  influence  awakened 
by  its  peace,  moved  faintly  in  my  breast.  I  remember  pausing 
once,  with  a  kind  of  sorrow  that  was  not  all  oppressive,  not 
quite  despairing.  I  remember  almost  hoping  that  some  better 
change  was  possible  within  me. 

I  came  into  the  valley,  as  the  evening  sun  was  shining  on 
the  remote  heights  of  snow,  that  closed  it  in,  like  eternal 
clouds.  The  bases  of  the  mountains  forming  the  gorge  in 
which  the  little  village  lay,  were  richly  green  ;  and  high  above 
this  gentler  vegetation,  grew  forests  of  dark  fir,  cleaving  the 
wintry  snow-drift,  wedge-like,  and  stemming  the  avalanche. 
Above  these,  were  range  upon  range  of  craggy  steeps,  grey 
rock,  bright  ice,  and  smooth  verdure-specks  of  pasture,  all 
gradually  blending  with  the  crowning  snow.  Dotted  here 
and  there  on  the  mountain's  side,  each  tiny  dot  a  home,  were 
lonely  wooden  cottages,  so  dwarfed  by  the  towering  heights 
that  they  appeared  too  small  for  toys.  So  did  even  the 
clustered  village  in  the  valley,  with  its  wooden  bridge  across 
the  stream,  where  the  stream  tumbled  over  broken  rocks,  and 
roared  away  among  the  trees.  In  the  quiet  air,  there  was  a 
sound  of  distant  singing — shepherd  voices  ;  but,  as  one  bright 
evening  cloud  floated  midway  along  the  mountain's  side,  I 
could  almost  have  believed  it  came  from  there,  and  was  not 
earthly  music.  All  at  once,  in  this  serenity,  great  Nature 
spoke  to  me ;  and  soothed  me  to  lay  down  my  weary  head 


A  LETTER  FROM  AGNES  459 

upon  the  grass,  and  weep  as  I  had  not  wept  yet,  since  Dora 
died! 

I  had  found  a  packet  of  letters  awaiting  me  but  a  few 
minutes  before,  and  had  strolled  out  of  the  village  to  read 
them  while  my  supper  was  making  ready.  Other  packets 
had  missed  me,  and  I  had  received  none  for  a  long  time. 
Beyond  a  line  or  two,  to  say  that  I  was  well,  and  had  arrived 
at  such  a  place,  I  had  not  had  fortitude  or  constancy  to 
write  a  letter  since  I  left  home. 

The  packet  was  in  my  hand.  I  opened  it,  and  read  the 
writing  of  Agnes. 

She  was  happy  and  useful,  was  prospering  as  she  had 
hoped.  That  was  all  she  told  me  of  herself.  The  rest 
referred  to  me. 

She  gave  me  no  advice ;  she  urged  no  duty  on  me  ;  she 
only  told  me,  in  her  own  fervent  manner,  what  her  trust  in 
me  was.  She  knew  (she  said)  how  such  a  nature  as  mine 
would  turn  affliction  to  good.  She  knew  how  trial  and 
emotion  would  exalt  and  strengthen  it.  She  was  sure  that 
in  my  every  purpose  I  should  gain  a  firmer  and  a  higher 
tendency,  through  the  grief  I  had  undergone.  She,  who  so 
gloried  in  my  fame,  and  so  looked  forward  to  its  augmenta 
tion,  well  knew  that  I  would  labour  on.  She  knew  that  in 
me,  sorrow  could  not  be  weakness,  but  must  be  strength.  As 
the  endurance  of  my  childish  days  had  done  its  part  to  make 
me  what  I  was,  so  greater  calamities  would  nerve  me  on,  to 
be  yet  better  than  I  was  ;  and  so,  as  they  had  taught  me, 
would  I  teach  others.  She  commended  me  to  God,  who  had 
taken  my  innocent  darling  to  His  rest ;  and  in  her  sisterly 
affection  cherished  me  always,  and  was  always  at  my  side  go 
where  I  would;  proud  of  what  I  had  done,  but  infinitely 
prouder  yet  of  what  I  was  reserved  to  do. 

I  put  the  letter  in  my  breast,  and  thought  what  had  I 
been  an  hour  ago !  When  I  heard  the  voices  die  away,  and 
saw  the  quiet  evening  cloud  grow  dim,  and  all  the  colours 
in  the  valley  fade,  and  the  golden  snow  upon  the  mountain 


460  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

tops  become  a  remote  part  of  the  pale  night  sky,  yet  felt 
that  the  night  was  passing  from  my  mind,  and  all  its  shadows 
clearing,  there  was  no  name  for  the  love  I  bore  her,  dearer 
to  me,  henceforward,  than  ever  until  then. 

I  read  her  letter,  many  times.  I  wrote  to  her  before  I 
slept.  I  told  her  that  I  had  been  in  sore  need  of  her  help ; 
that  without  her  I  was  not,  and  I  never  had  been,  what  she 
thought  me ;  but,  that  she  inspired  me  to  be  that,  and  I 
would  try. 

I  did  try.  In  three  months  more,  a  year  would  have 
passed  since  the  beginning  of  my  sorrow.  I  determined  to 
make  no  resolutions  until  the  expiration  of  those  three 
months,  but  to  try.  I  lived  in  that  valley,  and  its  neigh 
bourhood,  all  the  time. 

The  three  months  gone,  I  resolved  to  remain  away  from 
home  for  some  time  longer;  to  settle  myself  for  the  present 
in  Switzerland,  which  was  growing  dear  to  me  in  the  re 
membrance  of  that  evening ;  to  resume  my  pen ;  to  work. 

I  resorted  humbly  whither  Agnes  had  commended  me;  I 
sought  out  Nature,  never  sought  in  vain ;  and  I  admitted  to 
my  breast  the  human  interest  I  had  lately  shrunk  from.  It 
was  not  long,  before  I  had  almost  as  many  friends  in  the 
valley  as  in  Yarmouth  :  and  when  I  left  it,  before  the  winter 
set  in,  for  Geneva,  and  came  back  in  the  spring,  their  cordial 
greetings  had  a  homely  sound  to  me,  although  they  were  not 
conveyed  in  English  words. 

I  worked  early  and  late,  patiently  and  hard.  I  wrote  a 
Story,  with  a  purpose  growing,  not  remotely,  out  of  my 
experience,  and  sent  it  to  Traddles,  and  he  arranged  for  its 
publication  very  advantageously  for  me;  and  the  tidings  of 
my  growing  reputation  began  to  reach  me  from  travellers 
whom  I  encountered  by  chance.  After  some  rest  and  change, 
I  fell  to  work,  in  my  old  ardent  way,  on  a  new  fancy,  which 
took  strong  possession  of  me.  As  I  advanced  in  the  execution 
of  this  task,  I  felt  it  more  and  more,  and  roused  my  utmost 
energies  to  do  it  well.  This  was  my  third  work  of  fiction. 


THE  CLOUD   BEGINS  TO  RISE.  461 

It  was  not  half  written,  when,  in  an  interval  of  rest,  I  thought 
of  returning  home. 

For  a  long  time,  though  studying  and  working  patiently, 
I  had  accustomed  myself  to  robust  exercise.  My  health, 
severely  impaired  when  I  left  England,  was  quite  restored. 
I  had  seen  much.  I  had  been  in  many  countries,  and  I  hope 
I  had  improved  my  store  of  knowledge. 

I  have  now  recalled  all  that  I  think  it  needful  to  recall 
here,  of  this  term  of  absence — with  one  reservation.  I  have 
made  it,  thus  far,  with  no  purpose  of  suppressing  any  of  my 
thoughts  ;  for,  as  I  have  elsewhere  said,  this  narrative  is  my 
written  memory.  I  have  desired  to  keep  the  most  secret 
current  of  my  mind  apart,  and  to  the  last.  I  enter  on  it 
now. 

I  cannot  so  completely  penetrate  the  mystery  of  my  own 
heart,  as  to  know  when  I  began  to  think  that  I  might  have 
set  its  earliest  and  brightest  hopes  on  Agnes.  I  cannot  say 
at  what  stage  of  my  grief  it  first  became  associated  with  the 
reflection,  that,  in  my  wayward  boyhood,  I  had  thrown  away 
the  treasure  of  her  love.  I  believe  I  may  have  heard  some 
whisper  of  that  distant  thought,  in  the  old  unhappy  loss  or 
want  of  something  never  to  be  realised,  of  which  I  had  been 
sensible.  But  the  thought  came  into  my  mind  as  a  new 
reproach  and  new  regret,  when  I  was  left  so  sad  and  lonely 
in  the  world. 

If,  at  that  time,  I  had  been  much  with  her,  I  should,  in 
the  weakness  of  my  desolation,  have  betrayed  this.  It  was 
what  I  remotely  dreaded  when  I  was  first  impelled  to  stay 
away  from  England.  I  could  not  have  borne  to  lose  the 
smallest  portion  of  her  sisterly  affection  ;  yet,  in  that  betrayal, 
I  should  have  set  a  constraint  between  us  hitherto  unknown. 

I  could  not  forget  that  the  feeling  with  which  she  now 
regarded  me  had  grown  up  in  my  own  free  choice  and  course. 
That  if  she  had  ever  loved  me  with  another  love — and  I 
sometimes  thought  the  time  was  when  she  might  have  done 
SQ — I  had  cast  it  away.  It  was  nothing,  now,  that  I  had 


462  DAVID  COPPERFIELD, 

accustomed  myself  to  think  of  her,  when  we  were  both  mere 
children,  as  one  who  was  far  removed  from  my  wild  fancies. 
I  had  bestowed  my  passionate  tenderness  upon  another  object ; 
and  what  I  might  have  done,  I  had  not  done ;  and  what 
Agnes  was  to  me,  I  and  her  own  noble  heart  had  made  her. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  change  that  gradually  worked  in 
me,  when  1  tried  to  get  a  better  understanding  of  myself 
and  be  a  better  man,  I  did  glance,  through  some  indefinite 
probation,  to  a  period  when  1  might  possibly  hope  to  cancel 
the  mistaken  past,  and  to  be  so  blessed  as  to  marry  her. 
Hut,  as  time  wore  on,  this  shadowy  prospect  faded,  and 
departed  from  me.  If  she  had  ever  loved  me,  then,  I  should 
hold  her  the  more  sacred,  remembering  the  confidences  I  had 
reposed  in  her,  her  knowledge  of  my  errant  heart,  the  sacrifice 
she  must  have  made  to  be  my  friend  and  sister,  and  the 
victory  she  had  won.  If  she  had  never  loved  me,  could  I 
believe  that  she  would  love  me  now  ? 

I  had  always  felt  my  weakness,  in  comparison  with  her 
constancy  and  fortitude;  and  now  I  felt  it  more  and  more. 
Whatever  I  might  have  been  to  her,  or  she  to  me,  if  I  had 
been  more  worthy  of  her  long  ago,  I  was  riot  now,  and  she 
was  not.  The  time  was  past.  1  had  let  it  go  by,  and  had 
deservedly  lost  her. 

That  I  suffered  much  in  these  contentions,  that  they  filled 
me  with  unhappiness  and  remorse,  and  yet  that  1  had  a 
sustaining  sense  that  it  was  required  of  me,  in  right  and 
honour,  to  keep  away  from  myself,  with  shame,  the  thought 
of  turning  to  the  dear  girl  in  the  withering  of  my  hopes, 
from  whom  I  had  frivolously  turned  when  they  were  bright 
and  fresh — which  consideration  was  at  the  root  of  every 
thought  I  had  concerning  her — is  all  equally  true.  I  made 
no  effort  to  conceal  from  myself,  now,  that  I  loved  her,  that 
I  was  devoted  to  her ;  but  I  brought  the  assurance  home  to 
myself,  that  it  was  now  too  late,  and  that  our  long-subsisting 
relation  must  be  undisturbed. 

I  had  thought,  much  and  often,  of  my  Dora's  shadowing 


I  RETURN  TO  ENGLAND.  463 

out  to  me  what  might  have  happened,  in  those  years  that 
were  destined  not  to  try  us.  I  had  considered  how  the  things 
that  never  happen,  are  often  as  much  realities  to  us,  in  their 
effects,  as  those  that  are  accomplished.  The  very  years  she 
spoke  of,  were  realities  now,  for  my  correction ;  and  would 
have  been,  one  day,  a  little  later  perhaps,  though  we  had 
parted  in  our  earliest  folly.  I  endeavoured  to  convert  what 
might  have  been  between  myself  and  Agnes,  into  a  means  of 
making  me  more  self-denying,  more  resolved,  more  conscious 
of  myself,  and  my  defects  and  errors.  Thus,  through  the 
reflection  that  it  might  have  been,  I  arrived  at  the  conviction 
that  it  could  never  be. 

These,  with  their  perplexities  and  inconsistencies,  were  the 
shifting  quicksands  of  my  mind,  from  the  time  of  my  departure 
to  the  time  of  my  return  home,  three  years  afterwards.  Three 
years  had  elapsed  since  the  sailing  of  the  emigrant  ship; 
when,  at  that  same  hour  of  sunset,  and  in  the  same  place,  I 
stood  on  the  deck  of  the  packet  vessel  that  brought  me  home, 
looking  on  the  rosy  water  where  I  had  seen  the  image  of  that 
ship  reflected. 

Three  years.  Long  in  the  aggregate,  though  short  as 
they  went  by.  And  home  was  very  dear  to  me,  and  Agnes 
too — but  she  was  not  mine — she  was  never  to  be  mine.  She 
might  have  been,  but  that  was  past ! 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

RETURN. 

I  LANDED  in  London  on  a  wintry  autumn  evening.  It  was 
dark  and  raining,  and  I  saw  more  fog  and  mud  in  a  minute 
than  I  had  seen  in  a  year.  I  walked  from  the  Custom  House 
to  the  Monument  before  I  found  a  coach ;  and  although  the 
very  house-fronts,  looking  on  the  swollen  gutters,  were  like 
old  friends  to  me,  I  could  not  but  admit  that  they  were  very 
dingy  friends. 

I  have  often  remarked — I  suppose  everybody  has — that 
one's  going  away  from  a  familiar  place,  would  seem  to  be 
the  signal  for  change  in  it.  As  I  looked  out  of  the  coach- 
window,  and  observed  that  an  old  house  on  Fish-street  Hill, 
which  had  stood  untouched  by  painter,  carpenter,  or  brick 
layer,  for  a  century,  had  been  pulled  down  in  my  absence; 
and  that  a  neighbouring  street,  of  time-honoured  insalubrity 
and  inconvenience,  was  being  drained  and  widened;  I  half 
expected  to  find  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  looking  older. 

For  some  changes  in  the  fortunes  of  my  friends,  I  was 
prepared.  My  aunt  had  long  been  re-established  at  Dover, 
and  Traddles  had  begun  to  get  into  some  little  practice  at 
the  Bar,  in  the  very  first  term  after  my  departure.  He  had 
chambers  in  Gray's  Inn,  now;  and  had  told  me,  in  his  last 
letters,  that  he  was  not  without  hopes  of  being  soon  united 
to  the  dearest  girl  in  the  world. 

They  expected  me  home  before  Christmas  ;  but  had  no  idea 
of  my  returning  so  soon.  I  had  purposely  misled  them,  that 


DEPRESSING  INFLUENCES   OF  BRITANNIA.   465 

I  might  have  the  pleasure  of  taking  them  by  surprise.  And 
yet,  I  was  perverse  enough  to  feel  a  chill  and  disappoint 
ment  in  receiving  no  welcome,  and  rattling,  alone  and  silent, 
through  the  misty  streets. 

The  well-known  shops,  however,  with  their  cheerful  lights, 
did  something  for  me;  and  when  I  alighted  at  the  door  of 
the  Gray's  Inn  Coffee-house,  I  had  recovered  my  spirits.  It 
recalled,  at  first,  that  so-different  time  when  I  had  put  up  at 
the  Golden  Cross,  and  reminded  me  of  the  changes  that  had 
come  to  pass  since  then ;  but  that  was  natural. 

"  Do  you  know  where  Mr.  Traddles  lives  in  the  Inn  ? "  I 
asked  the  waiter,  as  I  warmed  myself  by  the  coffee-room  fire. 

"Holborn  Court,  sir.     Number  two." 

"Mr.  Traddles  has  a  rising  reputation  among  the  lawyers, 
I  believe  ?  "  said  I. 

"Well,  sir,"  returned  the  waiter,  "probably  he  has,  sir; 
but  I  am  not  aware  of  it  myself." 

This  waiter,  who  was  middle-aged  and  spare,  looked  for 
help  to  a  waiter  of  more  authority — a  stout,  potential  old 
man,  with  a  double-chin,  in  black  breeches  and  stockings, 
who  came  out  of  a  place  like  a  churchwarden's  pew,  at  the 
end  of  the  coffee-room,  where  he  kept  company  with  a  cash- 
box,  a  Directory,  a  Law-list,  and  other  books  and  papers. 

"Mr.  Traddles,"  said  the  spare  waiter.  "Number  two  in 
the  Court." 

The  potential  waiter  waved  him  away,  and  turned,  gravely, 
to  me. 

"I  was  inquiring,"  said  I,  "whether  Mr.  Traddles,  at 
number  two  in  the  Court,  has  not  a  rising  reputation  among 
the  lawyers  ? " 

"Never  heard  his  name,"  said  the  waiter,  in  a  rich  husky 
Voice. 

I  felt  quite  apologetic  for  Traddles. 

"He's  a  young  man,  sure?"  said  the  portentous  waiter, 
fixing  his  eyes  severely  on  me.  "How  long  has  he  been  in 
the  Inn?" 

VOL.   II.  2  H 


466  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"Not  above  three  years,""  said  I. 

The  waiter,  who  I  supposed  had  lived  in  his  churchwarden's 
pew  for  forty  years,  could  not  pursue  such  an  insignificant 
subject.  He  asked  me  what  I  would  have  for  dinner? 

I  felt  I  was  in  England  again,  and  really  was  quite  cast 
down  on  Traddles's  account.  There  seemed  to  be  no  hope 
for  him.  I  meekly  ordered  a  bit  of  fish  and  a  steak,  and 
stood  before  the  fire  musing  on  his  obscurity. 

As  I  followed  the  chief  waiter  with  my  eyes,  I  could  not 
help  thinking  that  the  garden  in  which  he  had  gradually 
blown  to  be  the  flower  he  was,  was  an  arduous  place  to  rise 
in.  It  had  such  a  prescriptive,  stiff-necked,  long-established, 
solemn,  elderly  air.  I  glanced  about  the  room,  which  had 
had  its  sanded  floor  sanded,  no  doubt,  in  exactly  the  same 
manner  when  the  chief  waiter  was  a  boy — if  he  ever  was  a 
boy,  which  appeared  improbable;  and  at  the  shining  tables, 
where  I  saw  myself  reflected,  in  unruffled  depths  of  old 
mahogany;  and  at  the  lamps,  without  a  flaw  in  their 
trimming  or  cleaning ;  and  at  the  comfortable  green  curtains, 
with  their  pure  brass  rods,  snugly  enclosing  the  boxes ;  and 
at  the  two  large  coal  fires,  brightly  burning;  and  at  the 
rows  of  decanters,  burly  as  if  with  the  consciousness  of  pipes 
of  expensive  old  port  wine  below;  and  both  England,  and 
the  law,  appeared  to  me  to  be  very  difficult  indeed  to  be 
taken  by  storm.  I  went  up  to  my  bedroom  to  change  my 
wet  clothes;  and  the  vast  extent  of  that  old  wainscotted 
apartment  (which  was  over  the  archway  leading  to  the  Inn, 
I  remember),  and  the  sedate  immensity  of  the  four-post 
bedstead,  and  the  indomitable  gravity  of  the  chests  of 
drawers,  all  seemed  to  unite  in  sternly  frowning  on  the 
fortunes  of  Traddles,  or  on  any  such  daring  youth.  I  came 
down  again  to  my  dinner ;  and  even  the  slow  comfort  of  the 
meal,  and  the  orderly  silence  of  the  place — which  was  bare 
of  guests,  the  Long  Vacation  not  yet  being  over — were 
eloquent  on  the  audacity  of  Traddles,  and  his  small  hopes 
of  a  livelihood  for  twenty  years  to  come. 


AT  TRADDLES'S  CHAMBERS.  467 

I  had  seen  nothing  like  this  since  I  went  away,  and  it 
quite  dashed  my  hopes  for  my  friend.  The  chief  waiter  had 
had  enough  of  me.  He  came  near  me  no  more ;  but  devoted 
himself  to  an  old  gentleman  in  long  gaiters,  to  meet  whom 
a  pint  of  special  port  seemed  to  come  out  of  the  cellar  of 
its  own  accord,  for  he  gave  no  order.  The  second  waiter 
informed  me,  in  a  whisper,  that  this  old  gentleman  was  a 
retired  conveyancer  living  in  the  Square,  and  worth  a  mint 
of  money,  which  it  was  expected  he  would  leave  to  his 
laundress's  daughter;  likewise  that  it  was  rumoured  that  he 
had  a  service  of  plate  in  a  bureau,  all  tarnished  with  lying 
by,  though  more  than  one  spoon  and  a  fork  had  never  yet 
been  beheld  in  his  chambers  by  mortal  vision.  By  this  time, 
I  quite  gave  Traddles  up  for  lost;  and  settled  in  my  own 
mind  that  there  was  no  hope  for  him. 

Being  very  anxious  to  see  the  dear  old  fellow,  nevertheless, 
I  despatched  my  dinner,  in  a  manner  not  at  all  calculated 
to  raise  me  in  the  opinion  of  the  chief  waiter,  and  hurried 
out  by  the  back  way.  Number  two  in  the  Court  was  soon 
reached ;  and  an  inscription  on  the  door-post  informing  me 
that  Mr.  Traddles  occupied  a  set  of  chambers  on  the  top 
story,  I  ascended  the  staircase.  A  crazy  old  staircase  I 
found  it  to  be,  feebly  lighted  on  each  landing  by  a  club- 
headed  little  oil  wick,  dying  away  in  a  little  dungeon  of 
dirty  glass. 

In  the  course  of  my  stumbling  up-stairs,  I  fancied  I  heard 
a  pleasant  sound  of  laughter;  and  not  the  laughter  of  an 
attorney  or  barrister,  or  attorney's  clerk  or  barrister's  clerk, 
but  of  two  or  three  merry  girls.  Happening,  however,  as  I 
stopped  to  listen,  to  put  my  foot  in  a  hole  where  the 
Honourable  Society  of  Gray's  Inn  had  left  a  plank  deficient, 
I  fell  down  with  some  noise,  and  when  I  recovered  my 
footing  all  was  silent. 

Groping  my  way  more  carefully,  for  the  rest  of  the 
journey,  my  heart  beat  high  when  I  found  the  outer  door, 
which  had  MR.  TRADDLES  painted  on  it,  open.  I  knocked. 


468  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

A  considerable  scuffling  within  ensued,  but  nothing  else.     I 
therefore  knocked  again. 

A  small  sharp-looking  lad,  half-footboy  and  half-clerk,  who 
was  very  much  out  of  breath,  but  who  looked  at  me  as  if  he 
defied  me  to  prove  it  legally,  presented  himself. 

"Is  Mr.  Traddles  within?"  I  said. 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  he's  engaged.1' 

"  I  want  to  see  him." 

After  a  moment's  survey  of  me,  the  sharp-looking  lad 
decided  to  let  me  in ;  and  opening  the  door  wider  for  that 
purpose,  admitted  me,  first,  into  a  little  closet  of  a  hall,  and 
next  into  a  little  sitting-room ;  where  I  came  into  the 
presence  of  my  old  friend  (also  out  of  breath),  seated  at  a 
table,  and  bending  over  papers. 

"  Good  God  ! "  cried  Traddles,  looking  up.  "  It's  Copper- 
field  ! "  and  rushed  into  my  arms,  where  I  held  him  tight. 

"All  well,  my  dear  Traddles?" 

"All  well,  my  dear,  dear  Copperfield,  and  nothing  but 
good  news!" 

We  cried  with  pleasure,  both  of  us. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Traddles,  rumpling  his  hair  in  his 
excitement,  which  was  a  most  unnecessary  operation,  "my 
dearest  Copperfield,  my  long-lost  and  most  welcome  friend, 
how  glad  I  am  to  see  you !  How  brown  you  are !  How 
glad  I  am  !  Upon  my  life  and  honour,  I  never  was  so 
rejoiced,  my  beloved  Copperfield,  never!" 

I  was  equally  at  a  loss  to  express  my  emotions.  I  was 
quite  unable  to  speak,  at  first. 

"  My  dear  fellow  !  "  said  Traddles.  "  And  grown  so  famous  ! 
My  glorious  Copperfield !  Good  gracious  me,  when  did  you 
come,  where  have  you  come  from,  what  have  you  been 
doing  ?  " 

Never  pausing  for  an  answer  to  anything  he  said,  Traddles, 
who  had  clapped  me  into  an  easy  chair  by  the  fire,  all  this 
time  impetuously  stirred  the  fire  with  one  hand,  and  pulled 
at  my  neck-kerchief  with  the  other,  under  some  wild  delusion 


A  DELIGHTFUL  RE-UNION.  469 

that  it  was  a  great  coat.  Without  putting  down  the  poker, 
he  now  hugged  me  again ;  and  I  hugged  him ;  and,  both 
laughing,  and  both  wiping  our  eyes,  we  both  sat  down,  and 
shook  hands  across  the  hearth. 

"To  think,11  said  Traddles,  "that  you  should  have  been 
so  nearly  coming  home  as  you  must  have  been,  rny  dear  old 
boy,  and  not  at  the  ceremony ! " 

"  What  ceremony,  my  dear  Traddles  ?  " 

"  Good  gracious  me ! "  cried  Traddles,  opening  his  eyes  in 
his  old  way.  "  Didn't  you  get  my  last  letter  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  if  it  referred  to  any  ceremony." 

"  Why,  my  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Traddles,  sticking  his 
hair  upright  with  both  hands,  and  then  putting  his  hands 
on  my  knees,  "  I  am  married  ! " 

"Married  !  "  I  cried  joyfully. 

"  Lord  bless  me,  yes ! "  said  Traddles — *  by  the  Rev. 
Horace — to  Sophy — down  in  Devonshire.  Why,  my  dear 
boy,  she's  behind  the  window  curtain  !  Look  here  ! " 

To  my  amazement,  the  dearest  girl  in  the  world  came  at 
that  same  instant,  laughing  and  blushing,  from  her  place  of 
concealment.  And  a  more  cheerful,  amiable,  honest,  happy, 
bright-looking  bride,  I  believe  (as  I  could  not  help  saying 
on  the  spot)  the  world  never  saw.  I  kissed  her  as  an  old 
acquaintance  should,  and  wished  them  joy  with  all  my  might 
of  heart. 

"Dear  me,"  said  Traddles,  "what  a  delightful  re-union 
this  is !  You  are  so  extremely  brown,  my  dear  Copper-field ! 
God  bless  my  soul,  how  happy  I  am  ! " 

"  And  so  am  I,"  said  I. 

"  And  I  am  sure  I  am  ! "  said  the  blushing  and  laughing 
Sophy. 

"  We  are  all  as  happy  as  possible  ! "  said  Traddles.  "  Even 
the  girls  are  happy.  Dear  me,  I  declare  I  forgot  them  !  * 

"Forgot?"  said  I. 

"The  girls,"  said  Traddles.  "Sophy's  sisters.  They  are 
staying  with  us.  They  have  come  tq  have  a  peep  at 


470  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

London.  The  fact  is,  when — was  it  you  that  tumbled  up 
stairs,  Copperfield  ?  " 

"It  was,"  said  I,  laughing. 

"Well  then,  when  you  tumbled  up-stairs,"  said  Traddles, 
"I  was  romping  with  the  girls.  In  point  of  fact,  we  were 
playing  at  Puss  in  the  Corner.  But  as  that  wouldn't  do  in 
Westminster  Hall,  and  as  it  wouldn't  look  quite  professional 
if  they  were  seen  by  a  client,  they  decamped.  And  they  are 
now — listening,  I  have  no  doubt,"  said  Traddles,  glancing  at 
the  door  of  another  room. 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  I,  laughing  afresh,  "to  have  occasioned 
such  a  dispersion." 

"Upon  my  word,"  rejoined  Traddles,  greatly  delighted, 
"if  you  had  seen  them  running  away,  and  running  back 
again,  after  you  had  knocked,  to  pick  up  the  combs  they 
had  dropped  out  of  their  hair,  and  going  on  in  the  maddest 
manner,  you  wouldn't  have  said  so.  My  love,  will  you  fetch 
the  girls?" 

Sophy  tripped  away,  and  we  heard  her  received  in  the 
adjoining  room  with  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"Really  musical,  isn't  it,  my  dear  Copperfield?"  said 
Traddles.  "It's  very  agreeable  to  hear.  It  quite  lights  up 
these  old  rooms.  To  an  unfortunate  bachelor  of  a  fellow 
who  has  lived  alone  all  his  life,  you  know,  it's  positively 
delicious.  It's  charming.  Poor  things,  they  have  had  a 
great  loss  in  Sophy — who,  I  do  assure  you,  Copperfield,  is, 
and  ever  was,  the  dearest  girl ! — and  it  gratifies  me  beyond 
expression  to  find  them  in  such  good  spirits.  The  society 
of  girls  is  a  very  delightful  thing,  Copperfield.  It's  not 
professional,  but  it's  very  delightful." 

Observing  that  he  slightly  faltered,  and  comprehending 
that  in  the  goodness  of  his  heart  he  was  fearful  of  giving  me 
some  pain  by  what  he  had  said,  I  expressed  my  concurrence 
with  a  heartiness  that  evidently  relieved  and  pleased  him 
greatly. 

"But  then,"  said   Traddles,  "our  domestic  arrangements 


UNPROFESSIONAL  SOCIETY.  471 

are,  to  say  the  truth,  quite  unprofessional  altogether,  my 
dear  Copperfield.  Even  Sophy's  being  here,  is  unprofessional. 
And  we  have  no  other  place  of  abode.  We  have  put  to  sea 
in  a  cockboat,  but  we  are  quite  prepared  to  rough  it.  And 
Sophy's  an  extraordinary  manager !  You'll  be  surprised  how 
those  girls  are  stowed  away.  I  am  sure  I  hardly  know  how 
it's  done." 

"  Are  many  of  the  young  ladies  with  you  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"The  eldest,  the  Beauty  is  here,"  said  Traddles,  in  a  Jow 
confidential  voice,  "  Caroline.  And  Sarah's  here — the  one  I 
mentioned  to  you  as  having  something  the  matter  with  her 
spine,  you  know.  Immensely  better !  And  the  two  youngest 
that  Sophy  educated  are  with  us.  And  Louisa's  here." 

"  Indeed  !  "  cried  I. 

"  Yes,"  said  Traddles.  "  Now  the  whole  set — I  mean  the 
chambers — is  only  three  rooms;  but  Sophy  arranges  for  the 
girls  in  the  most  wonderful  way,  and  they  sleep  as  com 
fortably  as  possible.  Three  in  that  room,"  said  Traddles, 
pointing.  "  Two  in  that." 

I  could  not  help  glancing  round,  in  search  of  the  accom 
modation  remaining  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Traddles.  Traddles 
understood  me. 

"  Well ! "  said  Traddles,  "  we  are  prepared  to  rough  it,  as 
I  said  just  now,  and  we  did  improvise  a  bed  last  week,  upon 
the  floor  here.  But  there's  a  little  room  in  the  roof — a  very 
nice  room,  when  you're  up  there — which  Sophy  papered 
herself,  to  surprise  me;  and  that's  our  room  at  present.  It's 
a  capital  little  gipsy  sort  of  place.  There's  quite  a  view 
from  it." 

"  And  you  are  happily  married  at  last,  my  dear  Traddles ! " 
said  I.  "'How  rejoiced  I  am!" 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  Copperfield,"  said  Traddles,  as  we 
shook  hands  once  more.  "  Yes,  I  am  as  happy  as  it's  possible 
to  be.  There's  your  old  friend,  you  see,"  said  Traddles, 
nodding  triumphantly  at  the  flower-pot  and  stand;  "and 
there's  the  table  with  the  marble  top !  All  the  other 


472  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

furniture  is  plain  and  serviceable,  you  perceive.  And  as 
to  plate,  Lord  bless  you,  we  haven't  so  much  as  a  tea 
spoon.'1 

"  All  to  be  earned  ?  "  said  I,  cheerfully. 

"Exactly  so,"  replied  Traddles,  "all  to  be  earned.  Of 
course  we  have  something  in  the  shape  of  tea-spoons,  because 
we  stir  our  tea.  But  they're  Britannia  metal." 

"  The  silver  will  be  the  brighter  when  it  comes,"  said  I. 

"  The  very  thing  we  say ! "  cried  Traddles.  "  You  see, 
my  dear  Copperfield,"  falling  again  into  the  low  confidential 
tone,  "after  I  had  delivered  my  argument  in  DOE  dem.  JIPES 
versus  WIGZELL,  which  did  me  great  service  with  the  pro 
fession,  I  went  down  into  Devonshire,  and  had  some  serious 
conversation  in  private  with  the  Reverend  Horace.  I  dwelt 
upon  the  fact  that  Sophy — who  I  do  assure  you,  Copperfield, 
is  the  dearest  girl ! " 

"  I  am  certain  she  is ! "  said  I. 

"She  is,  indeed!"  rejoined  Traddles.  "But  I  am  afraid  I 
am  wandering  from  the  subject.  Did  I  mention  the  Reverend 
Horace?" 

"You  said  that  you  dwelt  upon  the  fact " 

"  True  !  Upon  the  fact  that  Sophy  and  I  had  been  engaged 
for  a  long  period,  and  that  Sophy,  with  the  permission  of 
her  parents,  was  more  than  content  to  take  me — in  short,'"1 
said  Traddles,  with  his  old  frank  smile,  "on  our  present 
Britannia-metal  footing.  Very  well.  I  then  proposed  to  the 
Reverend  Horace — who  is  a  most  excellent  clergyman,  Cop 
perfield,  and  ought  to  be  a  Bishop ;  or  at  least  ought  to 
have  enough  to  live  upon,  without  pinching  himself — that  if 
I  could  turn  the  corner,  say  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds, 
in  one  year;  and  could  see  my  way  pretty  clearly  to  that, 
or  something  better,  next  year;  and  could  plainly  furnish  a 
little  place  like  this,  besides;  then,  and  in  that  case,  Sophy 
and  I  should  be  united.  I  took  the  liberty  of  representing 
that  we  had  been  patient  for  a  good  many  years ;  and  that 
the  circumstance  of  Sophy's  being  extraordinarily  useful  at 


TRADDLES  QUITE  A  MONSTER!  473 

home,  ought  not  to  operate  with  her  affectionate  parents, 
against  her  establishment  in  life — don't  you  see  ?  " 

"Certainly  it  ought  not,"  said  I. 

"I  am  glad  you  think  so,  Copperfield,"  rejoined  Traddles, 
"because,  without  any  imputation  on  the  Reverend  Horace, 
I  do  think  parents,  and  brothers,  and  so  forth,  are  sometimes 
rather  selfish  in  such  cases.  Well !  I  also  pointed  out,  that 
my  most  earnest  desire  was,  to  be  useful  to  the  family ;  and 
that  if  I  got  on  in  the  world,  and  anything  should  happen 
to  him — I  refer  to  the  Reverend  Horace — " 

"I  understand,"  said  I. 

" — Or  to  Mrs.  Crewler — it  would  be  the  utmost  gratifica 
tion  of  my  wishes,  to  be  a  parent  to  the  girls.  He  replied 
in  a  most  admirable  manner,  exceedingly  flattering  to  my 
feelings,  and  undertook  to  obtain  the  consent  of  Mrs.  Crewler 
to  this  arrangement.  They  had  a  dreadful  time  of  it  with 
her.  It  mounted  from  her  legs  into  her  chest,  and  then 
into  her  head — " 

"What  mounted?"  I  asked. 

"  Her  grief,"  replied  Traddles,  with  a  serious  look.  "  Her 
feelings  generally.  As  I  mentioned  on  a  former  occasion, 
she  is  a  very  superior  woman,  but  has  lost  the  use  of  her 
limbs.  Whatever  occurs  to  harass  her,  usually  settles  in  her 
legs;  but  on  this  occasion  it  mounted  to  the  chest,  and 
then  to  the  head,  and,  in  short,  pervaded  the  whole  system  in 
a  most  alarming  manner.  However,  they  brought  her  through 
it  by  unremitting  and  affectionate  attention;  and  we  were 
married  yesterday  six  weeks.  You  have  no  idea  what  a 
Monster  I  felt,  Copperfield,  when  I  saw  the  whole  family 
crying  and  fainting  away  in  every  direction  !  Mrs.  Crewler 
couldn't  see  me  before  we  left — couldn't  forgive  me,  then, 
for  depriving  her  of  her  child — but  she  is  a  good  creature, 
and  has  done  so  since.  I  had  a  delightful  letter  from  her, 
only  this  morning." 

"  And  in  short,  my  dear  friend,"  said  I,  "  you  feel  as  blest 
as  you  deserve  to  feel  J " 


474  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  Oh  !  That's  your  partiality  ! "  laughed  Traddles.  "  But, 
indeed,  I  am  in  a  most  enviable  state.  I  work  hard,  and 
read  Law  insatiably.  I  get  up  at  five  every  morning,  and 
don't  mind  it  at  all.  I  hide  the  girls  in  the  day-time, 
and  make  merry  with  them  in  the  evening.  And  I  assure 
you  I  am  quite  sorry  that  they  are  going  home  on  Tuesday, 
which  is  the  day  before  the  first  day  of  Michaelmas  Term. 
But  here,"  said  Traddles,  breaking  off  in  his  confidence,  and 
speaking  aloud,  "  are  the  girls !  Mr.  Copperfield,  Miss 
Crewler — Miss  Sarah — Miss  Louisa — Margaret  and  Lucy  ! " 

They  were  a  perfect  nest  of  roses ;  they  looked  so  whole 
some  and  fresh.  They  were  all  pretty,  and  Miss  Caroline 
was  very  handsome ;  but  there  was  a  loving,  cheerful,  fireside 
quality  in  Sophy's  bright  looks,  which  was  better  than  that, 
and  which  assured  me  that  my  friend  had  chosen  well.  We 
all  sat  round  the  fire ;  while  the  sharp  boy,  who  I  now 
divined  had  lost  his  breath  in  putting  the  papers  out,  cleared 
them  away  again,  and  produced  the  tea-things.  After  that, 
he  retired  for  the  night,  shutting  the  outer  door  upon  us 
with  a  bang.  Mrs.  Traddles,  with  perfect  pleasure  and  com 
posure  beaming  from  her  household  eyes,  having  made  the 
tea,  then  quietly  made  the  toast  as  she  sat  in  a  corner  by 
the  fire. 

She  had  seen  Agnes,  she  told  me,  while  she  was  toasting. 
"Tom"  had  taken  her  down  into  Kent  for  a  wedding  trip, 
and  there  she  had  seen  my  aunt,  too ;  and  both  my  aunt 
and  Agnes  were  well,  and  they  had  all  talked  of  nothing  but 
me.  "Tom""  had  never  had  me  out  of  his  thoughts,  she 
really  believed,  all  the  time  I  had  been  away.  "Tom"  was 
the  authority  for  everything.  "Tom"  was  evidently  the 
idol  of  her  life ;  never  to  be  shaken  on  his  pedestal  by  any 
commotion ;  always  to  be  believed  in,  and  done  homage  to 
with  the  whole  faith  of  her  heart,  come  what  might. 

The  deference  which  both  she  and  Traddles  showed  towards 
the  Beauty,  pleased  me  very  much.  I  don't  know  that  I 
thought  it  very  reasonable ;  but  I  thought  it  very  delightful, 


SOPHY  AND  HER  SISTERS.  475 

and  essentially  a  part  of  their  character.  If  Traddles  ever 
for  an  instant  missed  the  tea-spoons  that  were  still  to  be  won, 
I  have  no  doubt  it  was  when  he  handed  the  Beauty  her 
tea.  If  his  sweet-tempered  wife  could  have  got  up  any  self- 
assertion  against  any  one,  I  am  satisfied  it  could  only  have 
been  because  she  was  the  Beauty's  sister.  A  few  slight 
indications  of  a  rather  petted  and  capricious  manner,  which 
I  observed  in  the  Beauty,  were  manifestly  considered,  by 
Traddles  and  his  wife,  as  her  birthright  and  natural  endow 
ment.  If  she  had  been  born  a  Queen  Bee,  and  they  labouring 
Bees,  they  could  not  have  been  more  satisfied  of  that. 

But  their  self-forgetfulness  charmed  me.  Their  pride  in 
these  girls,  and  their  submission  of  themselves  to  all  their 
whims,  was  the  pleasantest  little  testimony  to  their  own 
worth  I  could  have  desired  to  see.  If  Traddles  were  addressed 
as  "a  darling,"  once  in  the  course  of  that  evening;  and 
besought  to  bring  something  here,  or  carry  something  there, 
or  take  something  up,  or  put  something  down,  or  find  some 
thing,  or  fetch  something,  he  was  so  addressed,  by  one  or 
other  of  his  sisters-in-law,  at  least  twelve  times  in  an  hour. 
Neither  could  they  do  anything  without  Sophy.  Somebody's 
hair  fell  down,  and  nobody  but  Sophy  could  put  it  up. 
Somebody  forgot  how  a  particular  tune  went,  and  nobody 
but  Sophy  could  hum  that  tune  right.  Somebody  wanted 
to  recall  the  name  of  a  place  in  Devonshire,  and  only  Sophy 
knew  it.  Something  was  wanted  to  be  written  home,  and 
Sophy  alone  could  be  trusted  to  write  before  breakfast  in 
the  morning.  Somebody  broke  down  in  a  piece  of  knitting, 
and  no  one  but  Sophy  was  able  to  put  the  defaulter  in  the 
right  direction.  They  were  entire  mistresses  of  the  place, 
and  Sophy  and  Traddles  waited  on  them.  How  many 
children  Sophy  could  have  taken  care  of  in  her  time,  I  can't 
imagine;  but  she  seemed  to  be  famous  for  knowing  every 
sort  of  song  that  ever  was  addressed  to  a  child  in  the  English 
tongue ;  and  she  sang  dozens  to  order  with  the  clearest  little 
voice  in  the  world,  one  after  another  (every  sister  issuing 


476  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

directions  for  a  different  tune,  and  the  Beauty  generally 
striking  in  last),  so  that  I  was  quite  fascinated.  The  best 
of  all  was,  that,  in  the  midst  of  their  exactions,  all  the 
sisters  had  a  great  tenderness  and  respect  both  for  Sophy 
and  Traddles.  I  am  sure,  when  I  took  my  leave,  and 
Traddles  was  coming  out  to  walk  with  me  to  the  coffee 
house,  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  an  obstinate  head  of  hair, 
or  any  other  head  of  hair,  rolling  about  in  such  a  shower  of 
kisses. 

Altogether,  it  was  a  scene  I  could  not  help  dwelling  on 
with  pleasure,  for  a  long  time  after  I  got  back  and  had 
wished  Traddles  good  night.  If  I  had  beheld  a  thousand 
roses  blowing  in  a  top  set  of  chambers,  in  that  withered 
Gray's  Inn,  they  could  not  have  brightened  it  half  so  much. 
The  idea  of  those  Devonshire  girls,  among  the  dry  law- 
stationers  and  the  attorneys'  offices;  and  of  the  tea  and 
toast,  and  children's  songs,  in  that  grim  atmosphere  of  pounce 
and  parchment,  red-tape,  dusty  wafers,  ink -jars,  brief  and 
draft  paper,  law  reports,  writs,  declarations,  and  bills  of  costs, 
seemed  almost  as  pleasantly  fanciful  as  if  I  had  dreamed 
that  the  Sultan's  famous  family  had  been  admitted  on  the 
roll  of  attorneys,  and  had  brought  the  talking  bird,  the 
singing  tree,  and  the  golden  water  into  Gray's  Inn  Hall. 
Somehow,  I  found  that  I  had  taken  leave  of  Traddles  for 
the  night,  and  come  back  to  the  coffee-house,  with  a  great 
change  in  my  despondency  about  him.  I  began  to  think  he 
would  get  on,  in  spite  of  all  the  many  orders  of  chief  waiters 
in  England. 

Drawing  a  chair  before  one  of  the  coffee-room  fires  to 
think  about  him  at  my  leisure,  I  gradually  fell  from  the 
consideration  of  his  happiness  to  tracing  prospects  in  the  live- 
coals,  and  to  thinking,  as  they  broke  and  changed,  of  the 
principal  vicissitudes  and  separations  that  had  marked  my 
life.  I  had  not  seen  a  coal  fire,  since  I  had  left  England 
three  years  ago  :  though  many  a  wood  fire  had  I  watched, 
as  it  crumbled  into  hoary  ashes,  and  mingled  with  the 


I  ENCOUNTER  MY  OLDEST  ACQUAINTANCE.   477 

feathery  heap  upon  the  hearth,  which  not  inaptly  figured  to 
me,  in  my  despondency,  my  own  dead  hopes. 

I  could  think  of  the  past  now,  gravely,  but  not  bitterly  ; 
and  could  contemplate  the  future  in  a  brave  spirit.  Home, 
in  its  best  sense,  was  for  me  no  more.  She  in  whom  I  might 
have  inspired  a  dearer  love,  I  had  taught  to  be  my  sister. 
She  would  marry,  and  would  have  new  claimants  on  her 
tenderness:  and  in  doing  it,  would  never  know  the  love  for 
her  that  had  grown  up  in  my  heart.  It  was  right  that  I 
should  pay  the  forfeit  of  my  headlong  passion.  What  I 
reaped,  I  had  sown. 

I  was  thinking,  And  had  I  truly  disciplined  my  heart  to  this, 
and  could  I  resolutely  bear  it,  and  calmly  hold  the  place  in 
her  home  which  she  had  calmly  held  in  mine, — when  I  found 
my  eyes  resting  on  a  countenance  that  might  have  arisen  out 
of  the  fire,  in  its  association  with  my  early  remembrances. 

Little  Mr.  Chillip  the  Doctor,  to  whose  good  offices  I  was 
indebted  in  the  very  first  chapter  of  this  history,  sat  reading 
a  newspaper  in  the  shadow  of  an  opposite  corner.  He  was 
tolerably  stricken  in  years  by  this  time;  but,  being  a  mild, 
meek,  calm  little  man,  had  worn  so  easily,  that  I  thought  he 
looked  at  that  moment  just  as  he  might  have  looked  when  he 
sat  in  our  parlour,  waiting  for  me  to  be  born. 

Mr.  Chillip  had  left  Blunderstone  six  or  seven  years  ago, 
and  I  had  never  seen  him  since.  He  sat  placidly  perusing 
the  newspaper,  with  his  little  head  on  one  side,  and  a  glass 
of  warm  sherry  negus  at  his  elbow.  He  was  so  extremely 
conciliatory  in  his  manner  that  he  seemed  to  apologise  to  the 
very  newspaper  for  taking  the  liberty  of  reading  it. 

I  walked  up  to  where  he  was  sitting,  and  said,  "  How  do 
you  do,  Mr.  Chillip  ? " 

He  was  greatly  fluttered  by  this  unexpected  address  from 
a  stranger,  and  replied,  in  his  slow  way,  "  I  thank  you,  sir, 
you  are  very  good.  Thank  you,  sir.  I  hope  you  are  well."" 

"  You  don't  remember  me  ?  "  said  I. 

"Well,   sir,"  returned  Mr.   Chillip,  smiling  very  meekly, 


478  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

and  shaking  his  head  as  he  surveyed  me,  "  I  have  a  kind  of 
an  impression  that  something  in  your  countenance  is  familiar 
to  me,  sir ;  but  I  couldn't  lay  my  hand  upon  your  name, 
really." 

"  And  yet  you  knew  it,  long  before  I  knew  it  myself,"  I 
returned. 

"  Did  I  indeed,  sir  ? "  said  Mr.  Chillip.  "  Is  it  possible 
that  I  had  the  honour,  sir,  of  officiating  when ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  I. 

"Dear  me!"  cried  Mr.  Chillip.  "But  no  doubt  you  are 
a  good  deal  changed  since  then,  sir?" 

"Probably,"  said  I. 

"  Well,  sir,"  observed  Mr.  Chillip,  "  I  hope  you'll  excuse 
me,  if  I  am  compelled  to  ask  the  favour  of  your  name  ? " 

On  my  telling  him  my  name,  he  was  really  moved.  He 
quite  shook  hands  with  me — which  was  a  violent  proceeding 
for  him,  his  usual  course  being  to  slide  a  tepid  little  fish-slice, 
an  inch  or  two  in  advance  of  his  hip,  and  evince  the  greatest 
discomposure  when  anybody  grappled  with  it.  Even  now, 
he  put  his  hand  in  his  coat  pocket  as  soon  as  he  could  dis 
engage  it,  and  seemed  relieved  when  he  had  got  it  safe  back. 

"  Dear  me,  sir  ! "  said  Mr.  Chillip,  surveying  me  with  his 
head  on  one  side.  "  And  it's  Mr.  Copperfield,  is  it  ?  Well, 
sir,  I  think  I  should  have  known  you,  if  I  had  taken  the 
liberty  of  looking  more  closely  at  you.  There^s  a  strong 
resemblance  between  you  and  your  poor  father,  sir." 

"  I  never  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  my  father,"  I  observed. 

"  Very  true,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chillip,  in  a  soothing  tone. 
"  And  very  much  to  be  deplored  it  was,  on  all  accounts  !  We 
are  not  ignorant,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chillip,  slowly  shaking  his 
little  head  again,  "  down  in  our  part  of  the  country,  of  your 
fame.  There  must  be  great  excitement  here,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Chillip,  tapping  himself  on  the  forehead  with  his  forefinger. 
"  You  must  find  it  a  trying  occupation,  sir ! " 

"  What  is  your  part  of  the  country  now  ?  "  I  asked,  seating 
myself  near  him. 


LATEST  NEWS  OF  THE  MURDSTONES.      479 

"  I  am  established  within  a  few  miles  of  Bury  St.  Edmund's, 
sir,"  said  Mr.  Chillip.  "Mrs.  Chillip  coming  into  a  little 
property  in  that  neighbourhood,  under  her  father's  will,  I 
bought  a  practice  down  there,  in  which  you  will  be  glad  to 
hear  I  am  doing  well.  My  daughter  is  growing  quite  a  tall 
lass  now,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chillip,  giving  his  little  head  another 
little  shake.  "  Her  mother  let  down  two  tucks  in  her  frocks 
only  last  week.  Such  is  time,  you  see,  sir  ! " 

As  the  little  man  put  his  now  empty  glass  to  his  lips,  when 
he  made  this  reflection, 'I  proposed  to  him  to  have  it  refilled, 
and  I  would  keep  him  company  with  another.  "  Well,  sir," 
he  returned,  in  his  slow  way,  "it's  more  than  I  am  accus 
tomed  to ;  but  I  can't  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of  your  con 
versation.  It  seems  but  yesterday  that  I  had  the  honour  of 
attending  you  in  the  measles.  You  came  through  them 
charmingly,  sir!" 

I  acknowledged  this  compliment,  and  ordered  the  negus, 
which  was  soon  produced.  "  Quite  an  uncommon  dissipation  !  " 
said  Mr.  Chillip,  stirring  it,  "but  I  can't  resist  so  extra 
ordinary  an  occasion.  You  have  no  family,  sir  ? " 

I  shook  my  head. 

"  I  was  aware  that  you  sustained  a  bereavement,  sir,  some 
time  ago,"  said  Mr.  Chillip.  "I  heard  it  from  your  father- 
in-law's  sister.  Very  decided  character  there,  sir  ?  " 

"Why,  yes,"  said  I,  "decided  enough.  Where  did  you 
see  her,  Mr.  Chillip?" 

"Are  you  not  aware,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Chillip,  with  his 
placidest  smile,  "  that  your  father-in-law  is  again  a  neighbour 
of  mine  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  I. 

"  He  is  indeed,  sir !  "  said  Mr.  Chillip,  "  Married  a  young 
lady  of  that  part,  with  a  very  good  little  property,  poor 
thing. — And  this  action  of  the  brain  now,  sir?  Don't  you 
find  it  fatigue  you?"  said  Mr.  Chillip,  looking  at  me  like 
an  admiring  Robin. 

I  waived  that  question,  and  returned  to  the  Murdstones. 


480  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

"  I  was  aware  of  his  being  married  again.  Do  you  attend 
the  family  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Not  regularly.  I  have  been  called  in,"  he  replied. 
"  Strong  phrenological  development  of  the  organ  of  firmness, 
in  Mr.  Murdstone  and  his  sister,  sir." 

I  replied  with  such  an  expressive  look,  that  Mr.  Chillip 
was  emboldened  by  that,  and  the  negus  together,  to  give  his 
head  several  short  shakes,  and  thoughtfully  exclaim,  "  Ah, 
dear  me  !  We  remember  old  times,  Mr.  Copperfield  ! " 

"  And  the  brother  and  sister  are  pursuing  their  old  course, 
are  they  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Well,  sir,11  replied  Mr.  Chillip,  "  a  medical  man,  being  so 
much  in  families,  ought  to  have  neither  eyes  nor  ears  for 
anything  but  his  profession.  Still,  I  must  say,  they  are  very 
severe,  sir  :  both  as  to  this  life  and  the  next." 

"  The  next  will  be  regulated  without  much  reference  to 
them,  I  dare  say,"  I  returned  :  "  what  are  they  doing  as  to 
this  ?  " 

Mr.  Chillip  shook  his  head,  stirred  his  negus,  and  sipped  it. 

"  She  was  a  charming  woman,  sir ! "  he  observed  in  a 
plaintive  manner. 

"The  present  Mrs.  Murdstone?" 

"  A  charming  woman  indeed,  sir,"  said  Mr,  Chillip ;  "  as 
amiable,  I  am  sure,  as  it  was  possible  to  be  !  Mrs.  Chillip's 
opinion  is,  that  her  spirit  has  been  entirely  broken  since  her 
marriage,  and  that  she  is  all  but  melancholy  mad.  And  the 
ladies,"  observed  Mr.  Chillip,  timorously,  "  are  great  observers, 
sir." 

"I  suppose  she  was  to  be  subdued  and  broken  to  their  detest 
able  mould,  Heaven  help  her !  "  said  I.  "  And  she  has  been." 

"  Well,  sir,  there  were  violent  quarrels  at  first,  I  assure 
you,"  said  Mr.  Chillip ;  "  but  she  is  quite  a  shadow  now. 
Would  it  be  considered  forward  if  I  was  to  say  to  you,  sir, 
in  confidence,  that  since  the  sister  came  to  help,  the  brother 
and  sister  between  them  have  nearly  reduced  her  to  a  state 
of  imbecility  ?"  Jwl; 


MRS.  CHILLIP   IS   A   GREAT  OBSERVER.     481 

I  told  him  I  could  easily  believe  it. 

"  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying,"  said  Mr.  Chillip,  fortifying 
himself  with  another  sip  of  negus,  "between  you  and  me, 
sir,  that  her  mother  died  of  it — or  that  tyranny,  gloom, 
and  worry  have  made  Mrs.  Murdstone  nearly  imbecile.  She 
was  a  lively  young  woman,  sir,  before  marriage,  and  their 
gloom  and  austerity  destroyed  her.  They  go  about  with 
her,  now,  more  like  her  keepers  than  her  husband  and  sister- 
in-law.  That  was  Mrs.  Chillip^s  remark  to  me,  only  last 
week.  And  I  assure  you,  sir,  the  ladies  are  great  observers. 
Mrs.  Chillip  herself  is  a  great  observer !  " 

"  Does  he  gloomily  profess  to  be  (I  am  ashamed  to  use 
the  word  in  such  association)  religious  still  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  You  anticipate,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chillip,  his  eyelids  getting 
quite  red  with  the  unwonted  stimulus  in  which  he  was 
indulging.  "One  of  Mrs.  Chillip's  most  impressive  remarks. 
Mrs.  Chillip,"  he  proceeded,  in  the  calmest  and  slowest 
manner,  "  quite  electrified  me,  by  pointing  out  that  Mr. 
Murdstone  sets  up  an  image  of  himself,  and  calls  it  the 
Divine  Nature.  You  might  have  knocked  me  down  on  the 
flat  of  my  back,  sir,  with  the  feather  of  a  pen,  I  assure  you, 
when  Mrs.  Chillip  said  so.  The  ladies  are  great  observers, 


sir : 


"  Intuitively,"  said  I,  to  his  extreme  delight. 

"  I  am  very  happy  to  receive  such  support  in  my  opinion, 
sir,"  he  rejoined.  "  It  is  not  often  that  I  venture  to  give  a 
non-medical  opinion,  I  assure  you.  Mr.  Murdstone  delivers 
public  addresses  sometimes,  and  it  is  said, — in  short,  sir,  it  is 
said  by  Mrs.  Chillip,— that  the  darker  tyrant  he  has  lately 
been,  the  more  ferocious  is  his  doctrine." 

"  I  believe  Mrs.  Chillip  to  be  perfectly  right,"  said  I. 

"Mrs.  Chillip  does  go  so  far  as  to  say,"  pursued  the 
meekest  of  little  men,  much  encouraged,  "that  what  such 
people  miscall  their  religion,  is  a  vent  for  their  bad  humours 
and  arrogance.  And  do  you  know  I  must  say,  sir,"  he 
continued,  mildly  laying  his  head  on  pn$  side,  "that  I  don't 

VOL.  ii.  8  l 


482  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

find  authority  for  Mr.  and  Miss  Murdstone  in  the  New 
Testament  ?  " 

"  I  never  found  it  either ! "  said  I. 

"  In  the  meantime,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chillip,  "  they  are  much 
disliked  ;  and  as  they  are  very  free  in  consigning  everybody 
who  dislikes  them  to  perdition,  we  really  have  a  good  deal 
of  perdition  going  on  in  our  neighbourhood !  However,  as 
Mrs.  Chillip  says,  sir,  they  undergo  a  continual  punishment; 
for  they  are  turned  inward,  to  feed  upon  their  own  hearts, 
and  their  own  hearts  are  very  bad  feeding.  Now,  sir,  about 
that  brain  of  yours,  if  you'll  excuse  my  returning  to  it. 
Don't  you  expose  it  to  a  good  deal  of  excitement,  sir  ?  " 

I  found  it  not  difficult,  in  the  excitement  of  Mr.  Chillip's 
own  brain,  under  his  potations  of  negus,  to  divert  his  atten 
tion  from  this  topic  to  his  own  affairs,  on  which,  for  the  next 
half-hour,  he  was  quite  loquacious;  giving  me  to  understand, 
among  other  pieces  of  information,  that  he  was  then  at  the 
Gray's  Inn  Coffee-house  to  lay  his  professional  evidence  before 
a  Commission  of  Lunacy,  touching  the  state  of  mind  of  a 
patient  who  had  become  deranged  from  excessive  drinking. 

"And  I  assure  you,  sir,"  he  said,  "I  am  extremely  nervous 
on  such  occasions.  I  could  not  support  being  what  is  called 
Bullied,  sir.  It  would  quite  unman  me.  Do  you  know  it 
was  some  time  before  I  recovered  the  conduct  of  that  alarm 
ing  lady,  on  the  night  of  your  birth,  Mr.  Copperfield  ? " 

I  told  him  that  I  was  going  down  to  my  aunt,  the  Dragon 
of  that  night,  early  in  the  morning ;  and  that  she  was  one  of 
the  most  tender-hearted  and  excellent  of  women,  as  he  would 
know  full  well  if  he  knew  her  better.  The  mere  notion  of 
the  possibility  of  his  ever  seeing  her  again,  appeared  to  terrify 
him.  He  replied  with  a  small  pale  smile,  "  Is  she  so,  indeed, 
sir?  Really?"  and  almost  immediately  called  for  a  candle, 
and  went  to  bed,  as  if  he  were  not  quite  safe  anywhere  else. 
He  did  not  actually  stagger  under  the  negus ;  but  I  should 
think  his  placid  little  pulse  must  have  made  two  or  three 
more  beats  in  a  minute,  than  it  had  done  since  the  great 


A  JOYFUL  MEETING.  483 

night  of  my  aunt's  disappointment,  when  she  struck  at  him 
with  her  bonnet. 

Thoroughly  tired,  I  went  to  bed  too,  at  midnight;  passed 
the  next  day  on  the  Dover  coach ;  burst  safe  and  sound  into 
my  aunt's  old  parlour  while  she  was  at  tea  (she  wore  spectacles 
now) ;  and  was  received  by  her,  and  Mr.  Dick,  and  dear  old 
Peggotty,  who  acted  as  housekeeper,  with  open  arms  and  tears 
of  joy.  My  aunt  was  mightily  amused,  when  we  began  to 
talk  composedly,  by  my  account  of  my  meeting  with  Mr. 
Chillip,  and  of  his  holding  her  in  such  dread  remembrance ; 
and  both  she  and  Peggotty  had  a  great  deal  to  say  about  my 
poor  mother's  second  husband,  and  "that  murdering  woman 
of  a  sister," — on  whom  I  think  no  pain  or  penalty  would 
have  induced  my  aunt  to  bestow  any  Christian  or  Proper 
Name,  or  any  other  designation. 


CHAPTER   LX. 

AGNES. 

MY  aunt  and  I,  when  we  were  left  alone,  talked  far  into  the 
night.  How  the  emigrants  never  wrote  home,  otherwise  than 
cheerfully  and  hopefully ;  how  Mr.  Micawber  had  actually 
remitted  divers  small  sums  of  money,  on  account  of  those 
"pecuniary  liabilities,"  in  reference  to  which  he  had  been 
so  business-like  as  between  man  and  man ;  how  Janet,  re 
turning  into  my  auntts  service  when  she  came  back  to  Dover, 
had  finally  carried  out  her  renunciation  of  mankind  by  enter 
ing  into  wedlock  with  a  thriving  tavern-keeper;  and  how  my 
aunt  had  finally  set  her  seal  on  the  same  great  principle,  by 
aiding  and  abetting  the  bride,  and  crowning  the  marriage- 
ceremony  with  her  presence ;  were  among  our  topics — already 
more  or  less  familiar  to  me  through  the  letters  I  had  had. 
Mr.  Dick,  as  usual,  was  not  forgotten.  My  aunt  informed 
me  how  he  incessantly  occupied  himself  in  copying  everything 
he  could  lay  his  hands  on,  and  kept  King  Charles  the  First 
at  a  respectful  distance  by  that  semblance  of  employment ; 
how  it  was  one  of  the  main  joys  and  rewards  of  her  life 
that  he  was  free  and  happy,  instead  of  pining  in  monotonous 
restraint ;  and  how  (as  a  novel  general  conclusion)  nobody  but 
she  could  ever  fully  know  what  he  was. 

"And  when,  Trot,"  said  my  aunt,  patting  the  back  of  my 
hand,  as  we  sat  in  our  old  way  before  the  fire,  "when  are 
you  going  over  to  Canterbury  ? " 


A  TALK   WITH  MY  AUNT  ABOUT  AGNES.    485 

"  I  shall  get  a  horse,  and  ride  over  to-morrow  morning, 
aunt,  unless  you  will  go  with  me?" 

"  No  !  "  said  my  aunt,  in  her  short  abrupt  way.  "  I  mean 
to  stay  where  I  am.1' 

Then,  I  should  ride,  I  said.  I  could  not  have  come  through 
Canterbury  to-day  without  stopping,  if  I  had  been  coming  to 
any  one  but  her. 

She  was  pleased,  but  answered,  "Tut,  Trot;  my  old  bones 
would  have  kept  till  to-morrow  ! "  and  softly  patted  my  hand 
again,  as  I  sat  looking  thoughtfully  at  the  fire. 

Thoughtfully,  for  I  could  not  be  here  once  more,  and  so 
near  Agnes,  without  the  revival  of  those  regrets  with  which 
I  had  so  long  been  occupied.  Softened  regrets  they  might 
be,  teaching  me  what  I  had  failed  to  learn  when  my  younger 
life  was  all  before  me,  but  not  the  less  regrets.  "Oh,  Trot," 
I  seemed  to  hear  my  aunt  say  once  more;  and  I  understood 
her  better  now — "  Blind,  blind,  blind  ! " 

We  both  kept  silence  for  some  minutes.  When  I  raised 
my  eyes,  I  found  that  she  was  steadily  observant  of  me. 
Perhaps  she  had  followed  the  current  of  my  mind;  for  it 
seemed  to  me  an  easy  one  to  track  now,  wilful  as  it  had 
been  once. 

"You  will  find  her  father  a  white-haired  old  man,"  said 
my  aunt,  "though  a  better  man  in  all  other  respects — a 
reclaimed  man.  Neither  will  you  find  him  measuring  all 
human  interests,  and  joys,  and  sorrows,  with  his  one  poor 
little  inch-rule  now.  Trust  me,  child,  such  things  must 
shrink  very  much,  before  they  can  be  measured  off  in  that 
way." 

"  Indeed  they  must,"  said  I. 

"You  will  find  her,"  pursued  my  aunt,  "as  good,  as  beau 
tiful,  as  earnest,  as  disinterested,  as  she  has  always  been.  If 
I  knew  higher  praise,  Trot,  I  would  bestow  it  on  her." 

There  was  no  higher  praise  for  her ;  no  higher  reproach  for 
me.  Oh,  how  had  I  strayed  so  far  away ! 

"  If  she  trains  the  young  girls  whom  she  has  about  her,  to 


486  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

be  like  herself,"  said  my  aunt,  earnest  even  to  the  filling  of 
her  eyes  with  tears,  "  Heaven  knows,  her  life  will  be  well 
employed !  Useful  and  happy,  as  she  said  that  day  !  How 
could  she  be  otherwise  than  useful  and  happy ! " 

"Has  Agnes  any — "  I  was  thinking  aloud,  rather  than 
speaking. 

"  Well  ?     Hey  ?     Any  what  ?  "  said  my  aunt,  sharply. 

"Any  lover,"  said  I. 

"A  score,"  cried  my  aunt,  with  a  kind  of  indignant  pride. 
"  She  might  have  married  twenty  times,  my  dear,  since  you 
have  been  gone  ! " 

"No  doubt,"  said  I.  "No  doubt.  But  has  she  any  lover 
who  is  worthy  of  her  ?  Agnes  could  care  for  no  other." 

My  aunt  sat  musing  for  a  little  while,  with  her  chin  upon 
her  hand.  Slowly  raising  her  eyes  to  mine,  she  said  : 

"  I  suspect  she  has  an  attachment,  Trot." 

"A  prosperous  one?"  said  I. 

"  Trot,"  returned  my  aunt  gravely,  "  I  can^t  say.  I  have 
no  right  to  tell  you  even  so  much.  She  has  never  confided 
it  to  me,  but  I  suspect  it." 

She  looked  so  attentively  and  anxiously  at  me  (I  even  saw 
her  tremble),  that  I  felt  now,  more  than  ever,  that  she  had 
followed  my  late  thoughts.  I  summoned  all  the  resolutions 
I  had  made,  in  all  those  many  days  and  nights,  and  all  those 
many  conflicts  of  my  heart. 

"  If  it  should  be  so,"  I  began,  "  and  I  hope  it  is — " 

"I  don't  know  that  it  is,"  said  my  aunt  curtly.  "You 
must  not  be  ruled  by  my  suspicions.  You  must  keep  them 
secret.  They  are  very  slight,  perhaps.  I  have  no  right  to 
speak." 

"If  it  should  be  so,"  I  repeated,  "Agnes  will  tell  me  at 
her  own  good  time.  A  sister  to  whom  I  have  confided  so 
much,  aunt,  will  not  be  reluctant  to  confide  in  me." 

My  aunt  withdrew  her  eyes  from  mine,  as  slowly  as  she 
had  turned  them  upon  me;  and  covered  them  thoughtfully 
with  her  hand.  By  and  by  she  put  her  other  hand  on  my 


THE  SCENE   OF  MY  OLD   SCHOOL  DAYS.    487 

shoulder;  and  so  we  both  sat,  looking  into  the  past,  without 
saying  another  word,  until  we  parted  for  the  night. 

I  rode  away,  early  in  the  morning,  for  the  scene  of  my  old 
school  days.  I  cannot  say  that  I  was  yet  quite  happy,  in  the 
hope  that  I  was  gaining  a  victory  over  myself;  even  in  the 
prospect  of  so  soon  looking  on  her  face  again. 

The  well-remembered  ground  was  soon  traversed,  and  I 
came  into  the  quiet  streets,  where  every  stone  was  a  boy^s 
book  to  me.  I  went  on  foot  to  the  old  house,  and  went 
away  with  a  heart  too  full  to  enter.  I  returned  ;  and  looking, 
as  I  passed,  through  the  low  window  of  the  turret-room 
where  first  Uriah  Heep,  and  afterwards  Mr.  Micawber,  had 
been  wont  to  sit,  saw  that  it  was  a  little  parlour  now,  and 
that  there  was  no  office.  Otherwise  the  staid  old  house  was, 
as  to  its  cleanliness  and  order,  still  just  as  it  had  been  when 
I  first  saw  it.  I  requested  the  new  maid  who  admitted  me, 
to  tell  Miss  Wickfield  that  a  gentleman  who  waited  on  her 
from  a  friend  abroad,  was  there ;  and  I  was  shown  up  the 
grave  old  staircase  (cautioned  of  the  steps  I  knew  so  well), 
into  the  unchanged  drawing-room.  The  books  that  Agnes 
and  I  had  read  together,  were  on  their  shelves ;  and  the  desk 
where  I  had  laboured  at  my  lessons,  many  a  night,  stood  yet 
at  the  same  old  corner  of  the  table.  All  the  little  changes 
that  had  crept  in  when  the  Heeps  were  there,  were  changed 
again.  Everything  was  as  it  used  to  be,  in  the  happy  time. 

I  stood  in  a  window,  and  looked  across  the  ancient  street 
at  the  opposite  houses,  recalling  how  I  had  watched  them  on 
wet  afternoons,  when  I  first  came  there ;  and  how  I  had  used 
to  speculate  about  the  people  who  appeared  at  any  of  the 
windows,  and  had  followed  them  with  my  eyes  up  and  down 
stairs,  while  women  went  clicking  along  the  pavement  in 
pattens,  and  the  dull  rain  fell  in  slanting  lines,  and  poured 
out  of  the  waterspout  yonder,  and  flowed  into  the  road.  The 
feeling  with  which  I  used  to  watch  the  tramps,  as  they  came 
into  the  town  on  those  wet  evenings,  at  dusk,  and  limped 
past,  with  their  bundles  drooping  over  their  shoulders  at  the 


488  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

ends  of  sticks,  came  freshly  back  to  me;  fraught,  as  then, 
with  the  smell  of  damp  earth,  and  wet  leaves  and  briar,  and 
the  sensation  of  the  very  airs  that  blew  upon  me  in  my  own 
toilsome  journey. 

The  opening  of  the  little  door  in  the  panelled  wall  made 
me  start  and  turn.  Her  beautiful  serene  eyes  met  mine  as 
she  came  towards  me.  She  stopped  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
her  bosom,  and  I  caught  her  in  my  arms. 

"  Agnes  !  my  dear  girl !  I  have  come  too  suddenly  upon 
you." 

"  No,  no!     I  am  so  rejoiced  to  see  you,  Trotwood  !" 

"Dear  Agnes,  the  happiness  it  is  to  me,  to  see  you  once 
again ! " 

I  folded  her  to  my  heart,  and  for  a  little  while,  we  were 
both  silent.  Presently  we  sat  down,  side  by  side;  and  her 
angel-face  was  turned  upon  me  with  the  welcome  I  had 
dreamed  of,  waking  and  sleeping,  for  whole  years. 

She  was  so  true,  she  was  so  beautiful,  she  was  so  good, — 
I  owed  her  so  much  gratitude,  she  was  so  dear  to  me,  that 
I  could  find  no  utterance  for  what  I  felt.  I  tried  to  bless 
her,  tried  to  thank  her,  tried  to  tell  her  (as  I  had  often  done 
in  letters)  what  an  influence  she  had  upon  me;  but  all  my 
efforts  were  in  vain.  My  love  and  joy  were  dumb. 

With  her  own  sweet  tranquillity,  she  calmed  my  agitation ; 
led  me  back  to  the  time  of  our  parting;  spoke  to  me  of 
Emily,  whom  she  had  visited,  in  secret,  many  times ;  spoke  to 
me  tenderly  of  Dora's  grave.  With  the  unerring  instinct  of 
her  noble  heart,  she  touched  the  chords  of  my  memory  so 
softly  and  harmoniously,  that  not  one  jarred  within  me;  I 
could  listen  to  the  sorrowful,  distant  music,  and  desire  to 
shrink  from  nothing  it  awoke.  How  could  I,  when,  blended 
with  it  all,  was  her  dear  self,  the  better  angel  of  my  life  ? 

uAnd  you,  Agnes,"  I  said,  by  and  by.  "Tell  me  of 
yourself.  You  have  hardly  ever  told  me  of  your  own  life,  in 
all  this  lapse  of  time  ! " 

"What   should   I  tell?"  she  answered,   with   her  radiant 


AGNES  AND   I,  AND  THE  OLD  TIME.      489 

smile.  "Papa  is  well.  You  see  us  here,  quiet  in  our  own 
home;  our  anxieties  set  at  rest,  our  home  restored  to  us: 
and  knowing  that,  dear  Trotwood,  you  know  all." 

"All,  Agnes?"  said  I. 

She  looked  at  me,  with  some  fluttering  wonder  in  her  face. 

"  Is  there  nothing  else,  Sister  ? "  I  said. 

Her  colour,  which  had  just  now  faded,  returned,  and  faded 
again.  She  smiled ;  with  a  quiet  sadness,  I  thought ;  and 
shook  her  head. 

I  had  sought  to  lead  her  to  what  my  aunt  had  hinted  at; 
for,  sharply  painful  to  me  as  it  must  be  to  receive  that  con 
fidence,  I  was  to  discipline  my  heart,  and  do  my  duty  to  her. 
I  saw,  however,  that  she  was  uneasy,  and  I  let  it  pass. 

"You  have  much  to  do,  dear  Agnes?" 

"  With  my  school  ? "  said  she,  looking  up  again,  in  all  her 
bright  composure. 

"  Yes.     It  is  laborious,  is  it  not  ? " 

"  The  labour  is  so  pleasant,"  she  returned,  "  that  it  is 
scarcely  grateful  in  me  to  call  it  by  that  name." 

"  Nothing  good  is  difficult  to  you,"  said  I. 

Her  colour  came  and  went  once  more;  and  once  more,  as 
she  bent  her  head,  I  saw  the  same  sad  smile. 

"You  will  wait  and  see  papa,"  said  Agnes,  cheerfully, 
"  and  pass  the  day  with  us  ?  Perhaps  you  will  sleep  in  your 
own  room  ?  We  always  call  it  yours." 

I  could  not  do  that,  having  promised  to  ride  back  to  my 
aunf  s,  at  night ;  but  I  would  pass  the  day  there,  joyfully. 

"  I  must  be  a  prisoner  for  a  little  while,"  said  Agnes,  "  but 
here  are  the  old  books,  Trotwood,  and  the  old  music." 

"Even  the  old  flowers  are  here,"  said  I,  looking  round; 
"or  the  old  kinds." 

"  I  have  found  a  pleasure,"  returned  Agnes,  smiling,  "  while 
you  have  been  absent,  in  keeping  everything  as  it  used  to 
be  when  we  were  children.  For  we  were  very  happy  then, 
I  think." 

"  Heaven  knows  we  were !  "  said  L 


490  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"And  every  little  thing  that  has  reminded  me  of  my 
brother,1'  said  Agnes,  with  her  cordial  eyes  turned  cheerfully 
upon  me,  "has  been  a  welcome  companion.  Even  this,'1 
showing  me  the  basket-trifle,  full  of  keys,  still  hanging  at 
her  side,  "seems  to  jingle  a  kind  of  old  tune I11 

She  smiled  again,  and  went  out  at  the  door  by  which  she 
had  come. 

It  was  for  me  to  guard  this  sisterly  affection  with  religious 
care.  It  was  all  that  I  had  left  myself,  and  it  was  a  treasure. 
If  I  once  shook  the  foundations  of  the  sacred  confidence  and 
usage,  in  virtue  of  which  it  was  given  to  me,  it  was  lost,  and 
could  never  be  recovered.  I  set  this  steadily  before  myself. 
The  better  I  loved  her,  the  more  it  behoved  me  never  to 
forget  it. 

I  walked  through  the  streets ;  and,  once  more  seeing  my 
old  adversary  the  butcher — now  a  constable,  with  his  staff 
hanging  up  in  the  shop — went  down  to  look  at  the  place 
where  I  had  fought  him ;  and  there  meditated  on  Miss 
Shepherd  and  the  eldest  Miss  Larkins,  and  all  the  idle  loves 
and  likings,  and  dislikings,  of  that  time.  Nothing  seemed  to 
have  survived  that  time  but  Agnes ;  and  she,  ever  a  star 
above  me,  was  brighter  and  higher. 

When  I  returned,  Mr.  Wickfield  had  come  home,  from  a 
garden  he  had,  a  couple  of  miles  or  so  out  of  town,  where 
he  now  employed  himself  almost  every  day.  I  found  him  as 
my  aunt  had  described  him.  We  sat  down  to  dinner,  with 
some  half-dozen  little  girls ;  and  he  seemed  but  the  shadow 
of  his  handsome  picture  on  the  wall. 

The  tranquillity  and  peace  belonging,  of  old,  to  that  quiet 
ground  in  my  memory,  pervaded  it  again.  When  dinner  was 
done,  Mr.  Wickfield  taking  no  wine,  and  I  desiring  none,  we 
went  up-stairs ;  where  Agnes  and  her  little  charges  sang  and 
played,  and  worked.  After  tea  the  children  left  us;  and  we 
three  sat  together,  talking  of  the  bygone  days. 

"  My  part  in  them,11  said  Mr.  Wickfield,  shaking  his  white 
head,  "  has  much  matter  for  regret — for  deep  regret,  and 


SORROWFUL  MEMORIES.  491 

deep  contrition,  Trotwood,  you  well  know.  But  I  would  not 
cancel  it,  if  it  were  in  my  power." 

I  could  readily  believe  that,  looking  at  the  face  beside  him. 

"  I  should  cancel  with  it,11  he  pursued,  "  such  patience  and 
devotion,  such  fidelity,  such  a  child's  love,  as  I  must  not 
forget,  no !  even  to  forget  myself." 

"  I  understand  you,  sir,"  I  softly  said.  "  I  hold  it — I  have 
always  held  it — in  veneration." 

"  But  no  one  knows,  not  even  you,"  he  returned,  "  how  much 
she  has  done,  how  much  she  has  undergone,  how  hard  she 
has  striven.  Dear  Agnes  ! " 

She  had  put  her  hand  entreatingly  on  his  arm,  to  stop 
him ;  and  was  very,  very  pale. 

"  Well,  well ! "  he  said  with  a  sigh,  dismissing,  as  I  then 
saw,  some  trial  she  had  borne,  or  was  yet  to  bear,  in  con 
nexion  with  what  my  aunt  had  told  me.  "  Well !  I  have 
never  told  you,  Trotwood,  of  her  mother.  Has  any  one  ?  " 

"Never,  sir." 

"  It's  not  much — though  it  was  much  to  suffer.  She 
married  me  in  opposition  to  her  father's  wish,  and  he  re 
nounced  her.  She  prayed  him  to  forgive  her,  before  my 
Agnes  came  into  this  world.  He  was  a  very  hard  man,  and 
her  mother  had  long  been  dead.  He  repulsed  her.  He 
broke  her  heart." 

Agnes  leaned  upon  his  shoulder,  and  stole  her  arm  about 
his  neck. 

"  She  had  an  affectionate  and  gentle  heart,"  he  said ;  "  and 
it  was  broken.  I  knew  its  tender  nature  very  well.  No  one 
could,  if  I  did  not.  She  loved  me  dearly,  but  was  never 
happy.  She  was  always  labouring,  in  secret,  under  this 
distress;  and  being  delicate  and -downcast  at  the  time  of  his 
last  repulse — for  it  was  not  the  first,  by  many — pined  away 
and  died.  She  left  me  Agnes,  two  weeks  old ;  and  the  grey 
hair  that  you  recollect  me  with,  when  you  first  came." 

He  kissed  Agnes  on  her  cheek. 

"My  love  for  my  dear  child  was  a  diseased  love,  but  my 


492  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

mind  was  all  unhealthy  then.  I  say  no  more  of  that.  I  am 
not  speaking  of  myself,  Trotwood,  but  of  her  mother,  and  of 
her.  If  I  give  you  any  clue  to  what  I  am,  or  to  what  I  have 
been,  you  will  unravel  it,  I  know.  What  Agnes  is,  I  need 
not  say.  I  have  always  read  something  of  her  poor  mother's 
story,  in  her  character ;  and  so  I  tell  it  you  to-night,  when 
we  three  are  again  together,  after  such  great  changes.  I 
have  told  it  all." 

His  bowed  head,  and  her  angel-face  and  filial  duty,  derived 
a  more  pathetic  meaning  from  it  than  they  had  had  before. 
If  I  had  wanted  anything  by  which  to  mark  this  night  of 
our  re-union,  I  should  have  found  it  in  this. 

Agnes  rose  up  from  her  fathers  side,  before  long;  and 
going  softly  to  her  piano,  played  some  of  the  old  airs  to 
which  we  had  often  listened  in  that  place. 

"  Have  you  any  intention  of  going  away  again  ? "  Agnes 
asked  me,  as  I  was  standing  by. 

"  What  does  my  sister  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not/1 

"Then  I  have  no  such  intention,  Agnes." 

"  I  think  you  ought  not,  Trotwood,  since  you  ask  me,"  she 
said,  mildly.  "  Your  growing  reputation  and  success  enlarge 
your  power  of  doing  good ;  and  if  /  could  spare  my  brother," 
with  her  eyes  upon  me,  "perhaps  the  time  could  not." 

"What  I  am,  you  have  made  me,  Agnes.  You  should 
know  best." 

"  /  made  you,  Trotwood  ?  " 

"Yes!  Agnes,  my  dear  girl!"  I  said,  bending  over  her. 
"I  tried  to  tell  you,  when  we  met  to-day,  something  that 
has  been  in  my  thoughts  since  Dora  died.  You  remember, 
when  you  came  down  to  me  in  our  little  room — pointing 
upward,  Agnes?" 

"  Oh,  Trotwood ! "  she  returned,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
"  So  loving,  so  confiding,  and  so  young !  Can  I  ever 
forget?" 

"As  you  were  then,  my  sister,  I  have  often  thought  since, 


POINTING   UPWARD.  493 

you  have  ever  been  to  me.  Ever  pointing  upward,  Agnes; 
ever  leading  me  to  something  better;  ever  directing  me  to 
higher  things ! " 

She  only  shook  her  head;  through  her  tears  I  saw  the 
same  sad  quiet  smile. 

"And  I  am  so  grateful  to  you  for  it,  Agnes,  so  bound  to 
you,  that  there  is  no  name  for  the  affection  of  my  heart,  I 
want  you  to  know,  yet  don't  know  how  to  tell  you,  that  all 
my  life  long  I  shall  look  up  to  you,  and  be  guided  by  you, 
as  I  have  been  through  the  darkness  that  is  past.  Whatever 
betides,  whatever  pew  ties  you  may  form,  whatever  changes 
may  come  between  us,  I  shall  always  look  to  you,  and  love 
you,  as  I  do  now,  and  have  always  done.  You  will  always 
be  my  solace  and  resource  as  you  have  always  been.  Until 
I  die,  my  dearest  sister,  I  shall  see  you  always  before  me, 
pointing  upward ! " 

She  put  her  hand  in  mine,  and  told  me  she  was  proud  of 
me,  and  of  what  I  said;  although  I  praised  her  very  far 
beyond  her  worth.  Then  she  went  on  softly  playing,  but 
without  removing  her  eyes  from  me. 

"  Do  you  know,  what  I  have  heard  to-night,  Agnes,"  said 
I,  "strangely  seems  to  be  a  part  of  the  feeling  with  which 
I  regarded  you  when  I  saw  you  first — with  which  I  sat  beside 
you  in  my  rough  school  days  ? " 

"You  knew  I  had  no  mother,"  she  replied  with  a  smile, 
"and  felt  kindly  towards  me." 

"  More  than  that,  Agnes,  I  knew,  almost  as  if  I  had  known 
this  story,  that  there  was  something  inexplicably  gentle  and 
softened,  surrounding  you ;  something  that  might  have  been 
sorrowful  in  some  one  else  (as  I  can  now  understand  it  was), 
but  was  not  so  in  you." 

She  softly  played  on,  looking  at  me  still. 

"  Will  you  laugh  at  my  cherishing  such  fancies,  Agnes  ? " 

"No!" 

"  Or  at  my  saying  that  I  really  believe  I  felt,  even 
then,  that  you  could  be  faithfully  affectionate  against  all 


494  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

discouragement,  and  never  cease  to  be  so,  until  you  ceased 
to  live  ? — Will  you  laugh  at  such  a  dream  ?  " 

"Oh,  no!     Oh,  no!" 

For  an  instant,  a  distressful  shadow  crossed  her  face ;  but, 
even  in  the  start  it  gave  me,  it  was  gone ;  and  she  was 
playing  on,  and  looking  at  me  with  her  own  calm  smile. 

As  I  rode  back  in  the  lonely  night,  the  wind  going  by  me 
like  a  restless  memory,  I  thought  of  this,  and  feared  she  was 
not  happy.  /  was  not  happy ;  but,  thus  far,  I  had  faith 
fully  set  the  seal  upon  the  Past,  and,  thinking  of  her,  point 
ing  upward,  thought  of  her  as  pointing  to  that  sky  above 
me,  where,  in  the  mystery  to  come,  I  might  yet  love  her 
with  a  love  unknown  on  earth,  and  tell  her  what  the  strife 
had  been  within  me  when  I  loved  her  here. 


CHAPTER  LXL 

I    AM    SHOWN    TWO    INTERESTING    PENITENTS, 

FOR  a  time — at  all  events  until  my  book  should  be  completed, 
which  would  be  the  work  of  several  months — I  took  up  my 
abode  in  my  aunt's  house  at  Dover;  and  there,  sitting  in 
the  window  from  which  I  had  looked  out  at  the  moon  upon 
the  sea,  when  that  roof  first  gave  me  shelter,  I  quietly 
pursued  my  task. 

In  pursuance  of  my  intention  of  referring  to  my  own 
fictions  only  when  their  course  should  incidentally  connect 
itself  with  the  progress  of  my  story,  I  do  not  enter  on  the 
aspirations,  the  delights,  anxieties,  and  triumphs  of  my  art. 
That  I  truly  devoted  myself  to  it  with  my  strongest  earnest 
ness,  and  bestowed  upon  it  every  energy  of  my  soul,  I  have 
already  said.  If  the  books  I  have  written  be  of  any  worth, 
they  will  supply  the  rest.  I  shall  otherwise  have  written  to 
poor  purpose,  and  the  rest  will  be  of  interest  to  no  one. 

Occasionally  I  went  to  London;  to  lose  myself  in  the 
swarm  of  life  there,  or  to  consult  with  Twiddles  •  on  some 
business  point.  He  had  managed  for  me,  in  my  absence, 
with  the  soundest  judgment;  and  my  worldly  affairs  were 
prospering.  As  my  notoriety  began  to  bring  upon  me  an 
enormous  quantity  of  letters  from  people  of  whom  I  had  no 
knowledge — chiefly  about  nothing,  and  extremely  difficult  to 
answer — I  agreed  with  Traddles  to  have  my  name  painted 
up  on  his  door,  There,  the  devoted  postman  on  that  beat 


496  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

delivered  bushels  of  letters  for  me;  and  there,  at  intervals, 
I  laboured  through  them,  like  a  Home  Secretary  of  State 
without  the  salary. 

Among  this  correspondence,  there  dropped  in,  every  now 
and  then,  an  obliging  proposal  from  one  of  the  numerous 
outsiders  always  lurking  about  the  Commons,  to  practise 
under  cover  of  my  name  (if  I  would  take  the  necessary  steps 
remaining  to  make  a  proctor  of  myself),  and  pay  me  a  per 
centage  on  the  profits.  But  I  declined  these  offers;  being 
already  aware  that  there  were  plenty  of  such  covert  prac 
titioners  in  existence,  and  considering  the  Commons  quite  bad 
enough,  without  my  doing  anything  to  make  it  worse. 

The  girls  had  gone  home,  when  my  name  burst  into  bloom 
on  Traddles's  door;  and  the  sharp  boy  looked,  all  day,  as  if 
he  had  never  heard  of  Sophy,  shut  up  in  a  back  room, 
glancing  down  from  her  work  into  a  sooty  little  strip  of 
garden  with  a  pump  in  it.  But,  there  I  always  found  her, 
the  same  bright  housewife;  often  humming  her  Devonshire 
ballads  when  no  strange  foot  was  coming  up  the  stairs,  and 
blunting  the  sharp  boy  in  his  official  closet  with  melody. 

I  wondered,  at  first,  why  I  so  often  found  Sophy  writing 
in  a  copy-book;  and  why  she  always  shut  it  up  when  I 
appeared,  and  hurried  it  into  the  table-drawer.  But  the 
secret  soon  came  out.  One  day,  Traddles  (who  had  just 
come  home  through  the  drizzling  sleet  from  Court)  took  a 
paper  out  of  his  desk,  and  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  that 
handwriting  ? 

"  Oh,  dorCt)  Tom ! "  cried  Sophy,  who  was  warming  his 
slippers  before  the  fire. 

"  My  dear,"  returned  Tom,  in  a  delighted  state,  "  why 
not  ?  What  do  you  say  to  that  writing,  Copperfield  ?  " 

"It's  extraordinarily  legal  and  formal,11  said  I.  "I  don't 
think  I  ever  saw  such  a  stiff  hand.11 

"Not  like  a  lady's  hand,  is  it?11  said  Traddles. 

"A  lady's!11  I  repeated.  "Bricks  and  mortar  are  more 
like  a  lady's  hand  ! 11 


DEAR  OLD  TRADDLES'S  HAPPINESS.       497 

Traddles  broke  into  a  rapturous  laugh,  and  informed  me 
that  it  was  Sophy's  writing;  that  Sophy  had  vowed  and 
declared  he  would  need  a  copying-clerk  soon,  and  she  would 
be  that  clerk;  that  she  had  acquired  this  hand  from  a 
pattern;  and  that  she  could  throw  off — I  forget  how  many 
folios  an  hour.  Sophy  was  very  much  confused  by  my  being 
told  all  this,  and  said  that  when  "Tom""  was  made  a  judge 
he  wouldn't  be  so  ready  to  proclaim  it.  Which  "Tom" 
denied;  averring  that  he  should  always  be  equally  proud  of 
it,  under  all  circumstances. 

"What  a  thoroughly  good  and  charming  wife  she  is,  my 
dear  Traddles ! "  said  I,  when  she  had  gone  away,  laughing. 

"My  dear  Copper-field,"  returned  Traddles,  "she  is,  with 
out  any  exception,  the  dearest  girl !  The  way  she  manages 
this  place;  her  punctuality,  domestic  knowledge,  economy, 
and  order ;  her  cheerfulness,  Copperfield  ! " 

"Indeed,  you  have  reason  to  commend  her!"  I  returned. 
"You  are  a  happy  fellow.  I  believe  you  make  yourselves, 
and  each  other,  two  of  the  happiest  people  in  the  world." 

"I  am  sure  we  are  two  of  the  happiest  people,"  returned 
Traddles.  "I  admit  that,  at  all  events.  Bless  my  soul, 
when  I  see  her  getting  up  by  candle-light  on  these  dark 
mornings,  busying  herself  in  the  day's  arrangements,  going 
out  to  market  before  the  clerks  come  into  the  Inn,  caring 
for  no  weather,  devising  the  most  capital  little  dinners  out 
of  the  plainest  materials,  making  puddings  and  pies,  keeping 
everything  in  its  right  place,  always  so  neat  and  onmmental 
herself,  sitting  up  at  night  with  me  if  it's  ever  so  late,  sweet- 
tempered  and  encouraging  always,  and  all  for  me,  I  positively 
sometimes  can't  believe  it,  Copperfield ! " 

He  was  tender  of  the  very  slippers  she  had  been  warming, 
as  he  put  them  on,  and  stretched  his  feet  enjoyingly  upon 
the  fender. 

"I  positively  sometimes  can't  believe  it,"  said  Traddles. 
"  Then,  our  pleasures !  Dear  me,  they  are  inexpensive,  but 
they  are  quite  wonderful !  When  we  are  at  home  here,  of 

VOL.  ii.  2  * 


498  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

an  evening,  and  shut  the  outer  door,  and  draw  those  curtains 
— which  she  made — where  could  we  be  more  snug?  When 
it's  fine,  and  we  go  out  for  a  walk  in  the  evening,  the  streets 
abound  in  enjoyment  for  us.  We  look  into  the  glittering 
windows  of  the  jewellers'*  shops ;  and  I  show  Sophy  which  of 
the  diamond-eyed  serpents,  coiled  up  on  white  satin  rising 
grounds,  I  would  give  her  if  I  could  afford  it;  and  Sophy 
shows  me  which  of  the  gold  watches  that  are  capped  and 
jewelled  and  engine-turned,  and  possessed  of  the  horizontal 
lever-escape-movement,  and  all  sorts  of  things,  she  would  buy 
for  me  if  she  could  aiford  it;  and  we  pick  out  the  spoons 
and  forks,  fish-slices,  butter-knives,  and  sugar-tongs,  we  should 
both  prefer  if  we  could  both  afford  it ;  and  really  we  go  away 
as  if  we  had  got  them !  Then,  when  we  stroll  into  the 
squares,  and  great  streets,  and  see  a  house  to  let,  sometimes 
we  look  up  at  it,  and  say,  how  would  that  do,  if  I  was  made 
a  judge  ?  And  we  parcel  it  out — such  a  room  for  us,  such 
rooms  for  the  girls,  and  so  forth ;  until  we  settle  to  our 
satisfaction  that  it  would  do,  or  it  wouldn't  do,  as  the  case 
may  be.  Sometimes,  we  go  at  half-price  to  the  pit  of  the 
theatre — the  very  smell  of  which  is  cheap,  in  my  opinion,  at 
the  money — and  there  we  thoroughly  enjoy  the  play :  which 
Sophy  believes  every  word  of,  and  so  do  I.  In  walking  home, 
perhaps  we  buy  a  little  bit  of  something  at  a  cook's-shop, 
or  a  little  lobster  at  the  fishmonger's,  and  bring  it  here,  and 
make  a  splendid  supper,  chatting  about  what  we  have  seen. 
Now,  you  know,  Copperfield,  if  I  was  Lord  Chancellor,  we 
couldn't  do  this!" 

"You  would  do  something,  whatever  you  were,  my  dear 
Traddles,"  thought  I,  "  that  would  be  pleasant  and  amiable. 
And  by  the  way,"  I  said  aloud,  "  I  suppose  you  never  draw 
any  skeletons  now  ?  " 

"Really,"  replied  Traddles,  laughing,  and  reddening,  "I 
can't  wholly  deny  that  I  do,  my  dear  Copperfield.  For,  being 
in  one  of  the  back  rows  of  the  King's  Bench  the  other  day, 
with  a  pen  in  my  hand,  the  fancy  came  into  my  head  to  try 


A  LETTER  FROM  MR.  CREAKLE.     499 

how  I  had  preserved  that  accomplishment.  And  I  am  afraid 
there's  a  skeleton — in  a  wig — on  the  ledge  of  the  desk." 

After  we  had  both  laughed  heartily,  Traddles  wound  up 
by  looking  with  a  smile  at  the  fire,  and  saying,  in  his  for 
giving  way,  "  Old  Creakle  ! " 

"I  have  a  letter  from  that  old — Rascal  here,"  said  I.  For 
I  never  was  less  disposed  to  forgive  him  the  way  he  used  to 
batter  Traddles,  than  when  I  saw  Traddles  so  ready  to  for 
give  him  himself. 

"From  Creakle  the  schoolmaster?"  exclaimed  Traddles. 
"No!" 

"  Among  the  persons  who  are  attracted  to  me  in  my  rising 
fame  and  fortune,"  said  I,  looking  over  my  letters,  "and 
who  discover  that  they  were  always  much  attached  to  me, 
is  the  self-same  Creakle.  He  is  not  a  schoolmaster  now, 
Traddles.  He  is  retired.  He  is  a  Middlesex  Magistrate." 

I  thought  Traddles  might  be  surprised  to  hear  it,  but  he 
was  not  so  at  all. 

"How  do  you  suppose  he  comes  to  be  a  Middlesex  Magis 
trate?"  said  I. 

"Oh  dear  me!"  replied  Traddles,  "it  would  be  very 
difficult  to  answer  that  question.  Perhaps  he  voted  for 
somebody,  or  lent  money  to  somebody,  or  bought  something 
of  somebody,  or  otherwise  obliged  somebody,  or  jobbed  for 
somebody,  who  knew  somebody  who  got  the  lieutenant  of 
the  county  to  nominate  him  for  the  commission." 

"  On  the  commission  he  is,  at  any  rate,"  said  I.  "  And  he 
;  writes  to  me  here,  that  he  will  be  glad  to  show  me,  in 
operation,  the  only  true  system  of  prison  discipline ;  the 
only  unchallengeable  way  of  making  sincere  and  lasting  con 
verts  and  penitents — which,  you  know,  is  by  solitary  confine 
ment.  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  To  the  system  ?  "  inquired  Traddles,  looking  grave. 

"No.  To  my  accepting  the  offer,  and  your  going  with 
me?" 

"I  don't  object,"  said  Traddles. 


500  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Then  I'll  write  to  say  so.  You  remember  (to  say  nothing 
of  our  treatment)  this  same  Creakle  turning  his  son  out  of 
doors,  I  suppose,  and  the  life  he  used  to  lead  his  wife  and 
daughter?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  Traddles. 

"Yet,  if  you'll  read  his  letter,  youll  find  he  is  the 
tenderest  of  men  to  prisoners  convicted  of  the  whole  calendar 
of  felonies,"  said  I;  "though  I  can't  find  that  his  tenderness 
extends  to  any  other  class  of  created  beings." 

Traddles  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  was  not  at  all  sur 
prised.  I  had  not  expected  him  to  be,  and  was  not  surprised 
myself;  or  my  observation  of  similar  practical  satires  would 
have  been  but  scanty.  We  arranged  the  time  of  our  visit, 
and  I  wrote  accordingly  to  Mr.  Creakle  that  evening. 

On  the  appointed  day — I  think  it  was  the  next  day,  but 
no  matter — Traddles  and  I  repaired  to  the  prison  where  Mr. 
Creakle  was  powerful.  It  was  an  immense  and  solid  building, 
erected  at  a  vast  expense.  I  could  not  help  thinking,  as  we 
approached  the  gate,  what  an  uproar  would  have  been  made 
in  the  country,  if  any  deluded  man  had  proposed  to  spend 
one  half  the  money  it  had  cost,  on  the  erection  of  an  in 
dustrial  school  for  the  young,  or  a  house  of  refuge  for  the 
deserving  old. 

In  an  office  that  might  have  been  on  the  ground-floor  of 
the  Tower  of  Babel,  it  was  so  massively  constructed,  we  were 
presented  to  our  old  schoolmaster;  who  was  one  of  a  group, 
composed  of  two  or  three  of  the  busier  sort  of  magistrates, 
and  some  visitors  they  had  brought.  He  received  me,  like 
a  man  who  had  formed  my  mind  in  bygone  years,  and  had 
always  loved  me  tenderly.  On  my  introducing  Traddles, 
Mr.  Creakle  expressed,  in  like  manner,  but  in  an  inferior 
degree,  that  he  had  always  been  Traddles's  guide,  philosopher, 
and  friend.  Our  venerable  instructor  was  a  great  deal  older, 
and  not  improved  in  appearance.  His  face  was  as  fiery  as 
ever ;  his  eyes  were  as  small,  and  rather  deeper  set.  The 
scanty,  wet-looking  grey  hair,  by  which  I  remembered  Jiim, 


THE  MODEL  SYSTEM.  501 

was  almost  gone ;  and  the  thick  veins  in  his  bald  head  were 
none  the  more  agreeable  to  look  at. 

After  some  conversation  among  these  gentlemen,  from 
which  I  might  have  supposed  that  there  was  nothing  in  the 
world  to  be  legitimately  taken  into  account  but  the  supreme 
comfort  of  prisoners,  at  any  expense,  and  nothing  on  the 
wide  earth  to  be  done  outside  prison-doors,  we  began  our 
inspection.  It  being  then  just  dinner-time,  we  went,  first 
into  the  great  kitchen,  where  every  prisoner's  dinner  was  in 
course  of  being  set  out  separately  (to  be  handed  to  him  in 
his  cell),  with  the  regularity  and  precision  of  clock-work.  I 
said  aside,  to  Traddles,  that  I  wondered  whether  it  occurred 
to  anybody,  that  there  was  a  striking  contrast  between  these 
plentiful  repasts  of  choice  quality,  and  the  dinners,  not  to 
say  of  paupers,  but  of  soldiers,  sailors,  labourers,  the  great 
bulk  of  the  honest,  working  community;  of  whom  not  one 
man  in  five  hundred  ever  dined  half  so  well.  But  I  learned 
that  the  "  system "  required  high  living ;  and,  in  short,  to 
dispose  of  the  system,  once  for  all,  I  found  that  on  that  head 
and  on  all  others,  "  the  system  "  put  an  end  to  all  doubts, 
and  disposed  of  all  anomalies.  Nobody  appeared  to  have  the 
least  idea  that  there  was  any  other  system,  but  the  system, 
to  be  considered. 

As  we  were  going  through  some  of  the  magnificent  passages, 
I  inquired  of  Mr.  Creakle  and  his  friends  what  were  supposed 
to  be  the  main  advantages  of  this  all-governing  and  universally 
over-riding  system  ?  I  found  them  to  be  the  perfect  isolation 
of  prisoners — so  that  no  one  man  in  confinement  there,  knew 
anything  about  another ;  and  the  reduction  of  prisoners  to  a 
wholesome  state  of  mind,  leading  to  sincere  contrition  and 
repentance. 

Now,  it  struck  me,  when  we  began  to  visit  individuals  in 
their  cells,  and  to  traverse  the  passages  in  which  those  cells 
were,  and  to  have  the  manner  of  the  going  to  chapel  and  so 
forth,  explained  to  us,  that  there  was  a  strong  probability  of 
the  prisoners  knowing  a  good  deal  about  each  other,  and  of 


502  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

their  carrying  on  a  pretty  complete  system  of  intercourse. 
This,  at  the  time  I  write,  has  been  proved,  I  believe,  to  be 
the  case ;  but,  as  it  would  have  been  flat  blasphemy  against 
the  system  to  have  hinted  such  a  doubt  then,  I  looked  out 
for  the  penitence  as  diligently  as  I  could. 

And  here  again,  I  had  great  misgivings.  I  found  as 
prevalent  a  fashion  in  the  form  of  the  penitence,  as  I  had 
left  outside  in  the  forms  of  the  coats  and  waistcoats  in  the 
windows  of  the  tailors'  shops.  I  found  a  vast  amount  of 
profession,  varying  very  little  in  character :  varying  very 
little  (which  I  thought  exceedingly  suspicious)  even  in  words. 
I  found  a  great  many  foxes,  disparaging  whole  vineyards  of 
inaccessible  grapes ;  but  I  found  very  few  foxes  whom  I  would 
have  trusted  within  reach  of  a  bunch.  Above  all,  I  found 
that  the  most  professing  men  were  the  greatest  objects  of 
interest:  and  that  their  conceit,  their  vanity,  their  want  of 
excitement,  and  their  love  of  deception  (which  many  of  them 
possessed  to  an  almost  incredible  extent,  as  their  histories 
showed),  all  prompted  to  these  professions,  and  were  all 
gratified  by  them. 

However,  I  heard  so  repeatedly,  in  the  course  of  our 
goings  to  and  fro,  of  a  certain  Number  Twenty  Seven,  who 
was  the  favourite,  and  who  really  appeared  to  be  a  Model 
Prisoner,  that  I  resolved  to  suspend  my  judgment  until  I 
should  see  Twenty  Seven.  Twenty  Eight,  I  understood,  was 
also  a  bright  particular  star ;  but  it  was  his  misfortune  to 
have  his  glory  a  little  dimmed  by  the  extraordinary  lustre 
of  Twenty  Seven.  I  heard  so  much  of  Twenty  Seven,  of  his 
pious  admonitions  to  everybody  around  him,  and  of  the 
beautiful  letters  he  constantly  wrote  to  his  mother  (whom  he 
seemed  to  consider  in  a  very  bad  way),  that  I  became  quite 
impatient  to  see  him. 

I  had  to  restrain  my  impatience  for  some  time,  on  account 
of  Twenty  Seven  being  reserved  for  a  concluding  effect.  But, 
at  last,  we  came  to  the  door  of  his  cell ;  and  Mr.  Creakle, 
looking  through  a  little  hole  in  it,  reported  to  us,  in  a 


NUMBER  TWENTY    SEVEN.  503 

state  of  the  greatest  admiration,  that  he  was  reading  a 
Hymn  Book. 

There  was  such  a  rush  of  heads  immediately,  to  see  Number 
Twenty  Seven  reading  his  Hymn  Book,  that  the  little  hole 
was  blocked  up,  six  or  seven  heads  deep.  To  remedy  this 
inconvenience,  and  give  us  an  opportunity  of  conversing  with 
Twenty  Seven  in  all  his  purity,  Mr.  Creakle  directed  the 
door  of  the  cell  to  be  unlocked,  and  Twenty  Seven  to  be 
invited  out  into  the  passage.  This  was  done ;  and  whom 
should  Traddles  and  I  then  behold,  to  our  amazement,  in 
this  converted  Number  Twenty  Seven,  but  Uriah  Keep"! 

He  knew  us  directly ;  and  said,  as  he  came  out — with  the 
old  writhe, — 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Copperfield  ?  How  do  you  do, 
Mr.  Traddles?" 

This  recognition  caused  a  general  admiration  in  the  party. 
I  rather  thought  that  every  one  was  struck  by  his  not  being 
proud,  and  taking  notice  of  us. 

"Well,  Twenty  Seven,"  said  Mr.  Creakle,  mournfully  ad 
miring  him.  "  How  do  you  find  yourself  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  umble,  sir ! "  replied  Uriah  Heep. 

"  You  are  always  so,  Twenty  Seven,"  said  Mr.  Creakle. 

Here,  another  gentleman  asked,  with  extreme  anxiety: 
"  Are  you  quite  comfortable  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  thank  you,  sir ! "  said  Uriah  Heep,  looking  in  that 
direction.  "Far  more  comfortable  here,  than  ever  I  was 
outside.  I  see  my  follies  now,  sir.  That's  what  makes  me 
comfortable." 

Several  gentlemen  were  much  affected ;  and  a  third  ques 
tioner,  forcing  himself  to  the  front,  inquired  with  extreme 
feeling:  "How  do  you  find  the  beef?" 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  Uriah,  glancing  in  the  new 
direction  of  this  voice,  "  it  was  tougher  yesterday  than  I  could 
wish;  but  it's  my  duty  to  bear.  I  have  committed  follies, 
gentlemen,"  said  Uriah,  looking  round  with  a  meek  smile, 
"  and  I  ought  to  bear  the  consequences  without  repining." 


504  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

A  murmur,  partly  of  gratification  at  Twenty  Seven's 
celestial  state  of  mind,  and  partly  of  indignation  against  the 
Contractor  who  had  given  him  any  cause  of  complaint  (a 
note  of  which  was  immediately  made  by  Mr.  Creakle),  having 
subsided,  Twenty  Seven  stood  in  the  midst  of  us,  as  if  he 
felt  himself  the  principal  object  of  merit  in  a  highly  meri 
torious  museum.  That  we,  the  neophytes,  might  have  an 
excess  of  light  shining  upon  us  all  at  once,  orders  were  given 
to  let  out  Twenty  Eight. 

I  had  been  so  much  astonished  already,  that  I  only  felt 
a  kind  of  resigned  wonder  when  Mr.  Littimer  walked  forth, 
reading  a  good  book ! 

"Twenty  Eight,""  said  a  gentleman  in  spectacles,  who  had 
not  yet  spoken,  "you  complained  last  week,  my  good  fellow, 
of  the  cocoa.  How  has  it  been  since  ?  " 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Littimer,  "  it  has  been  better 
made.  If  I  might  take  the  liberty  of  saying  so,  sir,  I  don't 
think  the  milk  which  is  boiled  with  it  is  quite  genuine;  but 
I  am  aware,  sir,  that  there  is  great  adulteration  of  milk,  in 
London,  and  that  the  article  in  a  pure  state  is  difficult  to 
be  obtained." 

It  appeared  to  me  that  the  gentleman  in  spectacles  backed 
his  Twenty  Eight  against  Mr.  Creakle^  Twenty  Seven,  for 
each  of  them  took  his  own  man  in  hand. 

"  What  is  your  state  of  mind,  Twenty  Eight  ? "  said  the 
questioner  in  spectacles. 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Littimer ;  "  I  see  my 
follies  now,  sir.  I  am  a  good  deal  troubled  when  I  think  of 
the  sins  of  my  former  companions,  sir;  but  I  trust  they  may 
find  forgiveness." 

"You  are  quite  happy  yourself?"  said  the  questioner, 
nodding  encouragement. 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Littimer. 
"  Perfectly  so." 

"  Is  there  anything  at  all  on  your  mind,  now  ? "  said  the 
questioner.  "  If  so,  mention  it,  Twenty  Eight." 


t    Twenty 
CTiation  against  Hie 


er  ;    *"  I   aee   my 

-vvheii  I  think  of 
I  trust  the    may 


You    HIV    quite-   happy   yourself?111    said    the   questioner, 
nntuUng  encouragement. 

ik  I  am  much  obliged  to  you.  sir/1  returnecl  Mr."  JLittimen 
41  Terfect!)-  so7  * 

'•'  Is  thf-re  anything  at  all  on  your  mind,  now  ?  '" 
questioner.     *4  If  so,  mention  it,  Twenty  Eight."" 


THE  MODEL  PENITENT.  507 

that  was  proud,  and  meek  among  them  that  was  violent — 
you  was  violent  to  me  yourself,  Mr.  Copperfield.  Once,  you 
struck  me  a  blow  in  the  face,  you  know." 

General  commiseration.  Several  indignant  glances  directed 
at  me. 

"  But  I  forgive  you,  Mr.  Copperfield,"  said  Uriah,  making 
his  forgiving  nature  the  subject  of  a  most  impious  and  awful 
parallel,  which  I  shall  not  record.  "  I  forgive  everybody. 
It  would  ill  become  me  to  bear  malice.  I  freely  forgive  you, 
and  I  hope  you'll  curb  your  passions  in  future.  I  hope  Mr. 
W.  will  repent,  and  Miss  W.,  and  all  of  that  sinful  lot. 
You've  been  visited  with  affliction,  and  I  hope  it  may  do 
you  good ;  but  you'd  better  have  come  here.  Mr.  W.  had 
better  have  come  here,  and  Miss  W.  too.  The  best  wish  I 
could  give  you,  Mr.  Copperfield,  and  give  all  of  you  gentlemen, 
is,  that  you  could  be  took  up  and  brought  here.  When  I 
think  of  my  past  follies,  and  my  present  state,  I  am  sure 
it  wrould  be  best  for  you.  I  pity  all  who  ain't  brought 
here!" 

He  sneaked  back  into  his  cell,  amidst  a  little  chorus  of 
approbation  ;  and  both  Traddles  and  I  experienced  a  great 
relief  when  he  was  locked  in. 

It  was  a  characteristic  feature  in  this  repentance,  that  I 
was  fain  to  ask  what  these  two  men  had  done,  to  be  there 
at  all.  That  appeared  to  be  the  last  thing  about  which 
they  had  anything  to  say.  I  addressed  myself  to  one  of  the 
two  warders,  who,  I  suspected,  from  certain  latent  indications 
in  their  faces,  knew  pretty  well  what  all  this  stir  was  worth. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  I,  as  we  walked  along  the  passage, 
"what  felony  was  Number  Twenty  Seven's  last  'folly?" 

The  answer  was  that  it  was  a  Bank  case. 

"A  fraud  on  the  Bank  of  England  ?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  sir.  Fraud,  forgery,  and  conspiracy.  He  and  some 
others.  He  set  the  others  on.  It  was  a  deep  plot  for  a 
large  sum.  Sentence,  transportation  for  life.  Twenty  Seven 
was  the  knowingest  bird  of  the  lot,  and  had  very  nearly  kept 


508  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

himself  safe  ;  but  not  quite.     The  Bank  was  just  able  to  put 
salt  upon  his  tail — and  only  just." 

"  Do  you  know  Twenty  Eight's  offence  ?  " 

"  Twenty  Eight,"  returned  my  informant,  speaking  through 
out  in  a  low  tone,  and  looking  over  his  shoulder  as  we  walked 
along  the  passage,  to  guard  himself  from  being  overheard,  in 
such  an  unlawful  reference  to  these  Immaculates,  by  Creakle 
and  the  rest;  "Twenty  Eight  (also  transportation)  got  a 
place,  and  robbed  a  young  master  of  a  matter  of  two  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  in  money  and  valuables,  the  night  before 
they  were  going  abroad.  I  particularly  recollect  his  case, 
from  his  being  took  by  a  dwarf." 

"  A  what  ?  " 

"  A  little  woman.     I  have  forgot  her  name." 

"  Not  Mowcher  ?  " 

"  That's  it !  He  had  eluded  pursuit,  and  was  going  to 
America  in  a  flaxen  wig  and  whiskers,  and  such  a  complete 
disguise  as  never  you  see  in  all  your  born  days;  when  the 
little  woman,  being  in  Southampton,  met  him  walking  along 
the  street — picked  him  out  with  her  sharp  eye  in  a  moment 
— ran  betwixt  his  legs  to  upset  him — and  held  on  to  him 
like  grim  Death." 

"  Excellent  Miss  Mowcher  !  "  cried  I. 

"  You'd  have  said  so,  if  you  had  seen  her,  standing  on  a 
chair  in  the  witness-box  at  the  trial,  as  I  did,"  said  my  friend. 
"He  cut  her  face  right  open,  and  pounded  her  in  the  most 
brutal  manner,  when  she  took  him  ;  but  she  never  loosed  her 
hold  till  he  was  locked  up.  She  held  so  tight  to  him,  in 
fact,  that  the  officers  were  obliged  to  take  'em  both  together. 
She  gave  her  evidence  in  the  gamest  way,  and  was  highly 
complimented  by  the  Bench,  and  cheered  right  home  to  her 
lodgings.  She  said  in  Court  that  she'd  have  took  him  single- 
handed  (on  account  of  what  she  knew  concerning  him),  if  he 
had  been  Samson.  And  it's  my  belief  she  would  ! 

It  was  mine  too,  and  I  highly  respected  Miss  Mowcher 
for  it. 


REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  MODEL  SYSTEM.    509 

We  had  now  seen  all  there  was  to  see.  It  would  have 
been  in  vain  to  represent  to  such  a  man  as  the  worshipful 
Mr.  Creakle,  that  Twenty  Seven  and  Twenty  Eight  were 
perfectly  consistent  and  unchanged;  that  exactly  what  they 
were  then,  they  had  always  been  ;  that  the  hypocritical  knaves 
were  just  the  subjects  to  make  that  sort  of  profession  in  such 
a  place ;  that  they  knew  its  market-value  at  least  as  well  as 
we  did,  in  the  immediate  service  it  would  do  them  when  they 
were  expatriated ;  in  a  word,  that  it  was  a  rotten,  hollow, 
painfully  suggestive  piece  of  business  altogether.  We  left 
them  to  their  system  and  themselves,  and  went  home 
wondering. 

"Perhaps  it's  a  good  thing,  Traddles,"  said  I,  "to  have  an 
unsound  Hobby  ridden  hard;  for  it's  the  sooner  ridden  to 
death." 

I  hope  so,"  replied  Traddles. 


CHAPTER  LXII. 

A    LIGHT   SHINES    ON    MY    WAY. 

THE  year  came  round  to  Christmas-time,  and  I  had  been  at 
home  above  two  months.  I  had  seen  Agnes  frequently.  How 
ever  loud  the  general  voice  might  be  in  giving  me  encourage 
ment,  and  however  fervent  the  emotions  and  endeavours  to 
.which  it  roused  me,  I  heard  her  lightest  word  of  praise  as 
I  heard  nothing  else. 

At  least  once  a  week,  and  sometimes  oftener,  I  rode  over 
there,  and  passed  the  evening.  I  usually  rode  back  at  night ; 
for  the  old  unhappy  sense  was  always  hovering  about  me  now 
— most  sorrowfully  when  I  left  her — and  I  was  glad  to  be 
up  and  out,  rather  than  wandering  over  the  past  in  weary 
wakefulness  or  miserable  dreams.  I  wore  away  the  longest 
part  of  many  wild  sad  nights,  in  those  rides;  reviving,  as  I 
went,  the  thoughts  that  had  occupied  me  in  my  long  absence. 

Or,  if  I  were  to  say  rather  that  I  listened  to  the  echoes 
of  those  thoughts,  I  should  better  express  the  truth.  They 
spoke  to  me  from  afar  off.  I  had  put  them  at  a  distance, 
and  accepted  my  inevitable  place.  When  I  read  to  Agnes 
what  I  wrote ;  when  I  saw  her  listening  face ;  moved  her  to 
smiles  or  tears;  and  heard  her  cordial  voice  so  earnest  on 
the  shadowy  events  of  that  imaginative  world  in  which  I 
lived;  I  thought  what  a  fate  mine  might  have  been — but 
only  thought  so,  as  I  had  thought  after  I  was  married  to 
Dora,  what  I  could  have  wished  my  wife  to  be. 


MY  LOVE  AND  MY  DUTY.  511 

My  duty  to  Agnes,  who  loved  me  with  a  love,  which,  if  I 
disquieted,  I  wronged  most  selfishly  and  poorly,  and  could 
never  restore ;  my  matured  assurance  that  I,  who  had  worked 
out  my  own  destiny,  and  won  what  I  had  impetuously  set 
niy  heart  on,  had  no  right  to  murmur  and  must  bear; 
comprised  what  I  felt  and  what  I  had  learned.  But  I  loved 
her :  and  now  it  even  became  some  consolation  to  me,  vaguely 
to  conceive  a  distant  day  when  I  might  blamelessly  avow  it; 
when  all  this  should  be  over;  when  I  could  say  "Agnes,  so 
it  was  when  I  came  home ;  and  now  I  am  old,  and  I  never 
have  loved  since  ! " 

She  did  not  once  show  me  any  change  in  herself.  What 
she  always  had  been  to  me,  she  still  was ;  wholly  unaltered. 

Between  my  aunt  and  me  there  had  been  something,  in 
this  connexion,  since  the  night  of  my  return,  which  I  cannot 
call  a  restraint,  or  an  avoidance  of  the  subject,  so  much  as 
an  implied  understanding  that  we  thought  of  it  together, 
but  did  not  shape  our  thoughts  into  words.  When,  according 
to  our  old  custom,  we  sat  before  the  fire  at  night,  we  often 
fell  into  this  train ;  as  naturally,  and  as  consciously  to  each 
other,  as  if  we  had  unreservedly  said  so.  But  we  preserved 
an  unbroken  silence.  I  believed  that  she  had  read,  or  partly 
read,  my  thoughts  that  night;  and  that  she  fully  compre 
hended  why  I  gave  mine  no  more  distinct  expression. 

This  Christmas-time  being  come,  and  Agnes  having  reposed 
no  new  confidence  in  me,  a  doubt  that  had  several  times 
arisen  in  my  mind — whether  she  could  have  that  perception 
of  the  true  state  of  my  breast,  which  restrained  her  with 
the  apprehension  of  giving  me  pain — began  to  oppress  me 
heavily.  If  that  were  so,  my  sacrifice  was  nothing;  my 
plainest  obligation  to  her  unfulfilled ;  and  every  poor  action 
I  had  shrunk  from,  I  was  hourly  doing.  I  resolved  to  set 
this  right  beyond  all  doubt ; — if  such  a  barrier  were  between 
us,  to  break  it  down  at  once  with  a  determined  hand. 

It  was — what  lasting  reason  have  I  to  remember  it! — a 
cold,  harsh,  winter  day.  There  had  been  snow  some  hours 


512  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

before;  and  it  lay,  not  deep,  but  hard-frozen  on  the  ground. 
Out  at  sea,  beyond  my  window,  the  wind  blew  ruggedly 
from  the  north,  I  had  been  thinking  of  it,  sweeping  over 
those  mountain  wastes  of  snow  in  Switzerland,  then  inac 
cessible  to  any  human  foot;  and  had  been  speculating  which 
was  the  lonelier,  those  solitary  regions,  or  a  deserted  ocean. 

"Riding  to-day,  Trot?"  said  my  aunt,  putting  her  head 
in  at  the  door. 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "I  am  going  over  to  Canterbury.  It's  a 
good  day  for  a  ride/' 

"  I  hope  your  horse  may  think  so,  too,"  said  my  aunt ; 
"but  at  present  he  is  holding  down  his  head  and  his  ears, 
standing  before  the  door  there,  as  if  he  thought  his  stable 
preferable." 

My  aunt,  I  may  observe,  allowed  my  horse  on  the  forbidden 
ground,  but  had  not  at  all  relented  toward  the  donkeys. 

"  He  will  be  fresh  enough,  presently ! "  said  I. 

"  The  ride  will  do  his  master  good,  at  all  events,"  observed 
my  aunt,  glancing  at  the  papers  on  my  table.  "Ah,  child, 
you  pass  a  good  many  hours  here !  I  never  thought,  when 
I  used  to  read  books,  what  work  it  was  to  write  them." 

"It's  work  enough  to  read  them,  sometimes,"  I  returned. 
uAs  to  the  writing,  it  has  its  own  charms,  aunt." 

"  Ah  !  I  see ! "  said  my  aunt.  "  Ambition,  love  of  appro 
bation,  sympathy,  and  much  more,  I  suppose  ?  Well :  go 
along  with  you  ! " 

"Do  you  know  anything  more,"  said  I,  standing  composedly 
before  her — she  had  patted  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  sat  down 
in  my  chair — "  of  that  attachment  of  Agnes  ?  " 

She  looked  up  in  my  face  a  little  while,  before  replying : 

"I  think  I  do,  Trot." 

"  Are  you  confirmed  in  your  impression  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"I  think  I  am,  Trot." 

She  looked  so  steadfastly  at  me :  with  a  kind  of  doubt,  or 
pity,  or  suspense  in  her  affection :  that  I  summoned  the 
stronger  determination  to  show  her  a  perfectly  cheerful  face. 


I  MAKE  A  FIRM  RESOLVE.  513 

"And  what  is  more,  Trot — "  said  my  aunt. 

"Yes!" 

"I  think  Agnes  is  going  to  be  married." 

"  God  bless  her ! "  said  I,  cheerfully. 

"  God  bless  her ! "  said  my  aunt,  "  and  her  husband  too  ! " 

I  echoed  it,  parted  from  my  aunt,  went  lightly  down-stairs, 
mounted,  and  rode  away.  There  was  greater  reason  than 
before  to  do  what  I  had  resolved  to  do. 

How  well  I  recollect  the  wintry  ride  !  The  frozen  particles 
of  ice,  brushed  from  the  blades  of  grass  by  the  wind,  and 
borne  across  my  face ;  the  hard  clatter  of  the  horse's  hoofs, 
beating  a  tune  upon  the  ground ;  the  stiff-tilled  soil ;  the 
snow-drift,  lightly  eddying  in  the  chalk-pit  as  the  breeze 
ruffled  it ;  the  smoking  team  with  the  waggon  of  old  hay, 
stopping  to  breathe  on  the  hill-top,  and  shaking  their  bells 
musically ;  the  whitened  slopes  and  sweeps  of  Down-land 
lying  against  the  dark  sky,  as  if  they  were  drawn  on  a 
huge  slate! 

I  found  Agnes  alone.  The  little  girls  had  gone  to  their 
own  homes  now,  and  she  was  alone  by  the  fire,  reading.  She 
put  down  her  book  on  seeing  me  come  in ;  and  having 
welcomed  me  as  usual,  took  her  work-basket  and  sat  in  one 
of  the  old-fashioned  windows. 

I  sat  beside  her  on  the  window-seat,  and  we  talked  of  what 
I  was  doing,  and  when  it  would  be  done,  and  of  the  progress 
I  had  made  since  my  last  visit.  Agnes  was  very  cheerful ; 
and  laughingly  predicted  that  I  should  soon  become  too 
famous  to  be  talked  to,  on  such  subjects. 

"  So  I  make  the  most  of  the  present  time,  you  see,"  said 
Agnes,  "  and  talk  to  you  while  I  may." 

As  I  looked  at  her  beautiful  face,  observant  of  her  work, 
she  raised  tier  mild  clear  eyes,  and  saw  that  I  was  looking 
at  her. 

"  You  are  thoughtful  to-day,  Trotwood  ! " 

"Agnes,  shall  I  tell  you  what  about?  I  came  to  tell 
you." 

9     T 

VOL.   II.  *  L 


514  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

She  put  aside  her  work,  as  she  was  used  to  do  when  we 
were  seriously  discussing  anything;  and  gave  me  her  whole 
attention. 

"  My  dear  Agnes,  do  you  doubt  my  being  true  to  you  ?  " 

"  No  ! "  she  answered,  with  a  look  of  astonishment. 

"  Do  you  doubt  my  being  what  I  always  have  been  to 
you  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  she  answered,  as  before. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  I  tried  to  tell  you,  when  I  came 
home,  what  a  debt  of  gratitude  I  owed  you,  dearest  Agnes, 
and  how  fervently  I  felt  towards  you  ?  " 

"  I  remember  it,"  she  said,  gently,  "  very  well." 

"You  have  a  secret,"  said  I.     "Let  me  share  it,  Agnes." 

She  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  trembled. 

"  I  could  hardly  fail  to  know,  even  if  I  had  not  heard—- 
but  from  other  lips  than  yours,  Agnes,  which  seems  strange — 
that  there  is  some  one  upon  whom  you  have  bestowed  the 
treasure  of  your  love.  Do  not  shut  me  out  of  what  concerns 
your  happiness  so  nearly !  If  you  can  trust  me  as  you  say 
you  can,  and  as  I  know  you  may,  let  me  be  your  friend,  your 
brother,  in  this  matter,  of  all  others  ! " 

With  an  appealing,  almost  a  reproachful,  glance,  she  rose 
from  the  window ;  and  hurrying  across  the  room  as  if  with 
out  knowing  where,  put  her  hands  before  her  face,  and  burst 
into  such  tears  as  smote  me  to  the  heart. 

And  yet  they  awakened  something  in  me,  bringing  promise 
to  my  heart.  Without  my  knowing  why,  these  tears  allied 
themselves  with  the  quietly  sad  smile  which  was  so  fixed  in 
my  remembrance,  and  shook  me  more  with  hope  than  fear 
or  sorrow. 

"  Agnes  !     Sister !     Dearest !     What  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  Let  me  go  away,  Trotwood.  I  am  not  well.  I  am  not 
myself.  I  will  speak  to  you  by  and  by — another  time.  I 
will  write  to  you.  Don't  speak  to  me  now.  Don't !  don't ! " 

I  sought  to  recollect  what  she  had  said,  when  I  had  spoken 
to  her  on  that  former  night,  of  her  affection  needing  ng 


AGNES   HAS   A  SECRET.  515 

return.  It  seemed  a  very  world  that  I  must  search  through 
in  a  moment. 

"Agnes,  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  so,  and  think  that  I 
have  been  the  cause.  My  dearest  girl,  dearer  to  me  than 
anything  in  life,  if  you  are  unhappy,  let  me  share  your  un- 
happiness.  If  you  are  in  need  of  help  or  counsel,  let  me 
try  to  give  it  to  you.  If  you  have  indeed  a  burden  on  your 
heart,  let  me  try  to  lighten  it.  For  whom  do  I  live  now, 
Agnes,  if  it  is  not  for  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  spare  me!  I  am  not  myself!  Another  time!"  was 
all  I  could  distinguish. 

Was  it  a  selfish  error  that  was  leading  me  away  ?  Or, 
having  once  a  clue  to  hope,  was  there  something  opening  to 
me  that  I  had  not  dared  to  think  of? 

"  I  must  say  more.  I  cannot  let  you  leave  me  so !  For 
Heaven's  sake,  Agnes,  let  us  not  mistake  each  other  after  all 
these  years,  and  all  that  has  come  and  gone  with  them !  I 
must  speak  plainly.  If  you  have  any  lingering  thought  that 
I  could  envy  the  happiness  you  will  confer ;  that  I  could  not 
resign  you  to  a  dearer  protector,  of  your  own  choosing ;  that 
I  could  not,  from  my  removed  place,  be  a  contented  witness 
of  your  joy;  dismiss  it,  for  I  don't  deserve  it!  I  have  not 
suffered  quite  in  vain.  You  have  not  taught  me  quite  in 
vain.  There  is  no  alloy  of  self  in  what  I  feel  for  you.1' 

She  was  quiet  now.  In  a  little  time,  she  turned  her  pale 
face  towards  me,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  broken  here  and 
there,  but  very  clear, 

"  I  owe  it  to  your  pure  friendship  for  me,  Trotwood — which, 
indeed,  I  do  not  doubt — to  tell  you,  you  are  mistaken.  I 
can  do  no  more.  If  I  have  sometimes,  in  the  course  of  years, 
wanted  help  and  counsel,  they  have  come  to  me.  If  I  have 
sometimes  been  unhappy,  the  feeling  has  passed  away.  If  I 
have  ever  had  a  burden  on  my  heart,  it  has  been  lightened 
for  me.  If  I  have  any  secret,  it  is — no  new  one;  and  is — 
not  what  you  suppose.  I  cannot  reveal  it,  or  divide  it.  It 
has  long  been  mine,  and  must  remain  mine." 


516  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

"  Agnes  !     Stay  !     A  moment !  " 

She  was  going  away,  but  I  detained  her.  I  clasped  my 
arm  about  her  waist.  "  In  the  course  of  years  ! "  "  It  is  not 
a  new  one  !  "  New  thoughts  and  hopes  were  whirling  through 
my  mind,  and  all  the  colours  of  my  life  were  changing. 

"  Dearest  Agnes  !  Whom  I  so  respect  and  honour — whom 
I  so  devotedly  love  !  When  I  came  here  to-day,  I  thought 
that  nothing  could  have  wrested  this  confession  from  me.  I 
thought  I  could  have  kept  it  in  my  bosom  all  our  lives,  till 
we  were  old.  But,  Agnes,  if  I  have  indeed  any  new-born 
hope  that  I  may  ever  call  you  something  more  than  Sister, 
widely  different  from  Sister  ! " 

Her  tears  fell  fast ;  but  they  were  not  like  those  she  had 
lately  shed,  and  I  saw  my  hope  brighten  in  them. 

"  Agnes  !  Ever  my  guide,  and  best  support !  If  you  had 
been  more  mindful  of  yourself,  and  less  of  me,  when  we  grew 
up  here  together,  I  think  my  heedless  fancy  never  would  have 
wandered  from  you.  But  you  were  so  much  better  than  I, 
so  necessary  to  me  in  every  boyish  hope  and  disappointment, 
that  to  have  you  to  confide  in,  and  rely  upon  in  everything, 
became  a  second  nature,  supplanting  for  the  time  the  first 
and  greater  one  of  loving  you  as  I  do  !  " 

Still  weeping,  but  not  sadly— joyfully  !  And  clasped  in 
my  arms  as  she  had  never  been,  as  I  had  thought  she  never 
was  to  be  ! 

"When  I  loved  Dora — fondly,  Agnes,  as  you  know " 

"  Yes  !  "  she  cried,  earnestly.     "  I  am  glad  to  know  it !  " 

"When  I  loved  her — even  then,  my  love  would  have  been 
incomplete,  without  your  sympathy.  I  had  it,  and  it  was 
perfected.  And  when  I  lost  her,  Agnes,  what  should  I  have 
been  without  you,  still ! " 

Closer  in  my  arms,  nearer  to  my  heart,  her  trembling  hand 
upon  my  shoulder,  her  sweet  eyes  shining  through  her  tears, 
on  mine! 

"  I  went  away,  dear  Agnes,  loving  you.  I  stayed  away, 
loving  you.  I  returned  home,  loving  you  ! " 


AGNES  TELLS  ME  HER  SECRET.  517 

And  now,  I  tried  to  tell  her  of  the  struggle  I  had  had, 
and  the  conclusion  I  had  come  to.  I  tried  to  lay  my  mind 
before  her,  truly,  and  entirely.  I  tried  to  show  her  how  I  had 
hoped  I  had  come  into  the  better  knowledge  of  myself  and  of 
her  ;  how  I  had  resigned  myself  to  what  that  better  knowledge 
brought ;  and  how  I  had  come  there,  even  that  day,  in  my 
fidelity  to  this.  If  she  did  so  love  me  (I  said)  that  she 
could  take  me  for  her  husband,  she  could  do  so,  on  no 
deserving  of  mine,  except  upon  the  truth  of  my  love  for  her, 
and  the  trouble  in  which  it  had  ripened  to  be  what  it  was; 
and  hence  it  was  that  I  revealed  it.  And  O,  Agnes,  even 
out  of  thy  true  eyes,  in  that  same  time,  the  spirit  of  my 
child-wife  looked  upon  me,  saying  it  was  well;  and  winning 
me,  through  thee,  to  tenderest  recollections  of  the  Blossom 
that  had  withered  in  its  bloom  ! 

"  I  am  so  blest,  Trotwood — my  heart  is  so  overcharged — 
but  there  is  one  thing  I  must  say." 

"  Dearest,  what  ?  " 

She  laid  her  gentle  hands  upon  my  shoulders,  and  looked 
calmly  in  my  face. 

"  Do  you  know,  yet,  what  it  is  ?  " 

"I  am  afraid  to  speculate  on  what  it  is.  Tell  me,  my 
dear/' 

"  I  have  loved  you  all  my  life  ! " 

Oh,  we  were  happy,  we  were  happy !  Our  tears  were  not 
for  the  trials  (hers  so  much  the  greater)  through  which  we 
had  come  to  be  thus,  but  for  the  rapture  of  being  thus, 
never  to  be  divided  more ! 

We  walked,  that  winter  evening,  in  the  fields  together; 
and  the  blessed  calm  within  us  seemed  to  be  partaken  by  the 
frosty  air.  The  early  stars  began  to  shine  while  we  were 
lingering  on,  and  looking  up  to  them,  we  thanked  our  GOD 
for  having  guided  us  to  this  tranquillity. 

We  stood  together  in  the  same  old-fashioned  window  at 


518  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

night,  when  the  moon  was  shining;  Agnes  with  her  quiet 
eyes  raised  up  to  it ;  I  following  her  glance.  Long  miles  of 
road  then  opened  out  before  my  mind ;  and,  toiling  on,  I  saw 
a  ragged  way-worn  boy  forsaken  and  neglected,  who  should 
come  to  call  even  the  heart  now  beating  against  mine,  his  own. 

It  was  nearly  dinner-time  next  day  when  we  appeared 
before  my  aunt.  She  was  up  in  my  study,  Peggotty  said  : 
which  it  was  her  pride  to  keep  in  readiness  and  order  for 
me.  We  found  her,  in  her  spectacles,  sitting  by  the  fire. 

"  Goodness  me ! "  said  my  aunt,  peering  through  the  dusk, 
"  who's  this  you're  bringing  home  ?  " 

"Agnes,"  said  I. 

As  we  had  arranged  to  say  nothing  at  first,  my  aunt  was 
not  a  little  discomfited.  She  darted  a  hopeful  glance  at  me, 
when  I  said  "Agnes;11  but  seeing  that  I  looked  as  usual, 
she  took  off  her  spectacles  in  despair,  and  rubbed  her  nose 
with  them. 

She  greeted  Agnes  heartily,  nevertheless ;  and  we  were  soon 
in  the  lighted  parlour  down-stairs,  at  dinner.  My  aunt  put 
on  her  spectacles  twice  or  thrice,  to  take  another  look  at  me, 
but  as  often  took  them  off  again,  disappointed,  and  rubbed 
her  nose  with  them.  Much  to  the  discomfiture  of  Mr.  Dick, 
who  knew  this  to  be  a  bad  symptom. 

"  By  the  by,  aunt,"  said  I,  after  dinner ;  "I  have  been 
speaking  to  Agnes  about  what  you  told  me." 

"Then,  Trot,"  said  my  aunt,  turning  scarlet,  "you  did 
wrong,  and  broke  your  promise." 

"  You  are  not  angry,  aunt,  I  trust  ?  I  am  sure  you  won't 
be,  when  you  learn  that  Agnes  is  not  unhappy  in  any 
attachment." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  !  "  said  my  aunt. 

As  my  aunt  appeared  to  be  annoyed,  I  thought  the  best 
way  was  to  cut  her  annoyance  short.  I  took  Agnes  in  my 
arm  to  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  we  both  leaned  over  her. 
My  aunt  with  one  clap  of  her  hands,  and  one  look  through 


DORA'S  LAST  REQUEST  FULFILLED.        519 

her  spectacles,  immediately  went  into  hysterics,  for  the  first 
and  only  time  in  all  my  knowledge  of  her. 

The  hysterics  called  up  Peggotty.  The  moment  my  aunt 
was  restored,  she  flew  at  Peggotty,  and  calling  her  a  silly  old 
creature,  hugged  her  with  all  her  might.  After  that,  she 
hugged  Mr.  Dick  (who  was  highly  honoured,  but  a  good 
deal  surprised) ;  and  after  that,  told  them  why.  Then  we 
were  all  happy  together. 

I  could  not  discover  whether  my  aunt,  in  her  last  short  con 
versation  with  me,  had  fallen  on  a  pious  fraud,  or  had  really 
mistaken  the  state  of  my  mind.  It  was  quite  enough,  she 
said,  that  she  had  told  me  Agnes  was  going  to  be  married ; 
and  that  I  now  knew  better  than  any  one  how  true  it  was. 

We  were  married  within  a  fortnight.  Traddles  and  Sophy, 
and  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Strong,  were  the  only  guests  at  our 
quiet  wedding.  We  left  them  full  of  joy ;  and  drove  away 
together.  Clasped  in  my  embrace,  I  held  the  source  of  every 
worthy  aspiration  I  had  ever  had  ;  the  centre  of  myself,  the 
circle  of  my  life,  my  own,  my  wife ;  my  love  of  whom  was 
founded  on  a  rock  ! 

"  Dearest  husband  ! "  said  Agnes.  "  Now  that  I  may  call 
you  by  that  name,  I  have  one  thing  more  to  tell  you." 

"  Let  me  hear  it,  love." 

"  It  grows  out  of  the  night  when  Dora  died.  She  sent  you 
for  me." 

"  She  did." 

"  She  told  me  that  she  left  me  something.  Can  you  think 
what  it  was  ?  " 

I  believed  I  could.  I  drew  the  wife  who  had  so  long  loved 
me,  closer  to  my  side. 

"  She  told  me  that  she  made  a  last  request  to  me,  and  left 
me  a  last  charge." 

"  And  it  was " 

"That  only  I  would  occupy  this  vacant  place." 

And  Agnes  laid  her  head  upon  my  breast,  and  wept ;  and 
I  wept  with  her,  though  we  were  so  happy. 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 

A    VISITOR. 

WHAT  I  have  purposed  to  record  is  nearly  finished ;  but  there 
is  yet  an  incident  conspicuous  in  my  memory,  on  which  it 
often  rests  with  delight,  and  without  which  one  thread  in 
the  web  I  have  spun,  would  have  a  ravelled  end. 

I  had  advanced  in  fame  and  fortune,  my  domestic  joy  was 
perfect,  I  had  been  married  ten  happy  years.  Agnes  and  I 
were  sitting  by  the  fire,  in  our  house  in  London,  one  night 
in  spring,  and  three  of  our  children  were  playing  in  the  room, 
when  I  was  told  that  a  stranger  wished  to  see  me. 

He  had  been  asked  if  he  came  on  business,  and  had  answered 
No;  he  had  come  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  me,  and  had 
come  a  long  way.  He  was  an  old  man,  my  servant  said,  and 
looked  like  a  farmer. 

As  this  sounded  mysterious  to  the  children,  and  moreover 
was  like  the  beginning  of  a  favourite  story  Agnes  used  to 
tell  them,  introductory  to  the  arrival  of  a  wicked  old  Fairy 
in  a  cloak  who  hated  everybody,  it  produced  some  com 
motion.  One  of  our  boys  laid  his  head  in  his  mother's  lap 
to  be  out  of  harm's  way,  and  little  Agnes  (our  eldest  child) 
left  her  doll  in  a  chair  to  represent  her,  and  thrust  out 
her  little  heap  of  golden  curls  from  between  the  window- 
curtains,  to  see  what  happened  next. 

"  Let  him  come  in  here  ! "  said  I. 

There  soon  appeared,  pausing  in  the  dark  doorway  as  he 


MR.  PEGGOTTY  ONCE  AGAIN! 

entered,  a  hale,  grey-haired  old  man.  Little  Agnes,  attracted 
by  his  looks,  had  run  to  bring  him  in,  and  I  had  not  yet 
clearly  seen  his  face,  when  my  wife,  starting  up,  cried  out 
to  me,  in  a  pleased  and  agitated  voice,  that  it  was  Mr. 
Peggotty ! 

It  was  Mr.  Peggotty.  An  old  man  now,  but  in  a  ruddy, 
hearty,  strong  old  age.  When  our  first  emotion  was  over, 
and  he  sat  before  the  fire  with  the  children  on  his  knees,  and 
the  blaze  shining  on  his  face,  he  looked,  to  me,  as  vigorous 
and  robust,  withal  as  handsome,  an  old  man,  as  ever  I  had 
seen. 

"Mas'r  Davy,"  said  he.  And  the  old  name  in  the  old 
tone  fell  so  naturally  on  my  ear!  "Mas'r  Davy,  'tis  a  joyful 
hour  as  I  see  you,  once  more,  long  with  your  own  trew 
wife!" 

"A  joyful  hour  indeed,  old  friend!"  cried  I. 

"And  these  heer  pretty  ones,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty.  "To 
look  at  these  heer  flowers !  Why,  Mas'r  Davy,  you  was  but 
the  heighth  of  the  littlest  of  these,  when  I  first  see  you! 
When  Em'ly  warn't  no  bigger,  and  our  poor  lad  were  but 
a  lad!" 

"Time  has  changed  me  more  than  it  has  changed  you 
since  then,"  said  I.  "  But  let  these  dear  rogues  go  to  bed  ; 
and  as  no  house  in  England  but  this  must  hold  you,  tell  me 
where  to  send  for  your  luggage  (is  the  old  black  bag  among 
it,  that  went  so  far,  I  wonder!),  and  then,  over  a  glass  of 
Yarmouth  grog,  we  will  have  the  tidings  of  ten  years ! " 

"  Are  you  alone  ?  "  asked  Agnes. 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said,  kissing  her  hand,  "quite  alone." 

We  sat  him  between  us,  not  knowing  how  to  give  him 
welcome  enough ;  and  as  I  began  to  listen  to  his  old  familiar 
voice,  I  could  have  fancied  he  was  still  pursuing  his  long 
journey  in  search  of  his  darling  niece. 

"It's  a  mort  of  water,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "fur  to  come 
across,  and  on'y  stay  a  matter  of  fower  weeks.  But  water 
('specially  when  'tis  salt)  comes  nat'ral  to  me ;  and  friends  is 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

dear,  and  I  am  heer. — Which  is  verse,1'  said  Mr.  Peggotty, 
surprised  to  find  it  out,  "though  I  hadn't  such  intentions." 

"  Are  you  going  back  those  many  thousand  miles,  so  soon  ?  " 
asked  Agnes. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  he  returned.  "  I  giv  the  promise  to  Em'ly, 
afore  I  come  away.  You  see,  I  doen't  grow  younger  as  the 
years  comes  round,  and  if  I  hadn't  sailed  as  'twas,  most  like 
I  shouldn't  never  have  done  't.  And  it's  allus  been  on  my 
mind,  as  I  must  come  and  see  Mas'r  Davy  and  your  own 
sweet  blooming  self,  in  your  wedded  happiness,  afore  I  got 
to  be  too  old." 

He  looked  at  us,  as  if  he  could  never  feast  his  eyes  on  us 
sufficiently.  Agnes  laughingly  put  back  some  scattered  locks 
of  his  grey  hair,  that  he  might  see  us  better. 

"And  now  tell  us,"  said  I,  "everything  relating  to  your 
fortunes." 

"Our  fortuns,  Mas'r  Davy,"  he  rejoined,  "is  soon  told. 
We  haven't  fared  nohows,  but  fared  to  thrive.  We've  allus 
thrived.  We've  worked  as  we  ought  to  't,  and  maybe  we 
lived  a  leetle  hard  at  first  or  so,  but  we  have  allus  thrived. 
What  with  sheep-farming,  and  what  with  stock -farm  ing,  and 
what  with  one  thing  and  what  with  t'other,  we  are  as  well 
to  do,  as  well  could  be.  Theer's  been  kiender  a  blessing  fell 
upon  us,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  reverentially  inclining  his  head, 
"and  we've  done  nowt  but  prosper.  That  is,  in  the  long 
run.  If  not  yesterday,  why  then  to-day.  If  not  to-day, 
why  then  to-morrow." 

"  And  Emily  ? "  said  Agnes  and  I,  both  together. 

"  Em'ly,"  said  he,  "  arter  you  left  her,  ma'am — and  I  never 
heerd  her  saying  of  her  prayers  at  night,  t'other  side  the 
canvas  screen,  when  we  was  settled  in  the  Bush,  but  what  I 
heerd  your  name — and  arter  she  and  me  lost  sight  of  Mas'r 
Davy,  that  theer  shining  sundown — was  that  low,  at  first, 
that,  if  she  had  know'd  then  what  Mas'r  Davy  kep  from  us 
so  kind  and  thowtful,  'tis  my  opinion  she'd  have  drooped 
away.  But  theer  was  some  poor  folks  aboard  as  had  illness 


COLONIAL  TIDINGS.  523 

among  'em,  and  she  took  care  of  them;  and  theer  was  the 
children  in  our  company,  and  she  took  care  of  them;  and 
so  she  got  to  be  busy,  and  to  be  doing  good,  and  that 
helped  her." 

"When  did  she  first  hear  of  it?"  I  asked. 

"  I  kep  it  from  her  arter  I  heerd  on  't,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty, 
"going  on  nigh  a  year.  We  was  living  then  in  a  solitary 
place,  but  among  the  beautifullest  trees,  and  with  the  roses 
a  covering  our  Bein1  to  the  roof.  Theer  come  along  one 
day,  when  I  was  out  a  working  on  the  land,  a  traveller  from 
our  own  Norfolk  or  Suffolk  in  England  (I  doen't  rightly 
mind  which),  and  of  course  we  took  him  in,  and  giv  him  to 
eat  and  drink,  and  made  him  welcome.  We  all  do  that,  all 
the  colony  over.  He'd  got  an  old  newspaper  with  him,  and 
some  other  account  in  print  of  the  storm.  That's  how  she 
know'd  it.  When  I  come  home  at  night,  I  found  she 
know'd  it." 

He  dropped  his  voice  as  he  said  these  words,  and  the 
gravity  I  so  well  remembered  overspread  his  face. 

"Did  it  change  her  much?"  we  asked. 

"Aye,  for  a  good  long  time,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head; 
"if  not  to  this  present  hour.  But  I  think  the  solitoode 
done  her  good.  And  she  had  a  deal  to  mind  in  the  way  of 
poultry  and  the  like,  and  minded  of  it,  and  come  through. 
I  wonder,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "  if  you  could  see  my  Em'ly 
now,  Mas'r  Davy,  whether  you'd  know  her ! " 

"Is  she  so  altered?"  I  inquired. 

"I  doen't  know.  I  see  her  ev'ry  day,  and  doen't  know; 
but,  odd-times,  I  have  thowt  so.  A  slight  figure,"  said 
Mr.  Peggotty,  looking  at  the  fire,  "kiender  worn;  soft, 
sorrowful,  blue  eyes ;  a  delicate  face ;  a  pritty  head,  leaning 
a  little  down ;  a  quiet  voice  and  way — timid  a'most.  That's 
Em'ly!" 

We  silently  observed  him  as  he  sat,  still  looking  at  the  fire. 

"  Some  thinks,"  he  said,  "  as  her  affection  was  ill-bestowed ; 
some,  as  her  marriage  was  broke  off  by  death.  No  one  knows 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

how  'tis.  She  might  have  married  well  a  mort  of  times, 
4  but,  uncle,1  she  says  to  me,  '  that's  gone  for  ever.'  Cheerful 
along  with  me;  retired  when  others  is  by;  fond  of  going 
any  distance  fur  to  teach  a  child,  or  fur  to  tend  a  sick 
person,  or  fur  to  do  some  kindness  towards  a  young  girl's 
wedding  (and  she's  done  a  many,  but  has  never  seen  one); 
fondly  loving  of  her  uncle ;  patient ;  liked  by  young  and  old  ; 
sowt  out  by  all  that  has  any  trouble.  That's  Em'ly  ! " 

He  drew  his  hand  across  his  face3  and  with  a  half-suppressed 
sigh  looked  up  from  the  fire. 

"  Is  Martha  with  you  yet  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Martha,"  he  replied,  "got  married,  Mas'r  Davy,  in  the 
second  year.  A  young  man,  a  farm-labourer,  as  come  by  us 
on  his  way  to  market  with  his  masVs  drays — a  journey  of 
over  five  hundred  mile,  theer  and  back — made  offers  fur  to 
take  her  fur  his  wife  (wives  is  very  scarce  theer),  and  then 
to  set  up  fur  their  two  selves  in  the  Bush.  She  spoke  to 
me  fur  to  tell  him  her  trew  story.  I  did.  They  was 
married,  and  they  live  fower  hundred  mile  away  from  any 
voices  but  their  own  and  the  singing  birds." 

"Mrs.  Gummidge?"  I  suggested. 

It  was  a  pleasant  key  to  touch,  for  Mr.  Peggotty  suddenly 
burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter,  and  rubbed  his  hands  up  and 
down  his  legs,  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  do  when  he 
enjoyed  himself  in  the  long-shipwrecked  boat. 

"  Would  you  believe  it ! "  he  said.  "  Why,  someun  even 
made  offers  fur  to  marry  her!  If  a  ship's  cook  that  was  turning 
settler,  Mas'r  Davy,  didn't  make  offers  fur  to  marry  Missis 
Gummidge,  I'm  Gormed — and  I  can't  say  no  fairer  than  that ! " 

I  never  saw  Agnes  laugh  so.  This  sudden  ecstasy  on  the 
part  of  Mr.  Peggotty  was  so  delightful  to  her,  that  she  could 
not  leave  off  laughing;  and  the  more  she  laughed  the  more 
she  made  me  laugh,  and  the  greater  Mr.  Peggotty's  ecstasy 
became,  and  the  more  he  rubbed  his  legs. 

"And  what  did  Mrs.  Gummidge  say?"  I  asked,  when  I 
was  grave  enough. 


LATEST  NEWS  OF  MR.  MICAWBER.        525 

"If  you'll  believe  me,"  returned  Mr.  Peggotty,  "Missis 
Gummidge,  "stead  of  saying  '  thank  you,  I'm  much  obleeged 
to  you,  I  ain't  a  going  fur  to  change  my  condition  at  my 
time  of  life,"  up'd  with  a  bucket  as  was  standing  by,  and  laid 
it  over  that  theer  ship's  cook's  head  'till  he  sung  out  fur  help, 
and  I  went  in  and  reskied  of  him.'" 

Mr.  Peggotty  burst  into  a  great  roar  of  laughter,  and 
Agnes  and  I  both  kept  him  company. 

"But  I  must  say  this  for  the  good  creetur,"  he  resumed, 
wiping  his  face  when  we  were  quite  exhausted ;  "  she  has  been 
all  she  said  she'd  be  to  us,  and  more.  She's  the  will  ingest, 
the  trewest,  the  honestest-helping  woman,  Mas'r  Davy,  as 
ever  draw'd  the  breath  of  life.  I  have  never  know'd  her  to 
be  lone  and  lorn,  for  a  single  minute,  not  even  when  the 
colony  was  all  afore  us,  and  we  was  new  to  it.  And  think 
ing  of  the  old  'un  is  a  thing  she  never  done,  I  do  assure  you, 
since  she  left  England  ! " 

"Now,  last,  not  least,  Mr.  Micawber,"  said  I.  "He  has 
paid  off  every  obligation  he  incurred  here — even  to  Traddles's 
bill,  you  remember,  my  dear  Agnes — and  therefore  we  may 
take  it  for  granted  that  he  is  doing  well.  But  what  is  the 
latest  news  of  him  ?  " 

Mr.  Peggotty,  with  a  smile,  put  his  hand  in  his  breast 
pocket,  and  produced  a  flat-folded,  paper  parcel,  from  which 
he  took  out,  with  much  care,  a  little  odd-looking  newspaper. 

"  You  are  to  understand  Mas'r  Davy,"  said  he,  "  as  we 
have  left  the  Bush  now,  being  so  well  to  do ;  and  have  gone 
right  away  round  to  Port  Middlebay  Harbour,  wheer  theer's 
what  we  call  a  town." 

"Mr.  Micawber  was  in  the  Bush  near  you?"  said  I. 

"Bless  you,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Peggotty,  "and  turned  to  with 
a  will.  I  never  wish  to  meet  a  better  gen'l'man  for  turning 
to,  with  a  will.  I've  seen  that  theer  bald  head  of  his,  a  per 
spiring  in  the  sun,  Mas'r  Davy,  'till  I  a'most  thowt  it  would 
have  melted  away.  And  now  he's  a  Magistrate." 

"A  Magistrate,  eh?"  said  I. 


526  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

Mr.  Peggotty  pointed  to  a  certain  paragraph  in  the 
newspaper,  where  I  read  aloud  as  follows,  from  the  "Port 
Middlebay  Times :" 

"  «PT  The  public  dinner  to  our  distinguished  fellow-colonist 
and  townsman,  WILKINS  MICAWBER,  ESQUIRE,  Port  Middlebay 
District  Magistrate,  came  off  yesterday  in  the  large  room  of 
the  Hotel,  which  was  crowded  to  suffocation.  It  is  estimated 
that  not  fewer  than  forty-seven  persons  must  have  been 
accommodated  with  dinner  at  one  time,  exclusive  of  the 
company  in  the  passage  and  on  the  stairs.  The  beauty, 
fashion,  and  exclusiveness  of  Port  Middlebay,  flocked  to  do 
honour  to  one  so  deservedly  esteemed,  so  highly  talented,  and 
so  widely  popular.  Doctor  Mell  (of  Colonial  Salem-House 
Grammar  School,  Port  Middlebay)  presided,  and  on  his  right 
sat  the  distinguished  guest.  After  the  removal  of  the  cloth, 
and  the  singing  of  Non  Nobis  (beautifully  executed,  and  in 
which  we  were  at  no  loss  to  distinguish  the  bell-like  notes 
of  that  gifted  amateur,  WILKINS  MICAWBER,  ESQUIRE,  JUNIOR), 
the  usual  loyal  and  patriotic  toasts  were  severally  given  and 
rapturously  received.  Dr.  Mell,  in  a  speech  replete  with 
feeling,  then  proposed  6  Our  distinguished  Guest,  the  orna 
ment  of  our  town.  May  he  never  leave  us  but  to  better 
himself,  and  may  his  success  among  us  be  such  as  to  render 
his  bettering  himself  impossible  ! '  The  cheering  with  which 
the  toast  was  received  defies  description.  Again  and  again 
it  rose  and  fell,  like  the  waves  of  ocean.  At  length  all  was 
hushed,  and  WILKINS  MICAWBER,  ESQUIRE,  presented  himself 
to  return  thanks.  Far  be  it  from  us,  in  the  present  com 
paratively  imperfect  state  of  the  resources  of  our  establishment, 
to  endeavour  to  follow  our  distinguished  townsman  through 
the  smoothly-flowing  periods  of  his  polished  and  highly-ornate 
address  !  Suffice  it  to  observe,  that  it  was  a  masterpiece  of 
eloquence ;  and  that  those  passages  in  which  he  more  par 
ticularly  traced  his  own  successful  career  to  its  source,  and 
warned  the  younger  portion  of  his  auditory  from  the  shoals 


A  PUBLIC  LETTER  IN  MY  HONOUR.      527 

of  ever  incurring  pecuniary  liabilities  which  they  were  unable 
to  liquidate,  brought  a  tear  into  the  manliest  eye  present. 
The  remaining  toasts  were  DOCTOR  MELL;  MRS.  MICAWBER 
(who  gracefully  bowed  her  acknowledgments  from  the  side- 
door,  where  a  galaxy  of  beauty  was  elevated  on  chairs,  at 
once  to  witness  and  adorn  the  gratifying  scene) ;  MRS.  RIDGER 
BEGS  (late  Miss  Micawber) ;  MRS.  MELL  ;  WILKINS  MICAWBER, 
ESQUIRE,  JUNIOR  (who  convulsed  the  assembly  by  humorously 
remarking  that  he  found  himself  unable  to  return  thanks  in 
a  speech,  but  would  do  so,  with  their  permission,  in  a  song) ; 
MRS.  MICAWBER'S  FAMILY  (well  known,  it  is  needless  to  remark, 
in  the  mother-country),  &c.  &c.  &c.  At  the  conclusion  of  the 
proceedings  the  tables  were  cleared  as  if  by  art-magic  for 
dancing.  Among  the  votaries  of  TERPSICHORE,  who  disported 
themselves  until  Sol  gave  warning  for  departure,  Wilkins 
Micawber,  Esquire,  Junior,  and  the  lovely  and  accomplished 
Miss  Helena,  fourth  daughter  of  Doctor  Mell,  were  particu 
larly  remarkable." 

I  was  looking  back  to  the  name  of  Doctor  Mell,  pleased 
to  have  discovered,  in  these  happier  circumstances,  Mr.  Mell, 
formerly  poor  pinched  usher  to  my  Middlesex  magistrate, 
when  Mr.  Peggotty  pointing  to  another  part  of  the  paper, 
my  eyes  rested  on  my  own  name,  and  I  read  thus: 

"TO  DAVID  COPPERFIELD,  ESQUIRE. 

THE  EMINENT  AUTHOR. 
"  MY  DEAR  SIR, 

"Years  have  elapsed,  since  I  had  an  opportunity 
of  ocularly  perusing  the  lineaments,  now  familiar  to  the 
imaginations  of  a  considerable  portion  of  the  civilised  world. 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,  though  estranged  (by  the  force  of  cir 
cumstances  over  which  I  have  had  no  control)  from  the 
personal  society  of  the  friend  and  companion  of  my  youth, 
I  have  not  been  unmindful  of  his  soaring  flight.  Nor  have 
J  been  debarred, 

Though  seas  between  us  braid  ha'  roared, 


528  DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

(BURNS)  from  participating  in  the  intellectual  feasts  he  has 
spread  before  us. 

"  I  cannot,  therefore,  allow  of  the  departure  from  this 
place  of  an  individual  whom  we  mutually  respect  and  esteem, 
without,  my  dear  sir,  taking  this  public  opportunity  of 
thanking  you,  on  my  own  behalf,  and,  I  may  undertake  to 
add,  on  that  of  the  whole  of  the  Inhabitants  of  Port  Middle- 
bay,  for  the  gratification  of  which  you  are  the  ministering 
agent. 

"  Go  on,  my  dear  sir !  You  are  not  unknown  here,  you 
are  not  unappreciated.  Though  '  remote,1  we  are  neither 
'  unfriended,'  '  melancholy,"  nor  (I  may  add)  *  slow.'  Go  on, 
my  dear  sir,  in  your  Eagle  course !  The  inhabitants  of  Port 
Middlebay  may  at  least  aspire  to  watch  it,  with  delight,  with 
entertainment,  with  instruction ! 

"Among  the  eyes  elevated  towards  you  from  this  portion 
of  the  globe,  will  ever  be  found,  while  it  has  light  and  life, 

"The 
"Eye 

"Appertaining  to 

"WlLKINS   MlCAWBER. 

"  Magistrate." 

I  found,  on  glancing  at  the  remaining  contents  of  the 
newspaper,  that  Mr.  Micawber  was  a  diligent  and  esteemed 
correspondent  of  that  Journal.  There  was  another  letter 
from  him  in  the  same  paper,  touching  a  bridge;  there  was 
an  advertisement  of  a  collection  of  similar  letters  by  him,  to 
be  shortly  republished,  in  a  neat  volume,  "with  considerable 
additions;11  and,  unless  I  am  very  much  mistaken,  the  Lead 
ing  Article  was  his  also. 

We  talked  much  of  Mr.  Micawber,  on  many  other  evenings 
while  Mr.  Peggotty  remained  with  us.  He  lived  with  us 
during  the  whole  term  of  his  stay, — which,  I  think,  was 
something  less  than  a  month, — and  his  sister  and  my  aunt 
came  to  London  to  see  him.  Agnes  and  I  parted  from  him 


A  VISIT  TO   HAM'S   GRAVE.  529 

aboard-ship,  when  he  sailed  ;  and  we  shall  never  part  from 
him  more,  on  earth. 

But  before  he  left,  he  went  with  me  to  Yarmouth,  to  see 
a  little  tablet  I  had  put  up  in  the  churchyard  to  the  memory 
of  Ham.  While  I  was  copying  the  plain  inscription  for  him 
at  his  request,  I  saw  him  stoop,  and  gather  a  tuft  of  grass 
from  the  grave,  and  a  little  earth. 

"  For  Em'ly,"  he  said,  as  he  put  it  in  his  breast.  "  I 
promised,  Mas'r  Davy." 


VOL.  IT. 


CHAPTER    LXIV. 

A    LAST    RETROSPECT. 

AND  now  my  written  story  ends.  I  look  back,  once  more — 
for  the  last  time — before  I  close  these  leaves. 

I  see  myself,  with  Agnes  at  my  side,  journeying  along  the 
road  of  life.  I  see  our  children  and  our  friends  around  us; 
and  I  hear  the  roar  of  many  voices,  not  indifferent  to  me  as 
I  travel  on. 

What  faces  are  the  most  distinct  to  me  in  the  fleeting 
crowd  ?  Lo,  these ;  all  turning  to  me  as  I  ask  my  thoughts 
the  question ! 

Here  is  my  aunt,  in  stronger  spectacles,  an  old  woman  of 
fourscore  years  and  more,  but  upright  yet,  and  a  steady 
walker  of  six  miles  at  a  stretch  in  winter  weather. 

Always  with  her,  here  comes  Peggotty,  my  good  old  nurse, 
likewise  in  spectacles,  accustomed  to  do  needlework  at  night 
very  close  to  the  lamp,  but  never  sitting  down  to  it  without 
a  bit  of  wax  candle,  a  yard  measure  in  a  little  house,  and  a 
work-box  with  a  picture  of  St.  Paul's  upon  the  lid. 

The  cheeks  and  arms  of  Peggotty,  so  hard  and  red  in  my 
childish  days,  when  I  wondered  why  the  birds  didn't  peck 
her  in  preference  to  apples,  are  shrivelled  now ;  and  her  eyes, 
that  used  to  darken  their  whole  neighbourhood  in  her  face, 
are  fainter  (though  they  glitter  still) ;  but  her  rough  forefinger, 
which  I  once  associated  with  a  pocket  nutmeg  grater,  is  just 
the  same,  and  when  I  see  my  least  child  catching  at  it  as  it 


FAMILIAR   FACES.  531 

totters  from  my  aunt  to  her,  I  think  of  our  little  parlour  at 
home,  when  I  could  scarcely  walk.  My  aunt's  old  disappoint 
ment  is  set  right,  now.  She  is  godmother  to  a  real  living- 
Betsey  Trotwood;  and  Dora  (the  next  in  order)  says  she 
spoils  her. 

There  is  something  bulky  in  Peggotty's  pocket.  It  is 
nothing  smaller  than  the  Crocodile-Book,  which  is  in  rather 
a  dilapidated  condition  by  this  time,  with  divers  of  the  leaves 
torn  and  stitched  across,  but  which  Peggotty  exhibits  to  the 
children  as  a  precious  relic.  I  find  it  very  curious  to  see  my 
own  infant  face,  looking  up  at  me  from  the  Crocodile  stories ; 
and  to  be  reminded  by  it  of  my  old  acquaintance  Brooks  of 
Sheffield. 

Among  my  boys,  this  summer  holiday  time,  I  see  an  old 
man  making  giant  kites,  and  gazing  at  them  in  the  air,  with 
a  delight  for  which  there  are  no  words.  He  greets  me  rap 
turously,  and  whispers,  with  many  nods  and  winks,  "Trotwood, 
you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  I  shall  finish  the  Memorial 
when  I  have  nothing  else  to  do,  and  that  your  aunt's  the 
most  extraordinary  woman  in  the  world,  sir ! " 

Who  is  this  bent  lady,  supporting  herself  by  a  stick,  and 
showing  me  a  countenance  in  which  there  are  some  traces  of 
old  pride  and  beauty,  feebly  contending  with  a  querulous, 
imbecile,  fretful  wandering  of  the  mind  ?  She  is  in  a  garden  ; 
and  near  her  stands  a  sharp,  dark,  withered  woman,  with  a 
white  scar  on  her  lip.  Let  me  hear  what  they  say. 

"  Rosa,  I  have  forgotten  this  gentleman's  name." 

Rosa  bends  over  her,  and  calls  to  her,  "  Mr.  Copperfield." 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  sir.  I  am  sorry  to  observe  you 
are  in  mourning.  I  hope  Time  will  be  good  to  you." 

Her  impatient  attendant  scolds  her,  tells  her  I  am  not  in 
mourning,  bids  her  look  again,  tries  to  rouse  her. 

"  You  have  seen  my  son,  sir,"  says  the  elder  lady.  "  Are 
you  reconciled?" 

Looking  fixedly  at  me,  she  puts  her  hand  to  her  forehead, 
and  moans.  Suddenly,  she  cries,  in  a  terrible  voice,  "  Rosa, 


532  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

come  to  me.  He  is  dead ! "  Rosa  kneeling  at  her  feet,  by 
turns  caresses  her,  and  quarrels  with  her;  now  fiercely  telling 
her,  "  I  loved  him  better  than  you  ever  did !  " — now  soothing 
her  to  sleep  on  her  breast,  like  a  sick  child.  Thus  I  leave 
them ;  thus  I  always  find  them  ;  thus  they  wear  their  time 
away,  from  year  to  year. 

What  ship  comes  sailing  home  from  India,  and  what 
English  lady  is  this,  married  to  a  growling  old  Scotch  Croesus 
with  great  flaps  of  ears  ?  Can  this  be  Julia  Mills  ? 

Indeed  it  is  Julia  Mills,  peevish  and  fine,  with  a  black 
man  to  carry  cards  and  letters  to  her  on  a  golden  salver,  and 
a  copper-coloured  woman  in  linen,  with  a  bright  handkerchief 
round  her  head,  to  serve  her  Tiffin  in  her  dressing-room.  But 
Julia  keeps  no  diary  in  these  days  ;  never  sings  Affection's 
Dirge ;  eternally  quarrels  with  the  old  Scotch  Croesus,  who  is 
a  sort  of  yellow  bear  with  a  tanned  hide.  Julia  is  steeped 
in  money  to  the  throat,  and  talks  and  thinks  of  nothing  else. 
I  liked  her  better  in  the  Desert  of  Sahara. 

Or  perhaps  this  is  the  Desert  of  Sahara !  For,  though 
Julia  has  a  stately  house,  and  mighty  company,  and 
sumptuous  dinners  every  day,  I  see  no  green  growth  near  her ; 
nothing  that  can  ever  come  to  fruit  or  flower.  What  Julia 
calls  "  society,"  I  see ;  among  it  Mr.  Jack  Maldon,  from  his 
Patent  Place,  sneering  at  the  hand  that  gave  it  him,  and 
speaking  to  me,  of  the  Doctor,  as  "so  charmingly  antique." 
But  when  society  is  the  name  for  such  hollow  gentlemen  and 
ladies,  Julia,  and  when  its  breeding  is  professed  indifference 
to  everything  that  can  advance  or  can  retard  mankind,  I 
think  we  must  have  lost  ourselves  in  that  same  Desert  of 
Sahara,  and  had  better  find  the  way  out. 

And  lo,  the  Doctor,  always  our  good  friend,  labouring  at 
his  Dictionary  (somewhere  about  the  letter  D),  and  happy  in 
his  home  and  wife.  Also  the  Old  Soldier,  on  a  considerably 
reduced  footing,  and  by  no  means  so  influential  as  in  days 
of  yore ! 

Working   at  his   chambers   in   the   Temple,   with   a  busy 


A   FAMILY   DINNER. 

aspect,  and  his  hair  (where  he  is  not  bald)  made  more 
rebellious  than  ever  by  the  constant  friction  of  his  lawyer's 
wig,  I  come,  in  a  later  time,  upon  my  dear  old  Traddles. 
His  table  is  covered  with  thick  piles  of  papers ;  and  I  say,  as 
I  look  around  me : 

"  If  Sophy  were  your  clerk,  now,  Traddles,  she  would  have 
enough  to  do  ! " 

"  You  may  say  that,  my  dear  Copperfield !  But  those 
were  capital  days,  too,  in  Holborn  Court !  Were  they  not  ?  " 

'When  she  told  you  you  would  be  a  Judge?     But  it  was 
not  the  town  talk  tJien!n 
.  "  At  all  events,"  says  Traddles,  "  if  I  ever  am  one —  " 

"Why,  you  know  you  will  be." 

"Well,  my  dear  Copperfield,  when  I  am  one,  I  shall  tell 
the  story,  as  I  said  I  would." 

We  walk  away,  arm  in  arm.  I  am  going  to  have  a  family 
dinner  with  Traddles.  It  is  Sophy's  birthday;  and,  on  our 
road,  Traddles  discourses  to  me  of  the  good  fortune  he  has 
enjoyed. 

"I  really  have  been  able,  my  dear  Copperfield,  to  do  all 
that  I  had  most  at  heart.  There's  the  Reverend  Horace 
promoted  to  that  living  at  four  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a 
year ;  there  are  our  two  boys  receiving  the  very  best  education, 
and  distinguishing  themselves  as  steady  scholars  and  good 
fellows;  there  are  three  of  the  girls  married  very  comfort 
ably;  there  are  three  more  living  with  us;  there  are  three 
more  keeping  house  for  the  Reverend  Horace  since  Mrs. 
Crawler's  decease ;  and  all  of  them  happy," 

"Except — "  I  suggest. 

"  Except  the  Beauty,"  says  Traddles.  "  Yes.  It  was  very 
unfortunate  that  she  should  marry  such  a  vagabond.  But 
there  was  a  certain  dash  and  glare  about  him  that  caught 
her.  However,  now  we  have  got  her  safe  at  our  house,  and 
got  rid  of  him,  we  must  cheer  her  up  again." 

Traddles's  house  is  one  of  the  very  houses — or  it  easily 
may  have  been — which  he  and  Sophy  used  to  parcel  out,  in 


534  DAVID   COPPERFIELD. 

their  evening  walks.  It  is  a  large  house ;  but  Traddles  keeps 
his  papers  in  his  dressing-room,  and  his  boots  with  his  papers ; 
and  he  and  Sophy  squeeze  themselves  into  upper  rooms, 
reserving  the  best  bedrooms  for  the  Beauty  and  the  girls. 
There  is  no  room  to  spare  in  the  house ;  for  more  of  "  the 
girls"  are  here,  and  always  are  here,  by  some  accident  or 
other,  than  I  know  how  to  count.  Here,  when  we  go  in,  is 
a  crowd  of  them,  running  down  to  the  door,  and  handing 
Traddles  about  to  be  kissed,  until  he  is  out  of  breath.  Here, 
established  in  perpetuity,  is  the  poor  Beauty,  a  widow  with 
a  little  girl ;  here,  at  dinner  on  Sophy's  birthday,  are  the 
three  married  girls  with  their  three  husbands,  and  one  of 
the  husband's  brothers,  and  another  husband's  cousin,  and 
another  husband's  sister,  who  appears  to  me  to  be  engaged 
to  the  cousin.  Traddles,  exactly  the  same  simple,  unaffected 
fellow  as  he  ever  was,  sits  at  the  foot  of  the  large  table  like 
a  Patriarch;  and  Sophy  beams  upon  him,  from  the  head, 
across  a  cheerful  space  that  is  certainly  not  glittering  with 
Britannia  metal. 

And  now,  as  I  close  my  task,  subduing  my  desire  to  linger 
yet,  these  faces  fade  away.  But,  one  face,  shining  on  me 
like  a  Heavenly  light  by  which  I  see  all  other  objects,  is 
above  them  and  beyond  them  all.  And  that  remains. 

I  turn  my  head,  and  see  it,  in  its  beautiful  serenity,  beside 
me.  My  lamp  burns  low,  and  I  have  written  far  into  the 
night;  but  the  dear  presence,  without  which  I  were  nothing, 
bears  me  company. 

Oh  Agnes,  Oh  my  soul,  so  may  thy  face  be  by  me  when 
I  close  my  life  indeed ;  so  may  I,  when  realities  are  melting 
from  me  like  the  shadows  which  I  now  dismiss,  still  find 
thee  near  me,  pointing  upward ! 


THE    END. 


PRINTED  BY  WILLIAM  CLOWES  AND  SONS,   LIMITED,   LONDON  AND  BECCLES. 


0 


pHNDING  SECT.    JUi.12 


PR      Dickens,  Charles 

4550       Works    Gadshill  ed. 

E97 

v.15 


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