Presented to the
library of the

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO

DR. J.KoW. FERGUSON

DAVID COPPERFIELD

By CHARLES DICKENS

Author of BARNABY RUDGE, BLEAK HOUSE, CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND,
CHRISTMAS STORIES, DOMBEY AND SON, GREAT EXPECTATIONS, LITTLE
DORRIT, MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT, NICHOLAS NICKLEBY, OLD CURIOSITY
SHOP, OLIVER TWIST, OUR MUTUAL FRIEND, PICKWICK PAPERS, TALE
OF TWO CITIES.

A. L. BURT, PUBLISHER, 52-54-56-58
DUANE STREET, NEW YORK CITY

Â£00

PREFACE.

I remarked in the original preface to this book, that I
did not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from it, in the
first sensations of having finished it, to refer to it with the
composure which this formal heading would seem to require.
My interest in it was so recent and strong, and my mind
was so divided between pleasure and regret â€” pleasure in the
achievement of a long design, regret in the separation from
many companions â€” that I was in danger of wearying the
reader with personal confidences and private emotions.

Besides which, all that I could have said of the story to
any purpose, I had endeavored to say in it.

It would concern the reader little, perhaps, to know how
sorrowfully the pen is laid down at the close of a two-years'
imaginative task ; or how an author feels as if he were dis-
missing some portion of himself into the shadowy world,
when a crowd of the creatures of his brain are going from
him for ever. Yet, I had nothing else to tell ; unless, indeed,
I were to confess (which might be of less moment still), that no
one can ever believe this Narrative, in the reading, more than
I believed it in the writing.

So true are these avowals at the present day, that I can

4 PREFACE.

now only take the reader into one confidence more. Of all
my books, I like this the best. It will be easily believed that
I am a fond parent to every child of my fancy, and that no
one can ever love that family as dearly as I love them. But,
like many fond parents, I have in my heart of hearts a favor-
ite child. And his name is David Copperfield.

CONTENTS.

CHAP. PAÂ»B

I. I am born 7

II. I observe 18

III. I have a change 33

IV. I fall into disgrace 48

V. Am sent away from home. 66

VI. I enlarge my circle of acquaintance 84

VII. My "first half " at Salem House.. 91

VIII. My holidays. Especially one happy afternoon.. . 109

IX. I have a memorable birthday.. - 124

X. I become neglected, and am provided for 135

XI. I begin life on my own account, and don't like it. 155

XII. Liking life on my own account no better, I form a

great resolution 170

XIII. The sequel of my resolution 179

XIV. My aunt makes up her mind about me 199

XV. I make another beginning 214

XVI. I am a new boy in more senses than one 224

XVII. Somebody turns up 245

XVIII. A retrospect 262

XIX. I look about me and make a discovery 269

XX. Steerforth's home 285

XXI. Little Em'ly 294

XXII. Some old scenes, and some new people 313

XXIII. I corroborate Mr. Dick, and choose a profession. 335

XXIV. My first dissipation 349

XXV. Good and bad angels 357

XXVI. I fall into captivity 377

XXVII. Tommy Traddles 392

XXVIII. Mr. Micawber's gauntlet 401

XXIX. I visit Steerforth at his home, again 420

XXX. A loss 428

XXXI. A greater loss 436

'&XXII. The beginning of a long journey 444

CHAP. PAGtt

XXXIII. Blissful 463

XXXIV. My aunt astonishes me 479

XXXV. Depression 487

XXXVI. Enthusiasm 507

XXXVII. A little cold water 524

XXXVIII. A dissolution of partnership 532

XXXIX. Wickfield and Heep 548

XL. The Wanderer 567

XLI. Dora's aunts 575

XLII. Mischief 591

XLIII. Another retrospect : 610

XLIV. Our housekeeping 618

XLV. Mr. Dick fulfils my aunt's predictions 633

XLVI. Intelligence 648

XLVII. Martha 661

XLVI 1 1. Domestic 672

XLIX. I am involved in mystery 683

L. Mr. Peggotty's dream comes true . . 695

LI. The beginning of a longer journey.. .. - 704

LI I. I assist at an explosion 721

LI 1 1. Another retrospect 744

LIV. Mr. Micawber's transactions 749

LV. Tempest 764

LVI. The new wound, and the old 776

LVII. The emigrants 782

LVI 1 1. Absence 792

LIX. Return 798

LX. Agnes 814

LXI. I am shown two interesting penitents 823

LXII. A light shines on my way 835

LXIII. A visitor ; 843

'JCIV. A last retrospect 851

THE

PERSONAL HISTORY,

AND EXPERIENCE OF

DAVID COPPERFIELD

THE YOUNGER

CHAPTER I.

I AM BORN.

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or
whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages
must show. To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I
record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe)
on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night. It was remarked that
the clock began to strike, and I began to cry, simultaneously.

In consideration of the day and hour of my birth, it was
declared by the nurse, and by some sage women in the neigh-
borhood who had taken a lively interest in me several
months before there was any possibility of our becoming per-
sonally acquainted, first, that I was destined to be unlucky in
life : and secondly, that I was privileged to see ghosts and
spirits ; both these gifts inevitably attaching, as they be-
lieved, to all unlucky infants of either gender, born towards
the small hours on a Friday night.

I need say nothing here on the first head, because nothing
can show better than my history whether that prediction was.
verified or falsified by the result. On the second branch of
the question, I will only remark, that unless I ran through
that part of my inheritance while I was still a baby, I have not
come into it yet. But I do not at all complain of having been
kept out of this property ; and if anybody else should be in
the present enjoyment of it, he is heartily welcome to keep it

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

I was born with a caul, which was advertised ior sale, in
the newspapers, at the low price of fifteen guineas. Whethe?
sea-going people werf ; short of money about that time, or were
short of faith and preferred cork jackets, I don't know ; all I
know is, that there was but one solitary bidding, and that was
from an attorney connected with the bill-broking business, who
offered two pounds in cash, and the balance in sherry, but de-
clined to be guaranteed from drowning on any higher bargain.
Consequently the advertisement was withdrawn at a dead loss
â€” for as to sherry, my poor dear mother's own sherry was in
the market then â€” and ten years afterwards the caul was put
up in a raffle down in our part of the country, to fifty mem-
bers at half-a-crown a head, the winner to spend five shillings.
I was present myself, and I remember to have felt quite un-
comfortable and confused, at a part of myself being disposed
of in that way. The caul was won, I recollect, by an old lady
with a hand-basket, who, very reluctantly, produced from it
the stipulated five shillings, all in halfpence, and twopence
halfpenny short â€” as it took an immense time and a great
waste of arithmetic, to endeavor without any effect to prove to
her. It is a fact which will be long remembered as remarka-
ble down there, that she was never drowned, but died triumph-
antly in bed, at ninety-two. I have understood that it was,
to the last, her proudest boast, that she never had been on
the water in her life, except upon a bridge ; and that over her
tea (to which she was extremely partial) she, to the last, ex-
pressed her indignation at the impiety of mariners and others,
who had the presumption to go " meandering " about the
world. It was in vain to represent to her that some conveni-
ences, tea perhaps included, resulted from this objectionable
practice. She always returned, with greater emphasis and
with an instinctive knowledge of the strength of her objection,
" Let us have no meandering."

Not to meander myself, at present, I will go back to my
birth.

I was born at Blunderstone, in Suffolk, or "thereby," as
they say in Scotland. I was a posthumous child. My father s
eyes had closed upon the light of this world six months when
mine opened on it. There is something strange to me, even
now, in the reflection that he never saw me j and something
stranger yet in the shadowy remembrance that I have of my
first childish associations with his white grave-stone in the
churchyard, and of the indefinable compassion I used to feel

/ j4M BORJST.

for it lying out alone there in the dark night, when our little
parlor was warm and bright with fire and candle, and the
doors of our house were â€” almost cruelly, it seemed to me
sometimes â€” bolted and locked against it.

An aunt of my father's, and consequently a great-aunt of
mine, of whom I shall have more to relate by and by, was the
principal magnate of our family. Miss Trotwood, or Miss
Betsey, as my poor mother always called her, when she suffi-
ciently overcame her dread of this formidable personage to
mention her at all (which was seldom), had been married to a
husband younger than herself, who was very handsome, ex-
cept in the sense of the homely adage, "handsome is, that
handsome does " â€” for he was strongly suspected of having
beaten Miss Betsey, and even of having once, on a disputed
question of supplies, made some hasty but determined arrange-
ments to throw her out of a two pair of stairs' window. These
evidences of incompatibility of temper induced Miss Betsey to
pay him off, and effect a separation by mutual consent. He
went to India with his capital, and there, according to a wild
legend in our family, he was once seen riding on an elephant,
in company with a Baboon ; but I think it must have been a
Baboo â€” or a Begum. Any how, from India tidings of his
death reached home, within ten years. How they affected
my aunt, nobody knew â€¢ for immediately upon the separation
she took her maiden name again, bought a cottage in a hamlet
on the sea-coast a long way off, established herself there as a
single woman with one servant, and was understood to live
secluded, ever afterwards, in an inflexible retirement.

My father had once been a favorite of hers, I believe ; but
she was mortally affronted by his marriage, on the ground
that my mother was " a wax doll." She had never seen my
mother, but she knew her to be not yet twenty. My fathei
and Miss Betsey never met again. He was double my
mother's age when he married, and of but a delicate constitu-
tion. He died a year afterwards, and, as I have said, six
months before I came into the world.

This was the state of matters on the afternoon of, what 1
may be excused for calling, that eventful and important Fri-
day. I can make no claim, therefore, to have known, at tha4
time, how matters stood ; or to have any remembrance,
founded on the evidence of my own senses, of what follows.

My mother was sitting by the fire, but poorly in health,
and very low in spirits, looking at it through her tears, ano

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

desponding heavily about herself and the fatherless little
stranger, who was already welcomed by some grosses of pro-
phetic pins in a drawer up stairs, to a world not at all excited
on the subject of his arrival ; my mother, I say, was sitting
by the fire, that bright, windy March afternoon, very timid
and sad, and very doubtful of ever coming alive out of the
'trial that was before her, when, lifting her eyes as she dried
l'iem, to the window opposite, she saw a strange lady coming
up the garden.

My mother had a sure foreboding at the second glance,
that it was Miss Betsey. The setting sun was glowing on
the strange lady, over the garden-fence, and she came walking
up to the door with a fell rigidity of figure and composure of
countenance that could have belonged to nobody else.

When she reached the house, she gave another proof of
her identity. My father had often hinted that she seldom
conducted herself like any ordinary Christian ; and now, in-
stead of ringing the bell, she came and looked in at that
identical window, pressing the end of her nose against the
glass to that extent that my poor dear mother used to say it
became perfectly flat and white in a moment.

She gave my mother such a turn, that I have always been
convinced I am indebted to Miss Betsey for having been
born on a Friday.

My mother had left her chair in her agitation, and gone
behind it in the corner. Miss Betsey, looking round the
room, slowly and inquiringly, began on the other side, and
carried her eyes on, like a Saracen's Head in a Dutch clock,
until they reached my mother. Then she made a frown and
a gesture to my mother like one who was accustomed to be
obeyed, to come and open the door. My mother went.

" Mrs. David Copperfield, I think" said Miss Betsey ; the
emphasis referring, perhaps, to my mother's mourning weeds,
and her condition.

" Yes," said my mother, faintly.

" Miss Trotwood," said the visitor. " You have heard of
her, I dare say ? "

My mother answered she had had that pleasure. And
she had a disagreeable consciousness of not appearing to
imply that it had been an overpowering pleasure.

" Now you see her," said Miss Betsey. My mother bent
her head, and begged her to walk in.

They went into the parlor my mother had come from, the

I AM BORN.

fire in the best room on the other side of the passage not be-
ing lighted â€” not having been lighted, indeed, since my father's
funeral ; and when they were both seated, and Miss Betsey
said nothing, my mother, after vainly trying to restrain herself,
began to cry.

" Oh tut, tut, tut ! Don't do that ! Come, come ! " .

My mother couldn't help it notwithstanding, so she cried
until she had had her cry out.

" Take off your cap, child," said Miss Betsey, " and let me
see you."

My mother was too much afraid of her to refuse compli-
ance with this odd request, if she had any disposition to do
so. Therefore she did as she was told, and did it with such
nervous hands that her hair (which was luxuriant and beauti-
ful) fell all about her face.

"Well, bless my heart!" exclaimed Miss Betsey. "You
are a very Baby ! "

My mother was, no doubt, unusually youthful in appearance
even for her years ; she hung her head, as if it were her fault,
poor thing, and said, sobbing, that indeed she was afraid she
was but a childish widow, and would be but a childish mother
if she lived. In a short pause which ensued, she had a fancy
that she felt Miss Betsey touch her hair, and that with no un-
gentle hand ; but, looking at her, in her timid hope, she found
that lady sitting with the skirts of her dress tucked up, her
hands folded on one knee, and her feet upon the fender,
frowning at the fire.

"In the name of Heaven," said Miss Betsey, suddenly,
" why Rookery ? "

" Do you mean the house, ma'am ? " asked my mother.

" Why Rookery ? " said Miss Betsey. " Cookery would
have been more to the purpose, if you had had any practical
ideas of life, either of you." t

"The name was Mr. Copperfield's choice," returned my]
mother. " When he bought the house, he liked to think that
there were rooks about it."

The evening wind made such a disturbance just now, among
some tall elm-trees at the bottom of the garden, that neither
my mother nor Miss Betsey could forbear glancing that way.
As the elms bent to one another, like giants who were whis-
pering secrets, and after a few seconds of such repose, feK
into a violent flurry, tossing their wild arms about, as if their
late confidences were really too wicked for their peace of

1 2

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

mind, some weather-beaten ragged old rooks'-nests burdening
their higher branches, swung like wrecks upon a stormy sea.

" Where are the birds ? " asked Miss Betsey.

" The ? " My mother had been thinking of something

else.

" The rooks â€” what has become of them ? " asked Miss
Betsey.

" There have not been any since we have lived here," said
my mother. " We thought â€” Mr. Copperfield thought â€” it was
quite a large rookery ; but the nests were very old ones, and
the birds have deserted them a long while."

" David Copperfield all over ! " cried Miss Betsey. " David
Copperfield from head to foot ! Calls a house a rookery
when there's not a rook near it, and takes the birds on trust,
because he sees the nests ! "

" Mr. Copperfield," returned my mother, " is dead, and if
you dare to speak unkindly of him to me "

My poor dear mother, I suppose, had some momentary
Intention of committing an assault and battery upon my aunt,
who could easily have settled her with one hand, even if my
mother had been in far better training for such an encounter
than she was that evening. But it passed with the action of
rising from her chair ; and she sat down again very meekly,
and fainted.

When she came to herself, or when Miss Betsey had re-
stored her, whichever it was, she found the latter standing at
the window. The twilight was by this time shading down into
darkness ; and dimly as they saw each other, they could not
have done that without the aid of the fire.

" Well ? " said Miss Betsey, coming back to her chair, as
if she had only been taking a casual look at the prospect \
" and when do you expect "

"I am all in a tremble," faltered my mother. "I don't
know what's the matter. I shall die, I am sure ! "

" No, no, no," said Miss Betsey. " Have some tea."

" Oh dear me, clear me, do you think it will do me any
good ? " cried my mother in a helpless manner.

" Of course it will," said Miss Betsey. " It's nothing but
fancy. What do you call your girl ? "

" I don't know that it will be a girl, yet, ma'am," said my
mother innocently.

" Bless the baby ! " exclaimed Miss Betsey, unconsciously
quoting the second sentiment of the pincushion in the drawer

/ AM BORN. -

up stairs, but applying it to my mother instead of me. " I don't
mean that. I mean your servant."
" Peggotty," said my mother.

" Peggotty ! " repeated Miss Betsey, with some indignation,
" Do you mean to say, child, that any human being has gone
into a Christian church, and got herself named PeggcTtty ? "

" It's her surname," said my mother, faintly. " Mr. Cop-
perfield called her by it because her Christian name was the
same as mine."

" Here Peggotty ! " cried Miss Betsey, opening the parlor-
door. " Tea. Your mistress is a little unwell. Don't daw-
dle."

Having issued this mandate with as much of potentiality as
if she had been a recognized authority in the house ever since it
had been a house, and having looked out to confront the amazed
Peggotty coming along the passage with a candle at the sound
of a strange voice, Miss Betsey shut the door again, and sat
down as before, with her feet on the fender, the skirt of her
dress tucked up, and her hands folded on one knee.

" You were speaking about it being a girl," said Miss
Betsey. " I have no doubt it will be a girl. I have a presen-
timent that it must be a girl. Now child, from the moment
of the birth of this girl "

" Perhaps boy," my mother took the liberty of putting in.

" I tell you I have a presentiment that it must be a girl,"
returned Miss Betsey. " Don't contradict. From the mo-
ment of this girl's birth, child, I intend to be her friend. I
intend to be her godmother, and I beg you'll call her Betsey
Trotwood Copperfield. There must be no mistakes in life
with this Betsey Trotwood. There must be no trifling with
her affections, poor dear. She must be well brought up, and
well guarded from reposing any foolish confidences where
they are not deserved. I must make that my care."

There was a twitch of Miss Betsey's head after each of
these sentences, as if her own old wrongs were working within
her, and she repressed any plainer reference to them by strong
constraint. So my mother suspected, at least, as she ob-
served her by the low glimmer of the fire, too much scared
by Miss Betsey, too uneasy in herself, and too subdued and
bewildered altogether, to observe anything very clearly, or to
know what to say.

" And was David good to you, child ? " asked Miss Betsey,
when she had been silent for a little while, and these motions

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

of her head had gradually ceased. " Were you comfortable
together ? "

"We were very happy," said my mother. " Mr. Copper-
field was only too good to me."

" What, he spoilt you, I suppose ? " returned Miss Betsey.,
" For being quite alone and dependent on myself in this
rough world again, yes, I fear he did indeed," sobbed my
mother,

" Well ! Don't cry ! " said Miss Betsey. " You were not
equally matched, child â€” if any two people can be equally
matched â€” and so I asked the question. You were an orphan,
weren't you ? "

"Yes."

" And a governess ? "

" I was a nursery-governess in a family where Mr. Copper-
field came to visit. Mr. Copperfield was very kind to me,
and took a great deal of notice of me, and paid me a good
deal of attention, and at last proposed to me. And I accepted
him. And so we were married," said my mother simply.

" Ha ! Poor Baby ! " mused Miss Betsey, with her frown
still bent upon the fire. " Do you know anything ? "

u I beg your pardon, ma'am," faltered my mother.

" About keeping house, for instance," said Miss Betsey.

"Not much, I fear," returned my mother. "Not so much
as I could wish. But Mr. Copperfield was teaching me â€” "

(" Much he knew about it himself ! ") said Miss Betsey in
a parenthesis.

â€” " And I hope I should h&ve improved, being very anx-
ious to learn, and he very patient to teach, if the great mis-
fortune of his death" â€” my mother broke down again here, and
could get no farther.

"Well, well ! " said Miss Betsey.

â€” " I kept my housekeeping-book regularly, and balanced
it with Mr. Copperfield every night," cried my mother in an
other burst of distress, and breaking down again.

" Well, well ! " said Miss Betsey. " Don't cry any more."

â€” " And I am sure we never had a word of difference re-
specting it, except when Mr. Copperfield objected to my
threes and fives being too much like each other, or to my put-
ting curly tails to my sevens and nines," resumed my mother
in another burst, and breaking down again.

"You'll make yourself ill," said Miss Betsey, " and you
know that will not be good either for you or for my god-daugh-
ter. Come ! You mustn't do it ! "

/ AM BORN.

This argument had some share in quieting my mother,
though her increasing indisposition had perhaps a larger one.
There was an interval of silence, only broken by Miss Bet-
sey's occasionally ejaculating" Ha ! " as she sat with her feet
upon the fender.

" David had bought an annuity for himself with his money,
I know," said she, by and by. " What did he do for you ? "

" Mr. Copperfield," said my mother, answering with some
difficulty, " was so considerate and good as to secure the re-
version of a part cf it to me."

" How much ? " asked Miss Betsey.

" A hundred and five pounds a year," said my mother.

" He might have done worse," said my aunt.

The word was appropriate to the moment. My mother was
so much worse that Peggotty, coming in with the teaboard
and candles, and seeing at a glance how ill she was, â€” as Miss
Betsey might have done sooner if there had been light enough,
â€” conveyed her up stairs to her own room with all speed ;
and immediately despatched Ham Peggotty, her nephew, who
had been for some days past secreted in the house, unknown
to my mother, as a special messenger in case of emergency,
to fetch the nurse and doctor.

Those allied powers were considerably astonished, when
they arrived within a few minutes of each other, to find an un-
known lady of portentous appearance sitting before the fire,
with her bonnet tied over her left arm, stopping her ears with >
jewellers' cotton. Peggotty knowing nothing about her, and
my mother saying nothing, about her, she was quite a mystery
in the parlor ; and the fact of her having a magazine of jewel-
ler's cotton in her pocket, and sticking the article in her ears
in that way, did not detract from the solemnity of her pres-
ence.

The doctor having been upstairs and come down again,
and having satisfied himself, I suppose, that there was a prob<
ability of this unknown lady and himself having to sit there,
face to face, for some hours, laid himself out to be polite and
social. He was the meekest of his sex, the mildest of little
men. He sidled in and out of a room, to take up the less
space. He walked as softly as the Ghost in Hamlet, and
more slowly. He carried his head on one side, partly in
modest depreciation of himself, partly in modest propitiation
of everybody else. It is nothing to say that he hadn't a word
to throw at a dog. He couldn't have thrown a word at a man

Da FID COPPERFIELD

dog. He might have offered him one gently, or half a one.
or a fragment of one ; for he spoke as slowly as he walked \
but he wouldn't have been rude to him, and he couldn't have
been quick with him, for any earthly consideration.

Mr. Chillip, looking mildly at my aunt with his head on one
side, and making her a little bow, said, in allusion to the
jewellers' cotton, as he softly touched his left ear :

" Some local irritation, ma'am ? "

"What ! " replied my aunt, pulling the cotton out of one
ear like a cork.

Mr. Chillip was so alarmed by her abruptness â€” as he told
my mother afterwards â€” that it was a mercy he didn't lose his
presence of mind. But he repeated sweetly :

" Some local irritation ma'am ? "

" Nonsense ! " replied my aunt, and corked herself again,
at one blow.

Mr. Chillip could do nothing after this, but sit and look at
her feebly, as she sat and looked at the fire, until he was
called up stairs again. After some quarter of an hour's ab-
sence, he returned.

" Well ? " said my aunt, taking the cotton out of the ear
nearest to him.

"Well, ma'am," returned Mr. Chillip, "we are â€” we are
progressing slowly, ma'am."

" Ba â€” a â€” ah ! " said my aunt, with a perfect shake on the
contemptuous interjection. And corked herself as before.

Really â€” really â€” as Mr. Chillip told my mother, he was
almost shocked ; speaking in a professional point of view alone
he was almost shocked. But he sat and looked at her, notwith-
standing, for nearly two hours, as she sat looking at the fire,
"mtil he was again called out. After another absence, he
again returned.

" Well ? " said my aunt, taking out the cotton on that side
again.

"Well, ma'am," returned Mr. Chillip, "we are â€” we are
progressing slowly, ma'am."

" Ya â€” a â€” ah ! " said my aunt. With such a snarl at him,
that Mr. Chillip absolutely could not bear it. It was really
calculated to break his spirit, he said afterwards. He pre-
ferred to go and sit upon the stairs, in the dark and strong
draught, until he was again for.

Ham Peggotty, who went to the national school, and was a
very dragon at his catechism, and who mav therefore be re-

/ AM BORN.

guarded as a credible witness, reported next day, that happen-
ing- to peep in at the parlor-door an hour after this, he was
instantly described by Miss Betsey, then walking to and fro in
a state of agitation, and pounced upon before he could make
his escape. That there were now occasional sounds- of feet
and voices overhead which he inferred the cotton did not ex-
clude, from the circumstances of his evidently being clutched
by the lady as a victim on whom to expend her superabun-
dant agitation when the sounds were loudest. That, march-
ing him constantly up and down by the collar (as if he had
been taking too much laudanum), she, at those times, shook
him, rumpled his hair, made light of his linen, stopped his
ears as if she confounded them with her own, and otherwise
touzled and maltreated him. This was in part confirmed by
his aunt, who saw him at half-past twelve o'clock, soon after
his release, and affirmed that he was then as red as I was.

The mild Mr. Chillip could not possibly bear malice at
such a time, if at any time. He sidled into the parlor as
soon as he was at liberty, and said to my aunt in his meekest
manner :

"Well, ma'am, I'm happy to congratulate you."

" What upon ? " said my aunt, sharply.

Mr. Chillip was fluttered again, by the extreme seventy
of my aunt's manner ; so he made her a little bow, and gave
her a little smile, to mollify her.

"Mercy on the man, what's he doing ! " cried my aunt,
impatiently. " Can't he speak ? "

"Be calm, my dear ma'am," said Mr. Chillip, in his soft-
est accents. "There is no longer any occasion for uneasi-
ness, ma'am. Be calm."

Ii jas since been considered almost a miracle that my
aunt didn't shake him, and shake what he had to say out of
him. She only shook her own head at him, but in a way
that made him quail.

"Well, ma'am," resumed Mr. Chillip, as soon as he had
courage," I am happy to congratulate you. All is now over,
ma'am, and well over."

During the five minutes or so that Mr. Chillip devoted to
the delivery of this oration, my aunt eyed him narrowly.

" How is she ? " said my aunt, folding her arms with her
bonnet still tied on one of them.

" Well, ma'am, she will soon be quite comfortable, I hope,"
returned Mr. Chillip. " Quite as comfortable as we can ex*

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

peel a young mother to be, under these melancholly domestic
chcumstances. There cannot be any objection to your see*
ing her presently, ma'am. It may do her good."

" And she. How is she ? " said my aunt, sharply.

Mr. Chillip laid his head a little more on one side, and
looked at my aunt like an amiable bird.

" The baby," said my aunt. " How is she ? "

" Ma'am," returned Mr. Chillip, " I apprehended you hacf
known. It's a boy."

My aunt said never a word, but took her bonnet by the
strings, in the manner of a sling, aimed a blow at Mr. Chillip's
head with it, put it on bent, walked out, and never came
back. She vanished like a discontented fairy ; or like one of
those supernatural beings whom it was popularly supposed I
was entitled to see ; and never came back any more.

No. I lay in my basket, and my mother lay in her bed ;
but Betsey Trotwood Copperfield was for ever in the land of
dreams and shadows, the tremendous region whence I had
so lately travelled ; and the light upon the window of our
room shone out upon the earthly bourne of all such traveller^
and the mound above the ashes and the dust that once was
he, without whom I had never been.

CHAPTER II.

I OBSERVE.

The first objects that assume a distinct presence before
.me, as I look far back, into the blank of my infancy, are my
mother with her pretty hair and youthful shape, and Peggotty,
with no shape at all, and eyes so dark that they seemed to
darken their whole neighborhood in her face, and cheeks and
arms so hard and red that I wondered the birds didn't peck
her in preference to apples.

I believe I can remember these two at a little distance
apart, dwarfed to my sight by stooping down or kneeling on
the floor, and I going unsteadily from the one to the other.
I have an impression on my mind which I cannot distinguish
from actual remembrance, of the touch of Peggotty's fore-

/ OBSERVE.

finger as she used to hold it out to me, and of its being,
roughened by needle work, like a pocket nutmeg-grater.

This may be fancy, though I think the memory of most
of us can go farther back into such times than many of us
suppose; just as I believe the power of observation in num-
bers of very young children to be quite wonderful for its
closeness and accuracy. Indeed, I think that most grown,
men who are remarkable in this respect, may with greater
propriety be said not to have lost the faculty, than to have
acquired it; the rather, as I generally observe such men to
retain a certain freshness, and gentleness, and capacity of
being pleased, which are also an inheritance they have pre-
served from their childhood.

I might have a misgiving that I am "meandering" in
stopping to say this, but that it brings me to remark that I
build these conclusions, in part upon my own experience of
myself ; and if it should appear from anything I may set
down in this narrative, that I was a child of close observation,
or that, as a man I have a strong memory of my childhood,
I undoubtedly lay claim to both of these characteristics.

Looking back, as I was saying, into the blank of my in- '
fancy, the first objects I can remember as standing out by
themselves from a confusion of things, are my mother and
Peggotty. What else do I remember ? Let me see.

There comes out of the cloud, our house â€” not new to
me but quite familiar, in its earliest remembrance. On the
ground-floor is Peggotty's kitchen, opening into a back yard;
with a pigeon-house on a pole, in the centre, without any
pigeons in it ; a great dog-kennel in a corner, without any
dog; and a quantity of fowls that look terribly tall to me,
walking about, in a menacing and ferocious manner. There
is one cock who gets upon a post to crow, and seems to take
particular notice of me as I look at him through the kitchen
window, who makes me shiver, he is so fierce. Of the geese
outside the side-gate who come waddling after me with their
long necks stretched out when I go that way, I dream at night;
as a man environed by wild beasts might dream of lions.

Here is a long passage â€” what an enormous perspective I
make of it!-leading from Peggotty's kitchen to the front-door.
A dark store-room opens out of it, and that is a place to be
run past at night; for I don't know what may be among those
tubs and jars and old tea-chests, when there is nobody in there
with a dimly-burning light, letting a mouldy air come out at

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

the door, in which there is the smell of soap, pickles, pepper,
candles, and coffee, all at one whiff. Then there are the two
parlors ; the parlor in which we sit of an evening, my mother
and I and Peggotty â€” for Peggotty is quite our companion,
when her work is done and we are alone â€” and the best parlor
where we sit on a Sunday â€¢ grandly, but not so comfortably.
There is something of a doleful air about that room to me, for
Peggotty has told me â€” I don't know when, but apparently
ages ago â€” about my father's funeral, and the company having
their black cloaks put on. One Sunday night my mother
reads to Peggotty and me in there, how Lazarus was raised
up from the dead. And I am so frightened that they are
afterwards obliged to take me out of bed, and shew me the
quiet churchyard out of the bedroom window, with the dead
all lying in their graves at rest, below the solemn moon.

There is nothing half so green that I know anywhere, as
the grass of that churchyard ; nothing half so shady as its
trees ; nothing half so quiet as its tomb-stones. The sheep
are feeding there, when I kneel up, early in the morning, in
my little bed in a closet within my mother's room, to look out
at it; and I see the red light shining on the sun-dial, and
think within myself, " Is the sun-dial glad, I wonder, thai it
can tell the time again ? "

Here is our pew in the church. What a high-backed pew !
With a window near it, out of which our house can be seen,
and is seen many times during the morning's service, by Peg-
gotty, who likes to make herself as sure as she can that it's
not being robbed, or is not in flames. But though Peggotty's
eye wanders, she is much offended if mine does, and frowns
to me, as I stand upon the seat, that I am to look at the
clergyman. But I can't always look at him â€” I know him
without that white thing on, and I am afraid of his wondering
' why I stare so, and perhaps stopping the service to inquire â€” â–
and what am I to do ? It's a dreadful thing to gape, but I
must do something. I look at my mother, but she pretends
not to see me. I look at a boy in the aisle, and he makes
faces at me. I look at the sunlight coming in at the open
door through the porch, and there I see a stray sheep â€” I
don't mean a sinner, but mutton â€” half making up his mind to
come into the church. I feel that if I looked at him any
longer, I might be tempted to say something out loud ; and
what would become of me then ! I look up at the monu-
mental tablets on the wall, and try to think of Mr. Bodgers

/ OBSERVE.

late of this parish, and what the feelings of Mrs. Bodgers
must have been, when affliction sore, long time Mr. Bodgers
bore, and physicians were in vain. I wonder whether they
called in Mr. Chillip, and he was in vain ; and if so, how he
Mkes to be reminded of it once a week. I look from Mr.
Chillip, in his Sunday neckcloth, to the pulpit ; and think
what a good place it would be to play in, and what a castle it
would make, with another boy coming up the stairs to attack
It, and having the velvet cushion with the tassels thrown down
on his head. In time my eyes gradually shut up ; and, from
seeming to hear the clergyman singing a drowsy song in the
heat, I hear nothing, until I fall off the seat with a crash, and
am taken out, more dead than alive, by Peggotty.

And now I see the outside of our house, with the latticed
bed-room windows standing open to let in the sweet-smelling
air, and the ragged old rooks'-nests still dangling in the elm-
trees at the bottom of the front garden. Now I am in the
garden at the back, beyond the yard where the empty pigeon-
house and dog-kennel are â€” a very preserve of butterflies, as I
remember it, with a high fence, and a gate and padlock ;
where the fruit clusters on the trees, riper and richer than
fruit has ever been since, in any other garden, and where my
mother gathers some in a basket, while I stand by, bolting
furtive gooseberries, and trying to look unmoved. A great
wind rises, and the summer is gone in a moment. We are
playing in the winter twilight, dancing about the parlor.
When my mother is out of breath and rests herself in an elbow-
chair, I watch her winding her bright curls round her fingers,
and straightening her waist, and nobody knows better than I
do that she likes to look so well, and is proud of being so
pretty.

That is among my very earliest impressions. That, and a
sense that we were both a little afraid of Peggotty, and sub-
mitted ourselves in most things to her direction, were arnon^,
the first opinions â€” if they may be so called â€” that I evei
derived from what I saw.

Peggotty and I were sitting one night by the parlor fire,
alone. I had been reading to Peggotty about crocodiles. I
must have read very perspicuously, or the poor soul must have
been deeply interested, for I remember she had a cloudy van*

fression, after 1 had done, that they were a sort of vegetable,
was tired of reading, and dead sleepy ; but having leave, as
a high treat, to sit up until my mother came home from

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

spending the evening at a neighbor's, I would rather have
died upon my post (of course) than have gone to bed. I had
reached that stage of sleepiness when Peggotty seemed to
swell and grow immensely large. I propped my eyelids open
with my two forefingers, and looked perseveringly at her as
she sat at work ; at the little bit of wax-candle she kept for
her thread â€” how old it looked, being so wrinkled in all direc-
tions ! â€” at the little house with a thatched roof, where the
yard-measure lived â€¢ at her work-box with a sliding lid, with a
view of St. Paul's Cathedral (with a pink dome) painted on
the top ; at the brass thimble on her finger ; at herself, whom
I thought lovely, I felt so sleepy, that I knew if I lost sight
of anything, for a moment, I was gone.

" Peggotty," says I, suddenly, " were you ever married ! "

" Lord, Master Davy," replied Peggotty. " What's put
marriage in your head ? "

She answered with such a start, that it quite awoke me.
And then she stopped in her work, and looked at me, with
her needle drawn out to its thread's length.

" But were you ever married, Peggotty ? " says I. " You
are a very handsome woman, an't you ? "

I thought her in a different style from my mother, cer-
tainly ; but of another school of beauty, I considered her a
perfect example. There was a red velvet footstool in the best
parlor, on which my mother had painted a nosegay. The
ground-work of that stool and Peggotty's complexion appeared
to me to be one and the same thing. The stool was smooth,
and Peggotty was rough, but that made no difference.

" Me handsome, Davy ! " said Peggotty. " Lawk, no, my
dear ! But what put marriage in your head ? "

" I don't know ! â€” You mustn't marry more than one person
at a time, may you, Peggotty ? "

" Certainly not," says Peggotty, with the promptest de-
cision.

" But if you marry a person, and the person dies, why then
you may marry another person, mayn't you, Peggotty ? "

"You may," says Peggotty, "if you choose, my dear.
That's a matter of opinion."

" But what is your opinion, Peggotty ? " said I.

I asked her, and looked curiously at her, because she
looked so curiously at me.

" My opinion is," said Peggotty, taking her eyes from me,
after a little indecision and going on with her work, " that I

I OBSERVE.

never was married myself, Master Davy, and that I don't
expect to be. That's all I know about the subject."

" You an't cross, I suppose, Peggotty, are you ? " said \
after sitting quiet for a minute.

I really thought she was, she had been so short with me j
but I was quite mistaken ; for she laid aside her work (which
was a stocking of her own), and opening her arms wide,
took my curly head within them, and gave it a good squeeze*
I know it was a good squeeze, because, being very plump,
whenever she made any little exertion after she was dressed,
some of the buttons on the back of her gown flew off. And
I recollect two bursting to the opposite side of the parlor,
while she was hugging me.

" Now let me hear some more about the Crorkindills," said
Peggotty, who was not quite right in the name yet, " for I an't
heard half enough."

I couldn't quite understand why Peggotty looked so queer,
â€¢ or why she was so ready to go back to the crocodiles. How-
ever, we returned to those monsters, with fresh wakefulness
on my part, and we left their eggs in the sand for the sun
to hatch ; and we ran away from them, and baffled them
by constantly turning, which they were unable to do quickly,
on account of their unwieldy make ; and we went into
the water after them, as natives, and put sharp pieces of
timber down their throats ; and in short we ran the whole
crocodile gauntlet, /did, at least ; but I had my doubts of
Peggotty, who was thoughtfully sticking her needle into vari-
ous parts of her face and arms all the time.

We had exhausted the crocodiles, and begun with the alli-
gators, when the garden-bell rang. We went out to the door ;
and there was my mother, looking unusually pretty, I thought,
and with her a gentleman with beautiful black hair and
whiskers, who had walked home with us from church last
3unday.

As my mother stooped down on the threshold to take me
in her arms and kiss me, the gentleman said I was a more
Tiighly privileged little fellow than a monarch â€” or something
"like that ; for my later understanding comes, I am sensible,
lo my aid here.

" What does that mean ? " I asked him, over her shoul-
der.

He patted me on the head ; but somehow, I did't like
Mm or his deep voice, and I was jealous that his hand should

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

touch my mother's in touching me â€” which it did. I put it
away as well as I could.

" Oh, Davy ! " remonstrated my mother.

" Dear boy ? " said the gentleman. " I cannot wonder at
his devotion ! "

I never saw such a beautiful color on my mother's face
before. She gently chid me for being rude ; and, keeping
me close to her shawl, turned to thank the gentleman for
taking so much trouble as to bring her home. She put out
her hand to him as she spoke, and, as he met it with his own
she glanced, I thought, at me.

" Let us say ' good night,' my fine boy," said the gentle-
man, when he had bent his head â€” I saw him ! â€” over my
mother's little glove.

" Good night ! " said I.

" Come ! Let us be the best friends in the world ! " said
the gentleman, laughing. " Shake hands ! "

My right hand was in my mother's left, so I gave him the
other.

"Why, that's the wrong hand, Davy ! " laughed the gentle-
man.

My mother drew my right hand forward, but I was re-
solved, for my former reason, not to give it him, and I did
not. I gave him the other, and he shook it heartily, and said
I was a brave fellow, and went away.

At this minute I see him turn round in the garden, and
give us a last look with his ill-omened black eyes, before the
door was shut.

Peggotty, who had not said a word or moved a finger,
secured the fastenings instantly, and we all went into the
parlor. My mother, contrary to her usual habit, instead of
coming to the elbow-chair by the fire, remained at the other
end of the room, and sat singing to herself.

â€” " Hope you have had a pleasant evening, ma'am," said
Peggotty, standing as stiff as a barrel in the centre of the
room, with a candlestick in her hand.

" Much obliged to you, Peggotty," returned my mother in
a cheerful voice, " I have had a very pleasant evening."

" A stranger or so makes an agreeable change," suggested
Peggotty.

" A very agreeable change, indeed," returned my mother.
Peggotty continuing to stand motionless in the middle of
the room, and my mother resuming her singing, I fell asleep^

./ OBSERVE.

though I was not so sound asleep but that I could hear voices,
without hearing what they said. When I half awoke from this
uncomfortable dose, I found Peggotty and my mother both in
tears, and both talking.

" Not such a one as this, Mr. Copperfield wouldn't have
liked," said Peggotty. "That I say, and that I swear ! "

" Good Heavens ! " cried my mother, " you'll drive me
mad ! Was ever any poor girl so ill-used by her servants as
I am ! Why do I do myself the injustice of calling myself a
girl ? Have I never been married, Peggotty ? "

" God knows you have, ma'am," returned Peggotty.

" Then, how can you dare," said my mother â€” "you know
I don't mean how can you dare, Peggotty, but how can you
have the heart â€” to make me so uncomfortable and say such
bitter things to me, when you are well aware that I haven't,
out of this place, a single friend to turn to ? "

"The more's the reason," returned Peggotty, "for saying
that it won't do. No ! No price could make it do. No ! " â€” â–
I thought Peggotty would have thrown the candlestick away,
she was so emphatic with it.

" How can you be so aggravating," said my mother, shed-
ding more tears than before, " as to talk in such an unjust
manner ! How can you go on as if it was all settled and
arranged, Peggotty, when I tell you over and over again, you
cruel thing, that beyond tire commonest civilities nothing has
passed! You talk of admiration. What am I to do? If
people are so silly as to indulge the sentiment, is it my fault ?
What am I to do, I ask you ? Would you wish me to shave
my head and black my face, or disfigure myself with a burn,
or a scald, or something of that sort ? I dare say you would,
Peggotty. I dare say you'd quite enjoy it."

Peggotty seemed to take this aspersion very much to heart,
I thought.

"And my dear boy," cried my mother, coming to the
elbow-chair in which I was, and caressing me, " my own little
Davy ! Is it to be hinted to me that I am wanting in affec-
tion for my precious treasure, the dearest little fellow that
ever was ! "

" Nobody never went and hinted no such a thing," said
Jpeggotty.

" You did, Peggotty ! " leturned my mother. " You know
you did. What else was it possible to infer from what you
said, you unkind creature, when you know as well as I do,

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

that on his account only last quarter I wouldn't buy myself a
new parasol, though that old green one is frayed the whole
way up, and the fringe is perfectly mangy ? You know it is,
Feggotty ; you can't deny it." Then, turning affectionately to
me, with her cheek against mine, " Am I a naughty mama to
you, Davy ? Am I a nasty, cruel, selfish, bad mama ? Say I
am, my child ; say ' yes,' dear boy, and Peggotty will love you 5
and Peggotty's love is a great deal better than mine, Davy
/ don't love you at all, do I ? "

At this, we all fell a-crying together. I think I was the
loudest of the party, but I am sure we were all sincere about
it. I was quite heart-broken myself, and am afraid that in
the first transports of wounded tenderness I called Peggotty
a " Beast." That honest creature was in deep affliction, I
remember, and must have become quite buttonless on the
occasion ; for a little volley of those explosives went off, when,
after having made it up with my mother, she kneeled down by
the elbow-chair, and made it up with me.

We went to bed greatly dejected. My sobs kept waking
me, for a long time ; and when one very strong sob quite
hoisted me up in bed, I found my mother sitting on the cover-
let, and leaning over me. I fell asleep in her arms, after that,
and slept soundly.

Whether it was the following Sunday when I saw the gen-
tleman again, or whether there was any greater lapse of time
before he re-appeared, I cannot recall. I don't profess to be
clear about dates. But there he was, in church, and he
walked home with us afterwards. He came in, too, to look at
a famous geranium we had, in the parlor-window. It did not
appear to me that he took much notice of it, but before he
went he asked my mother to give him a bit of the blossom. She
begged him to choose it for himself, but he refused to do that
* â€” I could not understand why â€” so she plucked it for him, and
gave it into his hand. He said he would never, never, part
with it any more ; and I thought he must be quite a fool not
to know that it would fa) I to pieces in a day or two.

Peggotty began to be less with us, of an evening, than she
had always been. My mother deferred to her very much â€”
more than usual, it occurred to me â€” and we were all three ex-
cellent friends ; still we were different from what we used to
be, and were not so comfortable among ourselves. Sometimes
I fancied that Peggotty perhaps objected to my mother's wear-
ing all the pretty dresses she had in her drawers, or to her

/ OBSERVE.

going so often to visit at that neighbor's ; but I couldn't, to
my satisfaction, make out how it was.

Gradually, I became used to seeing the gentleman with the
black whiskers. I liked him no better than at first, and had
the same uneasy jealousy of him ; but if I had any reason
for it beyond a child's instinctive dislike, and a general idea
that Peggotty and I could make much of my mother without
any help, it certainly was not the reason that I might have
:ound if I had been older. No such thing came into my
mind, or near it. I could observe, in little pieces, as it were j
but as to making a net of a number of these pieces, and catch-
ing anybody in it, that was, as yet, beyond me.

One autumn morning I was with my mother in the front
garden, when Mr. Murdstone â€” I knew him by that name now
â€” came by, on horseback. He reined up his horse to salute
my mother, and said he was going to Lowestoft to see some
friends who were there with a yacht, and merrily proposed to
take me on the saddle before him if I would like the ride.

The air was so clear and pleasant, and the horse seemed
to like the idea of the ride so much himself, as he stood snort-
ing and pawing at the garden-gate, that I had a great desire
to go. So I was sent up stairs to Peggotty to be made spruce ;
and, in the meantime, Mr. Murdstone dismounted, and, with
his horse's bridle drawn over his arm, walked slowly up and
down on the outer side of the sweet-briar fence, while my
mother walked slowly up and down on the inner, to keep him
company. I recollect Peggotty and I peeping out at them
from my little window ; I recollect how closely they seemed
to be examining the sweetbriar between them, as they strolled
along ; and how, from being in a perfectly angelic temper,
Peggotty turned cross in a moment, and brushed my hair the
wrong way, excessively hard.

Mr. Murdstone and I were soon off, and trotting along on
the green turf by the side of the road. He held me quite
easily with one arm, and I don't think I was restless usually ;
but I could not make up my mind to sit in front of him with-
out turning my head sometimes, and looking up in his face.
He had that kind of shallow black eye â€” I want a better word
to express an eye that has no depth in it to be looked into â€”
which, when it is abstracted, seems, from some peculiarity of
light, to be disfigured, for a moment at a time, by a cast.
Several times when I glanced at him, I observed that appear-
ance with a sort of awe, and wondered what he was thinking

Â£3

DAVID COPPERFIELV.

about so closely. His hair and whiskers were blacker and
thicker, looked at sO near, than even I had given them credit
for being, A squareness about the lower part of his face, and
the dotted indication of the strong black beard he shaved
close every day, reminded me of the wax-work that had trav-
elled into our - neighborhood some half-a-year before. This>
his regular eyebrows, and the rich white, and black, and brown,
of his complexion â€” confound his complexion, and his memory â–
â€” made me think him, in spite of my misgivings, a very hand
some man. I have no doubt that my poor dear mother thought
him so too.

We went to an hotel by the sea, where two gentlemen were
smoking cigars in a room by themselves. Each of them was
lying on at least four chairs, and had a large rough jacket on
In a corner was a heap of coats and boat-cloaks, and a flag,
all bundled up together.

They both rolled on to their feet, in an untidy sort of man*
ner, when we came in, and said, " Halloa, Murdstone ! We
thought you were dead ! "

" Not yet," said Mr. Murdstone.

" And who's this shaver ? " said one of the gentlemen,
taking hold of me.

" That's Davy," returned Mr. Murdstone.

" Davy who ? " said the gentleman. " Jones ? "

" Copperfleld," said Mr. Murdstone.

" What ! Bewitching Mrs. Copperneld's incumbrance ? "
cried the gentleman. " The pretty little widow ? "

"Quinion," said Mr. Murdstone, "take care, if you please.
Somebody's sharp."

" Who is ? " asked the gentleman, laughing.

I looked up, quickly ; being curious to know.

" Only Brooks of Sheffield," said Mr. Murdstone.

I was quite relieved to find that it was only Brooks o*
Sheffield ; for, at first, I really thought it was I.

There seemed to be something very comical in the reputa
tion of Mr. Brooks of Sheffield, for both the gentlemen laughed
heartily when he was mentioned, and Mr. Murdstone was a
good deal amused also. After some laughing, the gentleman
whom he had called Quinion said :

" And what is the opinion of Brooks of Sheffield, in refer-
ence to the projected business ? "

" Why, I don't know that Brooks understands much about
k at present," replied Mr. Murdstone ; "but he is not generÂ»
ally favorable, I believe,"

There was more laughter at this, and Mr. Quinion said ha
would ring the bell for some sherry in which to drink to Brooks
This he did ; and when the wine came, he made me have a
little, with a biscuit, and before I drank it, stand up and say,
" Confusion to Brooks of Sheffield ! " The toast was received
with great applause, and such hearty laughter that it made me
laugh too ; at which they laughed the more. In short, we
quite enjoyed ourselves.

We walked about on the cliff after that, and sat on the
grass, and looked at things through a telescope â€” I could make
out nothing myself when it was put to my eye, but I pretended
I could â€” and then we came back to the hotel to an early din-
ner. All the time we were out, the two gentlemen smoked
incessantly â€” which, I thought, if I might judge from the smell
of their rough coats, they must have been doing ever since
the coats had first come home from the tailor's. I must not
forget that we went on board the yacht, where they all three
descended into the cabin, and were busy with some papers.
I saw them quite hard at work, when I looked down through
the open skylight. They left me, during this time, with a very
nice man, with a very large head of red hair and a very small
shiny hat upon it, who had got a cross-barred shirt or waist-
coat on, with " Skylark " in capital letters across the chest.
I thought it was his name ; and that as he lived on board the
ship and hadn't a street-door to put his name on, he put it
there instead ; but when I called him Mr. Skylark, he said it
meant the vessel.

I observed all day that Mr. Murdstone was graver and
steadier than the two gentlemen. They were very gay and
careless. They joked freely with one another, but seldom
with him. It appeared to me that he was more clever and
cold than they were, and that they regarded him with some-
thing of my own feeling. I remarked that, once or twice,
when Mr. Quinion was talking, he looked at Mr. Murdstone
sideways, as if to make sure of his not being displeased ; am*
that once when Mr. Passnidge (the other gentleman) was m
high spirits, he trod upon his foot, and gave him a secret
caution with his eyes, to observe Mr. Murdstone, who was
sitting stern and silent. Nor do I recollect that Mr. Murd-
stone laughed at all that day, except at the Sheffield joke â€” and
that, by the by, was his own.

We went home early in the evening. It was a very fine
evening, and my mother and he had another stroll by the

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

sweetbriar, while I was sent in to get my tea. When he was
gone, my mother asked me all about the day I had had, and
what they had said and done. I mentioned what they had
said about her, and she laughed, and told me they were im-
pudent fellows who talked nonsense â€” but I knew it pleased
her. I knew it quite as well as I know it now. I took the
opportunity of asking if she was at all acquainted with Mr.
Brooks of Sheffield, but she answered No, only she supposed
he must be a manufacturer in the knife and fork way.

Can I say of her face â€” altered as I have reason to remem-
ber it, perished as I know it is â€” that it is gone, when here it
comes before me at this instant, as distinct as any face that I
may choose to look on in a crowded street ? Can I say of
her innocent and girlish beauty, that it faded, and was no
more, when its breath falls on my cheek now, as it fell that
night ? Can I say she ever changed, when my remembrance
brings her back to life, thus only ; and, truer to its loving
youth than I have been, or man ever is, still holds fast what
it cherished then ?

I write of her just as she was when I had gone to bed after
this talk, and she came to bid me good-night. She kneeled
down playfully by the side of the bed, and laying her chin
upon her hands, and laughing, said :

" What was it they said, Davy ? Tell me again. I can't
believe it."

" * Bewitching ' " I began.

My mother put her hands upon my lips to stop me.

" It was never bewitching," she said, laughing. " It never
could have been bewitching, Davy. Now I know it wasn't ! "

" Yes it was. ' Bewitching Mrs. Copperfield,' " I repeated
stoutly. " And ' pretty.' "

" No, no, it was never pretty. Not pretty," interposed my
mother, laying her fingers on my lips again.
/ " Yes it was. ' Pretty little widow.' "

" What foolish, impudent creatures ! " cried my mother,
laughing and covering her face. " What ridiculous men ! An't
they ? Davy dear "

" Well, Ma."

" Don't tell Peggotty ; she might be angry with them. I
am dreadfully angry with them myself; but I would rather
Peggotty didn't know."

I promised, of course ; and we kissed one another over
and again, and I soon fell fast asleep.

/ OBSERVE.

It seems to me, at this distance of time, as if it were the
next day when Peggotty broached the striking and adventur-
ous proposition I am about to mention ; but it was probably
about two months afterwards.

We were sitting as before, one evening (when my mother
was out as before), in company with the stocking and the yard
measure, and the bit of wax, and the box with Saint Paul's on
the lid, and the crocodile book, when Peggotty, after looking
at me several times, and opening her mouth as if she were
going to speak, without doing it â€” which I thought was merely
gaping, or I should have been rather alarmed â€” said coaxingly.

" Master Davy, how should you like to go along with me
and spend a fortnight at my brother's at Yarmouth ? Wouldn't
that be a treat ? "

" Is your brother an agreeable man, Peggotty ? " I in-
quired, provisionally.

" Oh, what an agreeable man he is ! " cried Peggotty, hold-
ing up her hands. " Then there's the sea ; and the boats and
ships ; and the fishermen; and the beach ; and Am to play
with "

Peggotty meant her nephew Ham, mentioned in my first
chapter ; but she spoke of him as a morsel of English Gram-
mar.

I was flushed by her summary of delights, and replied that
it would indeed be a treat, but what would my mother say ?

"Why then I'll as good as bet a guinea," said Peggotty,
intent upon my face, " that she'll let us go. I'll ask her, if
you like, as soon as ever she comes home. There now ! "

" But what's she to do while we are away ? " said I, putting
my small elbows on the table to argue the point. " She can't
live by herself."

If Peggotty were looking for a hole, all of a sudden, in the
heel of that stocking, it must have been a very little one in-
deed, and not worth darning.

" I say ! Peggotty ! She can't live by herself, you know.''

" Oh bless you ! " said Peggotty, looking at me again at
last. " Don't you know ? She's going to stay for a fortnight
with Mrs. Grayper. Mrs. Grayper's going to have a lot of
company."

Oh ! If that was it, I was quite ready to go. I waited, in
the utmost impatience, until my mother came home from Mr.
Grayper's (for it was that identical neighbor), to ascertain if
we could get leave to carry out this great idea. Without beiÂ»a

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

nearly so much surprised as I expected, my mother entered
into it readily; and it was all arranged that night, and my
board and lodging during the visit were to be paid for.

The day soon came for our going. It was such an early
day that it came soon, even to me, who was in a fever of
expectation, and half afraid that an earthquake or a fiery
mountain, or some other great convulsion of nature, might
interpose to stop the expedition. We were to go in a car-
rier's cart, which departed in the morning after breakfast.
I would have given any money to have been allowed to wrap
myself up overnight, and sleep in my hat and boots.

It touches me nearly now, although I tell it lightly, to
recollect how eager I was to leave my happy home; to think
how little I suspected what I did leave for ever.

I am glad to recollect that when the carrier's cart was at
the gate, and my mother stood there kissing me, a grateful
fondness for her and for the old place I had never turned my
back upon before, made me cry. I am glad to know that
my mother cried too, and that I felt her heart beat against
mine.

I am glad to recollect that when the carrier began to move,
my mother ran out at the gate, and called to him to stop, that
she might kiss me once more. I am glad to dwell upon the
earnestness and love with which she lifted up her face to mine,
and did so.

As we left her standing in the road, Mr. Murdstone came
up to where she was, and seemed to expostulate with her for
being so moved. I was looking back round the awning of the
cart and wTondered what business it was of his. Peggotty, wrho
was also looking back on the other side, seemed anything but
satisfied ; as the face she brought back in the cart denoted.
t I sat looking at Peggotty for some time, in a reverie or>
'this supposititious case ; whether, if she were employed to
lose me like the boy in the fairy tale, I should be able to
track my way home again by the buttons she would shed.

/ HA VE A CHANGE.

CHAPTER III.

I HAVE A CHANGE.

The carrier's horse was the laziest horse in the 7/c c, ;
Should hope, and shuffled along, with his head down, as if he
Kked to keep people waiting to whom the packages were d!
rected. I fancied, indeed, that he sometimes chuckled audibly
over this reflection, but the carrier said he was only troubled
with a cough.

The carrier had a way of keeping his head dow ~, like his
horse, and of drooping sleepily forward as he drove, with one
of his arms on each of his knees. I say "drove," but it
struck me that the cart would have gone to Yarmouth quite as
well without him, for the horse did all that; and as vo conver-
sation, he had no idea of it but whistling.

Peggotty had a basket of refreshments on her knee, which
would have lasted us out handsomely, if we had been going to
London by the same conveyance. We ate a good deal, and
slept a good deal. Peggotty always went to sleep with her
chin upon the handle of the basket, her hold of which never
relaxed ; and I could not have believed unless I had beard
her do it, that one defenceless woman could have snored so
much.

We made so many deviations up and down lanes, and were
such a long time delivering a bedstead at a public-house, and
calling at other places, that I was quite tired, and very glad,
when we saw Yarmouth. It looked rather spongy and soppy,
I thought, as I carried my eye over the great dull waste that
Jay across the river ; and I could not help wondering, if the
world were really as round as my geography-book said, how
any part oc it came to be so flat. But I reflected that Yar-
mouth might be situated at one of the poles ; which would
account for it.

As we drew a little nearer, and saw the whole adjacent
prospect lying a straight low line under the sky, I hinted to
Peggotty that a mound or so might have improved it ; and
also that if the land had been a little more separated from the
sea, and the town and the tide had not been quite so rrucb

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

mixed up, like toast and water, it would have been nicer. But
Peggotty said with greater emphasis than usual, that we must
take things as we found them, and that, for her part, she was
proud to call herself a Yarmouth Bloater.

When we got into the street (which was strange enough to
me), and smelt the fish, and pitch, and oakum, and tar, and
saw the sailors walking about, and the carts jingling up and
down over the stones, I felt that I had done so busy a place
an injustice ; and said as much to Peggotty, who heard my
expressions of delight with great complacency, and told me it
was well known (I suppose to those who had the good fortune
to be born Bloaters) that Yarmouth was, upon the whole, the
finest place in the universe.

" Here's my Am !" screamed Peggotty, "growed out of
knowledge ! "

He was waiting for us, in fact, at the public-house ; and
asked me how I found myself, like an old acquaintance. I did
not feel, at first, that I knew him as well as he knew me, be-
cause he had never come to our house since the night I was
born, and naturally he had the advantage of me. But our in-
timacy was much advanced by his taking me on his back to
carry me home. He was, now, a huge, strong fellow of six
feet high, broad in proportion, and round-shouldered ; but
with a simpering boy's face and curly light hair that gave him
quite a sheepish look. He was dressed in a canvas jacket,
and a pair of such very stiff trousers that they would have
stood quite as well alone, without any legs in them. And you
couldn't so properly have said he wore a hat, as that he
was covered in a-top, like an old building, with something
pitchy.

Ham carrying me on his back and a small box of ours
under his arm, and Peggotty carrying another small box of
ours, we turned down lanes bestrewn with bits of chips and
little hillocks of sand, and went past gas-works, rope-walks,
boat-builders' yards, ship-wrights' yards, ship-breakers' yards?
caulkers' yards, riggers' lofts, smiths' forges, and a great litter
of such places, until we came out upon the dull waste I had
already seen at a distance ; when Ham said,

" Yon's our house, Mas'r Davy ! "

I looked in all directions, as far as I could stare over the
wilderness, and away at the sea, and away at the river, but no-
house could / make out. There was a black barge, or some
other kind of superannuated boat, not far off, high and dry on

i have a change.

the ground, with an iron funnel sticking out of it for a chim-
ney and smoking very cosily ; but nothing else in the way of
a habitation that was visible to me.

" That's not it ? " said I. " That ship-looking thing ? "

" That's it, Mas'r Davy,'' returned Ham.

If it had been Aladdin's palace, roc's egg and all, I sup-
pose I could not have been more charmed with the romantic
idea of living in it. There was a delightful door cut in the
side, and it was roofed in, and there were little windows in it j
but the wonderful charm of it was, that it was a real boat
which had no doubt been upon the water hundreds of times,
and which had never been intended to be lived in, on dry
land. That was the captivation of it to me. If it had ever
been meant to be lived in, I might have thought it small, or
inconvenient, or lonely ; but never having been designed for
any such use, it became a perfect abode.

It was beautifully clean inside, and as tidy as possible.
There was a table, and a Dutch clock, and a chest of drawers,
and on the *chest of drawers there was a tea-tray with a paint*
ing on it of a lady with a parasol, taking a walk with a mili-
tary-looking child who was trundling a hoop. The tray was
kept from tumbling down, by a bible ; and the tray, if it had
tumbled down, would have smashed a quantity of cups and
saucers and a teapot that were grouped around the book. On
the walls there were some common colored pictures, framed
and glazed, of scripture subjects ; such as I have never seen
since in the hands of pedlars, without seeing the whole interior
of Peggotty's brother's house again, at one view. Abraham in
red going to sacrifice Isaac in blue, and Daniel in yellow cast
into a den of green lions, were the most prominent of these.
Over the little mantel-shelf, was a picture of the Sarah Jane
lugger, built at Sunderland, with a real little wooden stern
stuck on to it ; a work of art, combining composition with car-
pentry, which I considered to be one of the most enviable
possessions that the world could afford. There were some
hooks in the beams of the ceiling, the use of which I did not
divine then ; and some lockers and boxes and conveniences
of that sort, which served for seats and eked out the chairs.

All this, I saw in the first glance after I crossed the
threshold â€” child-like, according to my theory â€” and then Peg-
gotty opened a little door and showed me my bedroom. It was
the completest and most desirable bedroom ever seen â€” in thÂ«
Stern of the vessel ; with a little window, where the rudder

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

used to go through ; a little looking-glass, just the right height
for me, nailed against the wall, and framed with oyster-shells
a little bed, which there was just room enough to get into ; and
a nosegay of seaweed in a blue mug on the table. The walls
were whitewashed as white as milk, and the patchwork coun-
terpane made my eyes quite ache with its brightness. One
thing I particularly noticed in this delightful house, was the
smell of fish \ which was so searching, that when I took out
my pocket-handkerchief to wipe my nose, I found it smelf
exactly as if it had wrapped up a lobster. On my imparting
this discovery in confidence to Peggotty, she informed me that
her brother dealt in lobsters, crabs, and crawfish ; and I after-
wards found that a heap of these creatures, in a state of
wonderful conglomeration with one another, and never leaving
off pinching whatever they laid hold of, were usually to be
found in a little wooden outhouse where the pots and kettles
were kept.

We were welcomed by a very civil woman in a white apron,
whom I had seen curtseying at the door when I was on Ham's
back, about a quarter of a mile off. Likewise by a most
beautiful little girl (or I thought her so), with a necklace of
blue beads on, who wouldn't let me kiss her when I offered
to, but ran away and hid herself. By and by, when we had
dined in a sumptuous manner off boiled dabs, melted butter,
and potatoes, with a chop for me, a hairy man with a very
good-natured face came home. As he called Peggotty
"Lass," and gave her a hearty smack on the cheek, I had no
doubt, from the general propriety of her conduct, that he was
her brother ; and so he turned out â€” being presently introduced
to me as Mr. Peggotty, the master of the house,

" Glad to see you, sir," said Mr. Peggotty. " You'll find
us rough, sir, but you'll find us ready."

I thanked him, and replied that I was sure I should be
happy in such a delightful place.

" How's your Ma, sir ? " said Mr. Peggotty. " Did you leave
her pretty jolly ? "

I gave Mr. Peggotty to understand that she was as jolly as
I could wish, and that she desired her compliments â€” which
was a polite fiction on my part

" I'm much obleeged to her, I'm sure," said Mr. Peggotty.
u Well, sir, if you can make out here, for a fortnut, 'long wi'
her," nodding at his sister, " and Ham, and little Em'ly, we
*hall be proud of your company."

I HAVE A CHANCE.

Having done the honors of his house in this hospitable
manner, Mr. Peggotty went out to wash himself in a kettleful
of hot water, remarking that " cold would never get his muck
off." He soon returned, greatly improved in appearance ;
but so rubicund, that I couldn't help thinking his face had
this in common with the lobsters, crabs, and crawfish â€” that
it went into the hot water very black and came out very red.

After tea, when the door was shut and all was made snug
(the nights being cold and misty now), it seemed to me the
most delicious retreat that the imagination of man could con-
ceive. To hear the wind getting up out at sea, to know that
the fog was creeping over the desolate flat outside, and to look
at the fire and think that there was no house near but this one,
and this one a boat, was like enchantment. Little Em'lyhad
overcome her shyness, and was sitting by my side upon the
lowest and least of the lockers, which was just large enough
for us two, and just fitted into the chimney corner. Mrs. Peg-
gotty, with the white apron, was knitting on the opposite side
of the fire. Peggotty at her needle-work was as much at home
with Saint Paul's and the bit of wax-candle, as if they had
never known any other roof. Ham, who had been giving me
my first lesson in all-fours, was trying to recollect a scheme
of telling fortunes with the dirty cards, and was printing off
fishy impressions of his thumb on all the cards he turned.
Mr. Peggotty was smoking his pipe. I felt it was a time for
conversation and confidence.

" Mr. Peggotty ! " says I.

" Sir," says he.

" Did you give your son the name of Ham, because you
lived in a sort of ark ? "

Mr. Peggotty seemed to think it a deep idea, but an-
swered :

" No, sir. I never giv him no name."

" Who gave him that name, then ? " said I, putting ques-
tion number two of the catechism to Mr. Peggotty.

" Why, sir, his father giv it him," said Mr. Peggotty.

" I thought you were his father ! "

" My brother Joe was his father," said Mr. Peggotty.

" Dead, Mr. Peggotty ? " I hinted, after a respectful
pause.

" Drowndead," said Mr. Peggotty.

I was very much surprised that Mr. Peggotty was not Ham's
father, and began to wonder whether I was mistaken about his

j8 n*V2D VUPPERFIELD.

relationship to anybody else there I was so curious to kno^
that I made up my mind to have it out with Mr. Peggotty.

" Little Emiy," I said, glancing at her. " She is youl
daughter, isn't she, Mr. Peggotty ? "

" No, sir. My brother in law, Tom, wrs her father."

I couldn't help it. " â€” Dead, Mr. Peggotty ? " I hinted,
;fter another respectful silence.

" Drowndead," said Mr. Peggotty,

I felt the difficulty of resuming the subject, out had not
got to the bottom of it yet, and must get to the bottom some-
how. So I said :

" Haven't you any children, Mr. Peggotty ? "

" No, master," he answered, -with a short laugh. " I'm a
bacheldore."

" A bachelor ! " I said astonished. " Why, who's that, Mr.
Peggotty ? " pointing to the person in the apron who was
knitting.

" That's Missis Gummidge," said Mr. Peggotty.
" Gummidge, Mr. Peggotty ? "

But at this point Peggotty â€” I mean my own peculiar Peg-
gottyâ€” made such impressive motions to me not to ask any
more questions, that I could only sit and look at all the silent
company, until it was time to go to bed. Then, in the privacy
of my own little cabin, she informed me that Ham and Em'ly
were an orphan nephew and niece, whom my host had at dif-
ferent times adopted in their childhood, when they were left
destitute ; and that Mrs. Gummidge was the widow of his
partner in a boat, who had died very poor. He was but a
poor man himself, said Peggotty, but as good as gold and as
true as steel â€” those were her similes. The only subject, she
informed me, on which he ever showed a violent temper or
swore an oath, was this generosity of his ; and if it were ever
preferred to, by any one of them, he struck the table a heavy
\Mow with his right hand (had split it on one such occasion),
and swore a dreadful oath that he would be " Gormed " if he
didn't cut and run for good, if it was ever mentioned again.
It appeared, in answer to my inquiries, that nobody had the
least idea of the etymology of this terrible verb passive to be
gormed â€¢ but that they all regarded it as constituting a most
solemn imprecation.

I was very sensible of my entertainer's goodness, and
listened to the woman's going to bed in another little crib like
mine at the opposite end of the boat, and to him and Ham

T NAVE A CHANGE.

hinging up two hammocks for themselves on the hoo^s I had
noticed in the roof, in a very luxurious state of mind, enhanced
by my being sleepy. As slumber gradually stole upon me, I
heard the wind howling out at sea and coming on across the
flat so fiercely, that I had a lazy apprehension of the great
deep rising in the night. But I bethought myself that I was
in a boat, after all ; and that a man like Mr. Peggotty was
not a bad person to have on board if any thing did happen

Nothing happened, however, worse than morning. Almost
as soon as it shone upon the oyster-shell frame of my mirror J
was out of bed, and out with little Em'ly, picking uf stones
upon the beach.

" You're quite a sailor, I suppose ? " I said to Em'ly. I
don't know that I supposed anything of the kind, but I felt it
an act of gallantry to say something ; and a shining sail close
to us made such a pretty little image of itself, at the moment,
in her bright eye, that it came into my head to say this.

"No," replied Em'ly, shaking her head, "I'm afraid of
the sea."

" Afraid ! " I said with a becoming air of boldness, and
looking very big at the mighty ocean. " /an't 1 "

" Ah ! but it's cruel," said Em'ly. " I have seen it very
cruel to Some of our men. I have seen it tear a boat as big
as our house all to pieces."

" I hope it wasn't the boat that "

" That father was drownded in ? " said Em'ly. " No. Not
that one, I never see that boat."

" Nor him ? " I asked her.
â€¢ Little Em'ly shook her head. " Not to remember!"

Here was a coincidence ! I immediately went into an
explanation how I had never seen my own father ; and how
my mother and I had always lived by ourselves in the happi
est state imaginable, and lived so then, and always meant to
live so ; and how my father's grave was in the churchyard
.near our house, and shaded by a tree, beneath the boughs of
which I had walked and heard the birds sing many a pleasant
morning. But there were some differences between Em'ly's
orphanhood and mine, it appeared. She had lost her mother
before her father ; and where her father's grave was no one
knew, except that it was somewhere in the depths of the sea.

" Besides," said Em'ly, as she looked about for shells and
pebbles, " your father was a gentleman and your mother is a
lady ; and my father was a fisherman and my mother was z
fisherman's daughter, and my uncle Dan is a fisherman."

DAVID C0PPERF1ELZ.

" Dan is Mr. Peggotty, is he ? " said I.
"Uncle Dan â€” yonder," answered Em'ly, nodding at the
boat-house.

" Yes. I mean him. He must be very good, I should
think ? "

" Good? " said Em'ly. "If I was ever to be a lady, I'd
give him z sky-blue coat with diamond buttons, nanl.een
trousers, a red velvet waistcoat, a cocked hat, a large gold
watch, a silver pipe, and a box of money."

I said I had no doubt that Mr. Peggotty well deserved
these treasures. I must acknowledge that I felt it difficult
to picture him quite at his ease in the raiment proposed for
him by his grateful little niece,- and that I was particularly
doubtful of the policy of the cocked hat ; but I kept these
sentiments to myself.

Little Em'ly had stopped and looked up at the sky in her
enumeration of these articles, as if they were z glorious
vision. We went on again, picking up shells and pebbles.

" You would like to be a lady ? " I said.

Emily looked at me, and laughed and nodded "yes."

" I should like it very much. We would all be gentle-
folks together, then. Me, and uncle, and Ham, and Mrs.
Gummidge. We wouldn't mind then, when the*re come
stormy weather. â€” Not for our own sakes, I mean. We would
for the poor fishermen's, to be sure, and we'd help 'em with
money when they come to any hurt"

This seemed to me to be a very satisfactory, and there-
fore not at all improbable, picture. I expressed my pleasure
in the contemplation of it, and little Em'ly was emboldened
to say, shyly,

" Don't you think you are afraid of the sea, now ? "

It was quite enough to reassure me, but I have no doubt
if I had seen a moderately large wave come tumbling in, I
should have taken to my heels, with an awful recollection of
her drowned relations. However, I said " No," and I added,
" You don't seem to be, either, though you say you are ;" â€”
for she was walking much too near the brink of a sort of old
jetty or wooden causeway we had strolled upon, and I was
afraid of her falling over.

" I'm not afraid in this way," said little Em'ly. " But
I wake when it blows, and tremble to think of Uncle Dan and
Ham, and believe I hear 'em crying out for help. That's why
I should like so much to be a lady. But I'm not afraid in
this way. Not a bit. Look here ! "

/HAVE A CHANGE

Sne started from my side, and ran along a jagged timbe:
which piotruded from the place we stood upon, and overhung
the deep water at some height, without the least defence.
The incident is so impressed on my remembrance, that if I
were a draughtsman I could draw its form here, I dare say,
accurately as it was that day, and little Em'ly springing for
ward to her destruction (as it appeared to me), with a look
that I have never forgotten, directed far out to sea.

The light, bold, fluttering little figure turned and came
back safe to me, and I soon laughed at my fears, and at the
cry I had uttered ; fruitlessly in any case, for there was no
one near. But there have been times since, in my manhood,
many times there have been, when I have thought, Is it
possible, among the possibilities of hidden things, that in the
sudden rashness of the child and her wild look so far off,
there was any merciful attraction of her into danger, any
tempting her towards him permitted on the part of her dead
father, that her life might have a chance of ending that day.
There has been a time since when I have wondered whether,
if the life before her could have been revealed to me at a
glance, and so revealed as that a child could fully compre-
hend it, and if her preservation could have depended on a
motion of my hand, I ought to have held it up to save her.
There has been a time since â€” I do not say it lasted long, but
it has been â€” when I have asked myself the question, would it
have been better for little Em'ly to have had the waters close
above her ' cad that morning in my sight; and when I have
answered Yes, it would have been.

This may be premature. I have set it down too soon,
perhaps. But let it stand.

We strolled a long way, and loaded ourselves with things
that we thought curious, and put some stranded starfish care-
fully back into the water â€” I hardly know enough of the race
at this moment to be quite certain whether they had reason
to feel obliged to# us for doing so, or the reverse â€” and then
made our way home to Mr. Peggotty's dwelling. We stopped
under the lee of the lobster-outhouse to exchange an innocent
kiss, and went in to breakfast glowing with health and
pleasure.

" Like two young mavishes," Mr. Peggotty said. I knew
this meant, in our local dialect, like two young thrushes," and
received it as a compliment.

Of course I was in love with little Em'ly. I am sure 1

â– %2

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

loved that baby quite as truly, quite as tenderly, with greater
purity and more disinterestedness, than can enter into the
best love of a later time of life, high and ennobling as it is.
I am sure my fancy raised up something round that blue-eyed
mite of a child, which etherealized, and made a very angel of
her. If, any sunny forenoon, she had spread a little pair of
| wings, and flown away before my eyes, I don't think I should
have regarded it as much more than I had had reason to
expect.

We used to walk about that dim old flat at Yarmouth in
a loving manner, hours and hours. The days sported by us,
as if Time had not grown up himself yet, but were a child too5
and always at play. I told Em'ly I adored her, and that
unless she confessed she adored me I should be reduced to
the necessity of killing myself with a sword. She said she
did, and I have no doubt she did.

As to any sense of inequality, or youthfulness, or other
difficulty in our way, little Em'ly and I had no such trouble,
because we had no future. We made no more provision for
growing oloer, than we did for growing younger. We were
the admiration of Mrs. Gummidge and Peggotty, who used to
whisper of an evening when wc sat lovingly on our little
locker side by side, " Lor ! wasn't it beautiful ! " Mr. Peg-
gotty smiled at us from behind his pipe, and Ham grinned all
the evening and did nothing else. They had something of
the sort of pleasure in us, I suppose, that they might have had
in a pretty toy, or a pocket model of the Coloseum.

I soon found out that Mrs. Gummidge did not always make
herself so agreeable as she might have been expected to do,
under the circumstances of her residence with Mr. Peggotty.
Mrs. Gummidge's was rather a fretful disposition, and she
whimpered more sometimes than was comfortable for other
Â» partien in so small an establishment I was very sorry for her;
but there were moments when it would have been more agree-
able, I thought, if Mrs. Gummidge had had a convenient
apartment of her own to retire to, and had stopped there until
her spirits revived.

Mr. Peggotty went occasionally to a public house called
The Willing Mind. I discovered this, by his being out on the
second or third evening of our visit, and by Mrs. Gummidge's
looking up at the Dutch clock, between eight and nine, and
saying he was there, and that, what was more, she had known
the rrorning he would go there.

r HAVE A CHANGE.

Mrs. Gummidge had been in a low state all day, and had
burst into tears in the forenoon, when the fire smoked. " I
am a lone lorn creetur'," were Mrs. Gummidge's wojds, when
that unpleasant occurrence took place, " and every think goes
contrairy with me."

" Oh, it'll soon leave off," said Peggotty â€” I again meaR
our Peggotty â€” " and besides you know, it's not more dis^
agreeable to you than to us."

" I feel it more," said Mrs. Gummidge.

It was a very cold day, with cutting blasts of wind. Mrs.
Gummidge's peculiar corner of the fireside seemed to me to
to be the warmest and snuggest in the place, as her chair was
certainly the easiest, but it didn't suit her that day at alL
She was constantly complaining of the cold, and of its occa-
sioning a visitation in her back which she called " the creeps."
At last she shed tears on that subject, and said again that
she was " a lorn creetur' and every think went contrairy with,
her."

" It is certainly very cold," said Peggotty. " Everybody
must feel it so."

" I feel it more than other people," said Mrs. Gum-
midge.

So at dinner ; when Mrs. Gummidge was always helped
immediately after me, to whom the preference was given as a
visitor of distinction. The fish were small and bony, and
the potatoes were a little burnt. We all acknowledged that
we felt this something of a disappointment ; but Mrs. Gum-
midge said she felt it more than we did, and shed tears again,
and made that former declaration with great bitterness.

Accordingly, when Mr. Peggotty came home about nine
f o'clock, this unfortunate Mrs. Gummidge was knitting in her
corner, in a very wretched and miserable condition. Peggotty
had been working cheerfully. Ham had been patching up
a great pair of waterboots \ and I, with little Em'ly by my
side, had been reading to them. Mrs. Gummidge had nevei
made any other remark than a forlorn sigh, and had never
raised her eyes since tea.

"Well, Mates," said Mr. Peggotty, taking his seat, " and
how are you ? "

We all said something, or looked something, to welcome
him, except Mrs. Gummidge, who only shook her head over
her knitting.

What's amiss ? " said Mr. Peggotty, with a clap of his

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

hands. sl Cheer up, old Mawther ! " (Mr. Peggotty meant
old girl.)

Mrs. Gummidge did not appear to be able to cheer up. She
took out an old black silk handkerchief and wiped her eyes :
but instead of putting it in her pocket, kept it out, and wiped
them again, and still kept it out for use.

" What's amiss, dame ! " said Mr. Peggotty.

"Nothing," returned Mrs. Gummidge. "You've come
from The Willing Mind, Dan'l ? "

" Why yes, I've took a short spell at The Willing Mind to*
night," said Mr. Peggotty.

" I'm sorry I should drive you there," said Mrs. Gum-
midge.

" Drive ! I don't want no driving," returned Mr. Peggotty
with an honest laugh. " I only go too ready."

" Very ready," said Mrs. Gummidge, shaking her head, and
wiping her eyes. " Yes, yes, very ready. I am sorry it should
be along of me that you're so ready."

" Along o' you ! It an't along o' you ! " said Mr. Peg-
gotty. " Don't ye believe a bit on it."

" Yes, yes, it is," cried Mrs. Gummidge. " I know what
I am. I know that I am a lone lorn creetur', and not only
that everything goes contrairy with me, but that I go contrairy
with every body. Yes, yes, I feel more than other people do,
and I show it more. It's my misfortun'."

I really couldn't help thinking, as I sat taking in all this,
that the misfortune extended to some other members of that
family besides Mrs. Gummidge. But Mr. Peggotty made no
such retort, only answering with another entreaty to Mrs.
Gummidge to cheer up.

" I ain't what I could wish myself to be," said Mrs. Gum
midge. " I am far from it. I know what I am. My troubles
has made me contrairy. I feel my troubles, and they make
me contrairy. I wish I didn't feel 'em, but I do. I wish I
could be hardened to 'em, but I an't. I make the house un-
comfortable. I don't wonder at it. I've made your sister so
all day, and Master Davy."

Here I was suddenly melted, and roared out, " No, you
haven't, Mrs. Gummidge," in great mental distress.

" It's far from right that I should do it," said Mrs. Gum-
midge. " It ain't a fit return. I had better go into the house
and die. I am a lorn creetur', and had much better not make
myself contrairy here. If thinks must go contrairy with me,

: HA VE A CHANGE.

and I must go contrairy myself, let me go contrairy to my
parish Dan'l, I'd better go into the house, and die and be a
riddance ! "

Mrs. Gummidge retired with these words, and betook her-
self to bed. When she was gone, Mr. Peggotty, who had not
exhibited a trace of any feeling but the profoundest sympathy,
,'ooked round upon us, and nodding his head with a lively ex-
pression of that sentiment still animating his face, said in a
whisper :

" She's been thinking of the old 'un ! "

I did not quite understand what old one Mrs. Gummidge
was supposed to have fixed her mind upon, until Peggotty, on
seeing me to bed, explained that it was the late Mr. Gum-
midge ; and that her brother always took that for a received
truth on such occasions, and that it always had a moving effect
upon him. Some time after he was in his hammock that
night, I heard him myself repeat to Ham, " Poor thing ! She's
been thinking of the old 'un ! " And whenever Mrs. Gum-
midge was overcome in a similar manner during the remain-
der of our stay (which happened some few times), he always
said the same thing in extenuation of the circumstance, and
always with the tenderest commiseration.

So the fortnight slipped away, varied by nothing but the
variation of the tide, which altered Mr. Peggotty's times of
going out and coming in, and altered Ham's engagements also.
When the latter was unemployed, he sometimes walked with us
to show us the boats and ships, and once or twice he took us
for a row. I don't know why one slight set of impressions
should be more particularly associated with a place than an-
other, though I believe this obtains with most people, in refer-
ence especial'y to the associations of their childhood. I never
hear the name, or read the name of Yarmouth, but I am re-
minded of a certain Sunday morning on the beach, the bells
ringing for church, little Em'ly leaning on my shoulder, Ham
lazily dropping stones into the water, and the sun, away at
sea, just breaking through the heavy mist, and showing us the
ships, like their own shadows.

At last the day came for going home. I bore up against
the separation from Mr. Peggotty and Mrs. Gummidge, but
my agony of mind at leaving little Em'ly was piercing. We
went arm-in arm to the public-house where the carrier put up,
and I promised on the road, to write to her. (I redeemed
that promise afterwards, in characters larger than those va

DAVID COPPERFIELD

which apartments are usually announced in manuscript, as
being to let.) We were greatly overcome at parting ; and if
ever, in my life, I have had a void made in my heart, I had one
made that clay.

Now, all the time I had been on my visit, I had been un*
grateful to my home again, and had thought little or nothing
about it. But I was no sooner turned towards it, than my xe
proachful young conscience seemed to point that way with a
Steady finger ; and I felt, all the more for the sinking of my
spirits, that it was my nest, and that my mother was my com-
forter and friend.

This gained upon me as we wQnt along ; so that the nearer
we drew, and the more familiar the objects became that we
passed, the more excited I was to get there, and to run into
her arms. But Peggotty, instead of sharing in these trans-
ports, tried to check them (though very kindly), and looked
confused and out of sOxts.

Blunderstone Rookery would come, however, in spile of
her, when the carrier's horse pleased â€” and did. How well I
recollect it, on a cold gray afternoon, with a dull sky, threat-
ening rain !

The door opened, and I looked, half laughing and half
crying in my pleasant agitation, for my mothe^ It was not
she, but a strange servant.

" Why, Peggotty ! " I said, ruefully, " isn't she come
home ? "

"Yes, yes, Master Davy," said Peggotty. "She's come
home. Wait a bit, Master Davy, and I'll â€” I'll tell you some-
thing."

Between her agitation and her natural awkwardness in
getting out of the cart, Peggotty was making a most extraor-
dinary festoon of herself, but I felt too blank and strange to
tell her so. When she had got down she took me by the
hand, led me wondering into the kitchen, and shut the door.

" Peggotty ! " said I, quite frightened. " What's the mat
ter?"

" Nothing's the matter, bless you, Master Davy dear ' *"
she answered, assuming an air of sprightliness.

" Something's the matter, I'm sure. Where's mama ? "

" Where's mama, Master Davy ? " repeated Peggotty.

" Yes. Why hasn't she come to the gate, and what have
we come in here for ? Oh, Peggotty ? " My eyes were full,
and I felt as if I were going to tumble down.

/ HA VE A CHANGE.

" Bless the precious boy ! " cried Peggotty, taking hol<3
of me. " What is it ? Speak, my pet ! "

" Not dead, too ! Oh, she's not dead, Peggotty*?'"

Feggotty cried out No ! with an astonishing volume of
voice ; and then sat down and began to pant, and said I had
given her a turn.

I gave her a hug to take away the turn, or to give her
another turn in the right direction, and then stood before her?
looking at her in anxious inquiry.

" You see, clear, 1 should have told you before now," said
Peggotty, " but I hadn't an opportunity. I ought to have
made it, perhaps, but I couldn't azackly " â€” that was always
the substitute for exactly, in Peggotty's militia of words â€” â–
" bring my mind to it."

"Go on, Peggotty," said I, more frightened than before.

" Master Davy," said Peggotty, untying her bonnet with a
shaking hand, and speaking in a breathless sort of way,
" What do you think ? You have got a Pa ! "

I trembled and turned white. Something â€” I don't know
what, or how â€” connected with the grave in the churchyard,
and the raising of the dead seemed to strike me like an un-
wholesome wind.

" A new one," said Peggotty.

" A new one ? " I repeated.

Peggotty gave a gasp, as if she were swallowing some-
thing that was very hard, and, putting out her hand, said :

" Come and see him."

" I don't want to see him."

â€” " And your mama," said Peggotty.

I ceased to draw back, and we went straight to the best
parlor, where she left me. On one side of the fire, sat my
mother ; on the other Mr. Murdstone. My mother dropped
her work, and arose hurriedly, but timidly, I thought.

" Now, Clara my dear," said Mr. Murdstone. " Recollect 1
control yourself, always control yourself ! Davy boy, how do^
you do ? "

I gave him my hand. After a moment of suspense, I went
and kissed my mother : she kissed me, patted me gently on
the shoulder, and sat down again to her work. I could not
look at her, I could not look at him, I knew quite well that
he was looking at us both ; and I turned to the window and
looked out there at some shrubs that were drooping their
heads in the cold.

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

As soon as I could creep away, I crept up stairs. Mj
old dear bedroom was changed, and I was to lie a long way
off. I rambled down stairs to find anything that was like
itself, so altered it all seemed ; and roamed into the yard.
I very soon started back from there, for the empty dog-kennel
was rilled up with a great dog â€” deep-mouthed and black-
haired like Him â€” and he was very angry at the sight of me
&nd sprang out to get at me.

CHAPTER IV.

I FALL INTO DISGRACE.

If the room to which my bed was removed were a sentient
thing that could give evidence, I might appeal to it at this
day â€” who sleeps there now, I wonder ! â€” to bear witness for
me what a heavy heart I carried to it. I went up there, hear-
ing the dog in the yard bark after me all the way while I
climbed the stairs ; and, looking as blank and strange upon
the room as the room looked upon me, sat down with my
small hands crossed, and thought.

I thought of the oddest things. Of the shape of the room,
of the cracks in the ceiling, or the paper on the wall, of the
flaws in the window-glass making ripples and dimples on the
prospect, of the washing-stand being ricketty on its three legs,
and having a discontented something about it, which reminded
me of Mrs. Gummidge under the influence of the old one. I
was crying all the time, but, except that I was conscious of
being cold and dejected, I am sure I never thought why I
cried. At last in my desolation I began to consider that I
was dreadfully in love with little Em'ly, and had been torn
away from her to come here where no one seemed to want me,
or to care about me, half as much as she did. This made
such a very miserable piece of business of it, that I rolled my-
self up in a corner of the counterpane and cried myself to
sleep.

I was awakened by somebody saying " Here he is ! " and
uncovering my hot head. My mother and Peggotty had come
to look for me, and it was one of them who had done it

if Davy," said my mother, "what's the matter?"

I FALL INTO DISGRACE.

I thought it was very strange that she should ask me, and
answered, ' Nothing." I turned over on my face, \ recollect,
to hide my trembling lip, which answered her with greater
truth.

" Davy," said my mother, " Davy, my child ! "

I dare say no words she could have uttered would have
affected me so much, then, as her calling me her child. I hid
my tears in the bedclothes, and pressed her from me with my
hand, when she would have raised me up.

" This is your doing, Peggotty, you cruel thing ! " said my
mother. " I have no doubt at all about it. How can you
reconcile it to your conscience, I wonder, to prejudice my own
boy against me, or against anybody who is dear to me ? What
do you mean by it, Peggotty ? "

Poor Peggotty lifted up her hands and eyes, and only an-
swered, in a sort of paraphrase of the grace I usually repeated
after dinner, " Lord forgive you, Mrs. Copperfielcl, and foi
what you have said this minute, may you never be truly
sorry ! "

" It's enough to distract me," cried my mother. " In my
honeymoon, too, when my most inveterate enemy might relent,
one would think, and not envy me a little peace of mind and
happiness. Davy, you naughty boy ! Peggotty, you savage
creature ! Oh, dear me ! " cried my mother, turning from one
of us to the other, in her pettish, wilful manner. " What a
troublesome world this is, when one has the most right to ex-
pect it to be as agreeable as possible ! "

I felt the touch of a hand that I knew was neither hers nor
Peggotty's, and slipped to my feet at the bed-side. It was
Mr. Murdstone's hand, and he kept it on my arm as he said :

" What's this ? Clara, my love, have you forgotten ? â€” â–
Firmness, my dear ! "

" I am very sorry, Edward," said my mother. " I meant
to be very good, but I am so uncomfortable."

" Indeed ! " he answered. " That's a bad hearing, so soon.
Clara."

" I say it's very hard I should be made so now," returned
my mother, pouting j " and it is â€” very hard â€” isn't it ? "

He drew her to him, whispered in her ear, and kissed her.
I knew as well, when I saw my mother's head lean down upon
his shoulder, and her arm touch his neck â€” I knew as well that
he could mould her pliant nature into any form he chose as I
know now that he did it.

5Â°

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" 60 you below, my love," said Mr. Murdstone. " David
and I will come down, together. My friend," turning a dark-
ening face on Peggotty, when he had watched my mother out,
and dismissed her with a nod and a smile : " do you know
your mistress's name ? "

" She has been my mistress a long time, sir," answered
Peggotty. " I ought to know it."

" That's true," he answered. " But I thought I heard you,
as I came upstairs, address her by a name that is not hers.
She has taken mine, you know. Will you remember that ? "

Peggotty, with some uneasy glances at me, curtseyed her-
self out of the room without replying ; seeing, I suppose, that
she was expected to go, and had no excuse for remaining.
When we two were left alone, he shut the door, and sitting on
a chair, and holding me standing before him, looked steadily
into my eyes. I felt my own attracted, no less steadily, to his.
As I recall our being opposed thus, face to face, I seem again
to hear my heart beat fast and high.

" David," he said, making his lips thin, by pressing them
together, " if I have an obstinate horse or dog to deal with,
what do you think I do ? "

" I don't know."

" I beat him."

I had answered in a kind of breathless whisper, but I felt
In my silence, that my breath was shorter now.

" I make him wince, and smart. I say to myself, ' I'll
conquer that fellow ; ' and if it were to cost him all the blood
he had, I should do it. What is that upon your face ? "

" Dirt," I said.

He knew it was the mark of tears as well as I. But if he
had asked the question twenty times, each time with twenty
blows, I believe my baby heart would have burst before I
would have told him so.

" You have a good deal of intelligence for a little fellow,"
he said, with a grave smile that belonged to him, " and you
understood me very well, I see. Wash that face, sir, and
come down with me."

He pointed to the washing-stand, which I had made out
to be like Mrs. Gummidge, and motioned me with his head to
obey him directly. I had little, doubt then, and I have less
doubt now, that he would have knocked me down without the
least compunction, if I had hesitated.

" Clara, my dear," he said, when I had done his bidding,

/FALL INTO DISGRACE.

and he walked me into the parlor, with his hand still on my
arm, " you will not be made uncomfortable any more, I hope.
We shall soon improve our youthful humors."

God help me, I might have been improved for my whole
life, I might have been made another creature perhaps, for
life, by a kind word at that season. A word of encourage-
ment and explanation, of pity for my childish ignorance, of
welcome home, of reassurance to me that it was home, might
have made me dutiful to him in my heart henceforth, instead
of in my hypocritical outside, and might have made me respect
instead of hate him. I thought my mother was sorry to see
me standing in the room so scared and strange, and that, pres-
ently, when I stole to a chair, she followed me with her eyes
more sorrowfully still â€” missing, perhaps, some freedom in my
childish tread â€” but the word was not spoken, and the time for
it was gone.

We dined alone, we three together. He seemed to be very
fond of my mother â€” I am afraid I liked him none the better
for that â€” and she was very fond of him. I gathered from
what they said, that an elder sister of his was coming to stay
with them, and that she was expected that evening. I am not
certain whether I found out then or afterwards, that, without
being actively concerned in any business, he had some share
in, or some annual charge upon the profits of, a wine-mer-
chant's house in London, with which his family had been con-
nected from his great grandfather's time, and in which his
sister had a similar interest ; but I may mention it in this
place, whether or no.

After dinner, when we were sitting by the fire, and I was
meditating an escape to Peggotty without having the hardihood
to slip away, lest it should offend the master of the house, a
coach drove up to the garden-gate, and he went out to receive
the visitor. My mother followed him. I was timidly follow-
ing her, when she turned round at the parlor-door, in the dusk,
and taking me in her embrace, as she had been used to do,
whispered me to love my new father and be obedient to him.
She did this hurriedly and secretly, as if it were wrong, but
tenderly ; and, putting out her hand behind her, held mine in
it, until we came near to where he was standing in the garden,
where she let mine go, and drew hers through his arm.

It was Miss Murdstone who was arrived, and a gloomy-look
ing lady she was ; dark, like her brother, whom she greatly re-
sembled in face and voice ; and with very heavy eyebrows

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

nearly meeting over her large nose, as if, being disabled by
the wrongs of her sex from wearing whiskers, she had carried
them to that account. She brought with her two uncompro-
mising hard black boxes, with her initials on the lids in hard
brass nails. When she paid the coachman she took her money
out of a hard steel purse, and she kept the purse in a very
1 jail of a bag which hung upon her arm by a heavy chain, and
shut up like a bite. I had never at that time seen such a
metallic lady altogether as Miss Murdstone was.

She was brought into the parlor with many tokens of wel-
come, and there formerly recognized my mother as a new and
near relation. Then she looked at me, and said :

" Is that your boy, sister-in-law ? "

My mother acknowledged me.

" Generally speaking," said Miss Murdstone, " I don't like
boys. How d'ye do, boy ? "

Under these encouraging circumstances, I replied that I
was very well, and that I hoped she was the same ; with such
an indifferent grace, that Miss Murdstone disposed of me in
two words :

" Wants manner ! "

Having uttered which with great distinctness, she begged
the favor of being shown to her room, which became to me
from that time forth a place of awe and dread, wherein the
two black boxes were never seen open or known to be left un-
locked, and where (for I peeped in once jt twice when she
was out) numerous little steel fetters and rivets, with which
Miss Murdstone embellished herself when she was dressed,
generally hung upon the looking-glass in formidable array.

As well as I could make out, she had come for good, and
had no intention of ever going again. She began to "help "
my mother next morning, and was in and out of the store
closet all day. putting things to rights, and making havoc in
the old arrangements. Almost the first remarkable thing I
observed in Miss Murdstone was, her being constantly haunted
by a suspicion that the servants had a man secreted some-
where on the premises. Under the influence of this delusion,
she dived into the coal-cellar at the most untimely hours, and
scarcely ever opened the door of a dark cupboard without
clapping it to again, in the belief that she had got him.

Though there was nothing very airy about Miss Murdstone,
she was a perfect Lark in point of getting up. She was up
(and, as I believe to this hour, looking for that man) before

/ FALL INTO DISGRACE.

anybody in the house was stirring. Peggotty gave it as her
opinion that she even slept with one eye open ; but I could
not concur in this idea ; for I tried it myself after hearing the
suggestion thrown out, and found it couldn't be done.

On the very first morning after her arrival she was up and
ringing her bell at cock-crow. When my mother came down to
breakfast and was going to make the tea, Miss Murdstone gave
her -a kind of peck on the cheek, which was her nearest ap
proach to a kiss, and said :

" Now, Clara, my dear, I am come here, you know, to re
lieve you of all the trouble I can. You're much too pretty
and thoughtless " â€” my mother blushed but laughed, and seem-
ed not to dislike this character â€” " to have any duties imposed
upon you that can be undertaken by me. If you'll be so good
as give me your keys, my dear, I'll attend to all this sort of
thing in future."

From that time, Miss Murdstone kept the keys in her own
little jail all day, and under her pillow all night, and my mother
had no more to do with them than I had.

My mother did not suffer her authority to pass from her
without a shadow of protest. One night when Miss Murd-
stone had been developing certain household plan* to her
brother, of which he signified his approbation, my mother sud-
denly began to cry, and said she thought she might have been
consulted.

" Clara ! " said Mr. Murdstone sternly. " Clara ! I wonder
at you."

" Oh, it's very well to say you wonder, Edward ! " cried
iny mother, " and it's very well for you to talk about firmness,
but you wouldn't like it yourself."

Firmness, I raav observe, was the grand quality on which
both Mr. and Miss Murdstone took their stand. However I
might have expressed my comprehension of it at that time, if I
had been called upon, I nevertheless did clearly comprehend
in my own way, that it was another name for tyranny ; and for a
certain gloomy, arrogant, devil's humor, that was in them both.
The creed, as I should state it now, was this. Mr. Murdstone
was firm ; nobody in his world was to be so firm as Mr. Murd-
stone ; nobody else in his world was to be firm at all, for every-
body was to be bent to his firmness. Miss Murdstone was
an exception. She might be firm, but only by relationship,
and in an inferior and tributary degree. My mother was an-
other exception. She might be firm, and must be ; but only

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

in bearing their firmness, and firmly believing there was na
other firmness upon earth.

" It's very hard," said my mother, " that in my own
bouse "

" My own house ? " replied Mr. Murdstone. " Clara ! "

" Our own house, I mean," faltered my mother, evidently
frightened â€” " I hope you must know what I mean, Edward â€” â–
it's very hard that in your own house I may not have a word ,
to say about domestic matters. I am sure I managed very
well before we were married. There's evidence," said my
mother sobbing ; " ask Peggotty if I didn't do very well when
I wasn't interfered vith ! "

" Edward," said Miss Murdstone, " let there be an end of
this. I go to-morrow."

"Jane Murdstone," said her brother, "be silent! How
dare you to insinuate that you don't know my character better
than your words imply ? "

" I am sure," my poor mother went on, at a grievous dis-
advantage, and with many tears, " I don't want anybody to go.
I should be very miserable and unhappy if anybody was to go.
I don't ask much. I am not unreasonable. I only want to be
consulted sometimes. I am very much obliged to anybody
who assists me, and I only want to be consulted as a mere-
form, sometimes. I thought you were pleased, once, with my
being a little inexperienced and girlish, Edward â€” I am sure
you said so â€” but you seem to hate me for it now, you are so
severe."

" Edward," said Miss Murdstone, again, "let there be an
end of this. I go to-morrow."

"Jane Murdstone," thundered Mr. Murdstone. "Will you
be silent ? How dare you ? "

Miss Murdstone made a jail-delivery of her pocket-hand-
kerchief, and held it before her eyes.

" Clara," he continued, looking at my mother, " you surprise
me ! You astound me ! Yes, I had a satisfaction in the
thought of marrying an inexperienced and artless person, and
forming her character, and infusing into it some amount of
that firmness and decision of which it stood in need. But
when Jane Murdstone is kind enough to come to my assist-
ance in this endeavor, and to assume, for my sake, a condition
something like a housekeeper's, and when she meets with a
base return "

" Oh, pray, pray, Edward," cried my mother, " don't accusy?

I FALL INTO DISGRACE

me of being ungrateful. I am sure I am not ungrateful. No
one ever said I was before. I have many faults, but not
that. Oh, don't my dear ! "

"When Jane Murdstone meets, I say," he went on, after
waiting until my mother was silent, " with a base return, that
feeling of mine is chilled and altered."

"Don't, my love, say that!" implored my mother very
piteously. "Oh, don't, Edward! I can't bear to hear it
Whatever I am, I am affectionate. I know I am affectionate.'
I wouldn't say it, if I wasn't certain that I am. Ask Peggotty,
I am sure she'll tell you I'm affectionate."

" There is no extent of mere weakness, Clara," said Mr.
Murdstone in reply, " that can have the least weight with me.
You lose breath."

" Pray let us be friends," said my mother, " I couldn't live
under coldness or unkindness. I am so sorry. 1 I have a
great many defects, I know, and it's very good of you, Ed-
ward, with your strength of mind, to endeavor to correct them
for me. Jane, I don't object to anything. I should be quite

broken-hearted if you thought of leaving " ^ My mother

was too much overcome to go on.

"Jane Murdstone," said Mr. Murdstone to his sister,
any harsh words between us are, I hope, uncommon. It is
not my fault that so unusual an occurrence has taken place
to-night. I was betrayed into it by another. Nor is it your
fault. You were betrayed into it by another. Let us both
try to forget it. And as this," he added, after these magnan-
imous words, " is not a fit scene for the boy â€” David, go to
bed ! "

I could hardly nnd the door, through the tears that stood
in my eyes. I was so sorry for my mother's distress ; but I
groped my way out, and groped my way up to my room in
l'ie dark, without even having the heart to say good night to
3 sggotty, or to get a candle from her. When her coming up
io look for me, an hour or so afterwards, awoke me, she said
that my mother had gone to bed poorly, and that Mr. and
Miss Murdstone were sitting alone.

Going clown next morning rather earlier than usual, I
paused outside the parlor-door, on hearing my mother's voice.
She was very earnestly ^nd humbly entreating Miss Murd-
stone's pardon, which that lady granted, and a perfect recon-
ciliation took place. I never knew my mother afterwards to
give an opinion on any matter, without first appealing to Mis!

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Murdstone, or without having first ascertained by some sure
means, what Miss Murdstone's opinion was ; and I never saw
Miss Murdstone, when out of temper (she was infirm that
way), move her hand towards her bag as if she were going to
take out the keys and offer to resign them to my mother,
without seeing that my mother was in a terrible fright.

The gloomy taint that was in the Murdstone blood, dark
ened the Murdstone religion, which was austere and wrathful
I have thought since, that its assuming that character was a.
necessary consequence of Mr. Murdstone's firmness, which
wouldn't allow him to let anybody off from the utmost weight
of the severest penalties he could find any excuse for. Ee
this as it may, I well remember the tremendous visages with
which we used to go to church, and the changed air of the
place. Again the dreaded Sunday comes round, and I file
into the old pew first, like a guarded captive brought to a con
demned service. Again, Miss Murdstone, in a black velvet
gown, that looks as if it had been made out of a pall, follows
"lose upon me ; then my mother ; then her husband. There
is no Peggotty now, as in the old time. Again, I listen to
Miss Murdstone mumbling the responses, and emphasizing all
the dread words with a cruel relish. Again, I see her dark
eyes roll round the church when she says " miserable sinners,"
as if she were calling all the congregation names. Again, I
catch rare glimpses of my mother, moving her lips timidly be-
tween the two, with one of them muttering at each ear like
low thunder. Again, I wonder with a sudden fear whether it
is likely that our good old clergyman can be wrong, and Mr.
and Miss Murdstone right, and that all the angels in Heaven
can be destroying angels. Again, if I move a finger or relajc
a muscle of my face, Miss Murdstone pokes me with her
prayer-book, and makes my side ache.

Yes, and again, as we walk home, I note some neighbors
looking at my mother and at me, and whispering. Again, 2.3
the three go on arm-in-arm, and I linger behind alone, I fol-
low some of those looks, and wonder if my mother's step be
really not so light as I have seen it, and if the gayety of hei
beauty be really almost worried away. Again, I wondei
whether any of the neighbors call to mind, as I do, how we
used to walk home together, she and I ; and I wonder stu
pidly about that, all the dreary, dismal day.

There had been some talk on occasions of my going to
boarding-schooi. Mr. and Miss Murdstone had originated it

/ FALL LNTO DISGRACE.

and my mother had of course agreed with them. Nothing,
however, was concluded on the subject yet. In the meantime
I learnt lessons at home.

Shall I ever forget those lessons ! They were presided
over nominally by my mother, but really by Mr. Murdstone
and his sister, who were always present, and found them a fa-
vorable occasion for giving my mother lessons in that mis-
called firmness, which was the bane of both our lives. I be
lieve I. was kept at home for that purpose. I had been apt
enough to learn, and willing enough when my mother a: cl I
had lived alone together. I can faintly remember learning
the alphabet at her knee. To this clay, when I look upon the
fat black letters in the primer, the puzzling novelty of their
shapes, and the easy good-nature of O and Q and S, seem to
present themselves again before me as they used to do. But
they recall no feeling of disgust or reluctance. On the con-
trary, I seem to have walked along a path of flowers as far as
the crocodile-book, and to have been cheered by the gentle-
ness of my mother's voice and manner all the way. But
these solemn lessons which succeeded those, I remember as
the death-blow at my peace, and a grievous daily drudgery and
misery. They were very long, very numerous, very hard â€”
perfectly unintelligible, some of them, to me â€” and I was gen-
erally as much bewildered by them as I believe my poor
mother was herself.

Let me remember how it used to be, and bring one morn-
ing back again.

I come into the second-best parlor after breakfast, with
my books, and an exercise-book, and a slate. My mother is
ready for me at her writing-desk, but not half so ready as Mr.
Murdstone in his easy-chair by the window (though he pre-
tends to be reading a book), or as Miss Murdstone, sitting
near my mother stringing steel beads. The very sight of
these two has such an influence over me, that I begin to
feel the words I have been at infinite pains to get into my
head, all sliding away, and going I don't know where. J
wonder where they do go, by-the-by ?

I hand the first book to my mother. Perhaps it is a gram-
mar, perhaps a history or geography. I take a last drowning
look at the page as I give it into her hand, and start off aloud
at a racing pace while I have got it fresh. I trip over a word.
Mr. Murdstone looks up. I trip over another word. Miss
Mmdstone looks up. I redden, tumble over half- a dozen

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

words, and stop. I think my mother would show me the
book if she dared, but she does not dare, and she says softly â€¢
" Oh, Davy, Davy ! "

" Now, Clara," says Mr. Murdstone, " be firm with the
boy. Don't say, ' Oh, Davy, Davy ! ' That's childish. He
knows his lesson, or he does not know it."

" He does not know it," Miss Murdstone interposes aw-
fully.

" I am really afraid he does not," says my mother.

"Then, you see, Clara," returns Miss Murdstone, "you
should just give him the book back, and make him know it."

"Yes, certainly," says my mother; "that is what I in-
tend to do, my dear Jane. Now, Davy, try once more, and
don't be stupid."

I obey the first clause of the injunction by trying once
more, but am not so successful with the second, for I am very
stupid. I tumble down before I get to the old place, at a
point where I was all right before, and stop to think. But I
can't think about the lesson. I think of the number of yards
of net in Miss Murdstone's cap, or of the price of Mr. Murd-
stone's dressing-gown, or any such ridiculous problem that I
have no business with, and don't want to have anything at
all to do with. Mr. Murdstone makes a movement of impa-
tience which I have been expecting for a long time. Miss
Murdstone does the same. My mother glances submissively
at them, shuts the book, and lays it by as an arrear to be
worked out when my other tasks are done.

There is a pile of these arrears very soon, and it swells
like a rolling snowball. The bigger it gets, the more stupid
/get. The case is so hopeless, and I feel that I am wallow-
ing in such a bog of nonsense, that I give up all idea of get*
ting out, and abandon myself to my fate. The despairing
way in which my mother and I look at each other, as J
blunder on, is truly melancholy. But the greatest effect in
these miserable lessons is when my mother (thinking nobody
is observing her) tries to give me the cue by the motion of hei
lips. At that instant, Miss Murdstone, who has been lying
in wait for nothing else all along, says in a deep warning voice ;

" Clara ! "

My mother starts, colors, and smiles faintly. Mr. Murd-
stone comes out of his chair, takes the book, throws it at me
or boxes my ears with it, and turns me out of the room by the
shoulders.

I FALL INTO DISGRACE.

Even when the lessons are done, the worst is yet to
happen, in the shape of an appalling sum. This is ir. vented
lor me, and delivered to me orally by Mr. Murdstone, and
begins, " If I go into a cheesemonger's shop, and buy five
thousand double-Gloucester cheeses at fourpence-halfpenny
each, present payment " â€” at which I see Miss Murdstone
secretly overjoyed. I pore over these cheeses without any
result or enlightenment until dinner time, when, having made a
Mulatto of myself by getting the dirt of the slate into the
pores of my skin, I have a slice of bread to help me out with
the cheeses, and am considered in disgrace for the rest of the
evening.

It seems to me, at this distance of time, as if my unfortu*
nate studies generally took this course. I could have done
very well if I had been without the Murdstones ; but the
influence of the Murdstones upon me was like the fascination
of two snakes on a wretched young bird. Even when I did get
through the morning with tolerable credit, there was not much
gained but dinner ; for Miss Murdstone never could endure
to see me untasked, and if I rashly made any show of being
unemplo3^ed, called her brother's attention to me by saying,
" Clara, my dear, there's nothing like work â€” give your boy an
exercise ; " which caused me to be clapped down to some
new labor there and then. As to any recreation with other
children of my age, I had very little of that ; for the gloomy
theology of the Murdstones made all children out to be a
swarm of little vipers (though there was a child once set in
the midst of the Disciples), and held that they contaminated
one another.

The natural result of this treatment, continued, I suppose,
for some six months or more, was to make me sullen, dull,
and dogged. I was not made the less so, by my sense of
being daily more and more shut out and alienated from my
mother. I believe I should have been almost stupefied but!
for one circumstance.

It was this. My father had left a small collection of books
in a little room up-stairs, to which I had access (for it ad-
joined my own) and which nobody else in our house ever
troubled. From that blessed little room, Roderick Random,
Peregrine Pickle, Humphrey Clinker, Tom Jones, the Vicar
of Wakefield, Don Quixote, Gil Bias, and Robinson Crusoe,
came cut, a glorious host, to keep me company. They kept
alive my fancy, and my hope of something beyond that place

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

and time, â€” the), and the Arabian Nights, and the Tales o!
the Genii, â€” and did me no harm ; for whatever harm was in
some of them was not there for me ; / knew nothing of it.
It is astonishing to me now, how I found time, in the midst of
my porings and blunderings over heavier themes, to read
Chose books as I did. It is curious to me how I could ever have
consoled myself under my small troubles (which were great
troubles to me), by impersonating my favorite characters in
them â€” as I did â€” and by putting Mr. and Miss Murdstone
into all the bad ones â€” which I did too. I have been Tom
Jones (a child's Tom Jones, a harmless creature) for a week
together. I have sustained my own idea of Roderick Random
for a month at a stretch, I verily believe. I had a greedy
relish for a few volumes of Voyages and Travels â€” I forget
what, now â€” that were on those shelves ; and for days and
clays I can remember to have gone about my region of our
house, armed with the centre-piece out of an old set of boot-
trees â€” the perfect realization of Captain Somebody, of the
Royal British Navy, in danger of being beset by savages, and
resolved to sell his life at a great price. The Captain never
lost dignity, from having his ears boxed with the Latin Gram-
mar. I did ; but the Captain was a Captain and a hero, in
despite of all the grammars of all the languages in the world,
dead or alive.

This was my only and my constant comfort. When I
think of it, the picture always rises in my mind, of a summer
evening, the boys at play in the churchyard, and I sitting on
my bed, reading as if for life. Every barn in the neighbor-
hood, every stone in the church, and every foot of the church-
yard, had some association of its own, in my mind, connected
with these books, and stood for some locality made famous
in them. I have seen Tom Pipes go climbing up the church-
steeple ; I have watched Strap, with the knapsack on his
back, stopping to rest himself upon the wicket-gate ; and I
kno7v that Commodore Trunnion held that club with Mr
Pickle, in the parlor of our little village alehouse.

The reader now understands, as well as I do, what I was
when I came to that point of my youthful history to which I
am now coming again.

One morning when I went into the parlor with my books,
I found my mother looking anxious, Miss Murdstone looking
firm, and Mr. Murdstone binding something round the bottom
of a cane â€” a lithe and limber cane, which he left off binding
when I came in, and poised and switched in the air.

I FALL LNTO DLSGRACE.

u I tell you, Clara," said Mr. Murdstone, ? I have been
often flogged myself."

" To be sure ; of course," said Miss Murdstone.

" Certainly, my dear Jane," faltered my mother, meekly.
" But â€” but do you think it did Edward good ? "

" Do you think it did Edward harm, Clara ? " said Mi
Murdstone, gravely.

" That's the point," said his sister.

To this my mother returned, " Certainly, my dear Jane/
and said no more.

I felt apprehensive that I was personally interested in
this dialogue, and sought Mr. Murdstone 's eye as it lighted
on mine.

" Now, David," he said â€” and I saw that cast again as he
said it â€” "you must be far more careful to-day than usual."
He gave the cane another poise, and another switch ; and
having finished his preparation of it, laid it down beside him,
with an impressive look, and took up his book.

This was a good freshener to my presence of mind, as a
beginning. T felt the words of my lessons slipping off, not
one by one, or line by line, but by the entire page ; I tried to
lay hold of them ; but they seemed, if I may so express it, to
have put skates on, and to skim away from me with a smooth-
ness there was no checking.

We began badly, and went on worse. I had come in,
with an idea of distinguishing myself rather, conceiving that I
was very well prepared ; but it turned out to be quite a mis-
take. Book after book was added to the heap of failures,
Miss Murdstone being firmly watchful of us all the time.
And when we came at last to the five thousand cheeses (canes
he made it that day, I remember), my mother burst out cry-
ing.

" Clara ! " said Miss Murdstone, in her warning voice.
" I am not quite well, my dear Jane, I think," said my
mother.

I saw him wink, solemnly, at his sister, as he rose and
said, taking up the cane :

" Why, Jane, we can hardly expect Clara to bear, with .
perfect firmness, the worry and torment that David has oc-
casioned her to-day. That would be stoical. Clara is greatly
strengthened and improved, but we can hardly expect so
much from her. David, you and I will go up stairs, boy."
â€¢ As he took me out at the door, my mother ran towards

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

us. Miss Murdstone said, " Clara ! are you a perfect fool ? n
and interfered. I saw my mother stop her ears then, and I
heard her crying.

He walked me up to my room slowly and gravely â€” I am
certain he had a delight in that formal parade of executing
justice â€” and when we got there, suddenly twisted my head
under his arm.

" Mr. Murdstone ! Sir ! " I cried to him. " Don't ! Pray
don't beat me ! I have tried to learn, sir, but I can't learn
while you and Miss Murdstone are by. I can't indeed ! "

" Can't you, indeed, David ? " he said. " We'll try that."

He had my head as in a vice, but I twined round him
somehow, and stopped him for a moment, entreating him not
to beat me. It was only for a moment that I stopped him,
lor he cut me heavily an instant afterwards, and in the same
instant I caught the hand with which he held me in my
mouth, between my teeth, and bit it through. It sets my
teeth on edge to think of it.

He beat me then, as if he would have beaten me to death.
Above all the noise we made, I heard them running up the
stairs, and crying out â€” I heard my mother crying out â€” and
Peggotty. Then he was gone ; and the door was locked out-
side ; and I was lying, fevered and hot, and torn, and sore,
and raging in my puny way, upon the floor.

How well I recollect, when I became quiet, what an un-
natural stillness seemed to reign through the whole house !
How well I remember, when my smart and passion began to
cool, how wicked I began to feel !

I sat listening for a long while, but there was not a sound.
I crawled up from the floor, and saw my face in the glass, so
swollen, red, and ugly that it almost frightened me. My
stripes were sore and stiff, and made me cry afresh, when I
moved ; but they were nothing to the guilt I felt. It lay
heavier on my breast than If I had been a most atrocious
criminal, I dare say.

It had begun to grow dark, and I had shut the window (I
had been lying, for the most part, with my head upon the sill,
by turns crying, dozing, and looking listlessly out), when the
key was turned, and Miss Murdstone came in with some
bread and meat, and milk. These she put down upon the
table without a word, glaring at me the while with exemplary
firmness, and then retired, locking the door after her.

lang after it was dark I sat there, wondering whether

/ FALL INTO DISGRACE.

anybody else would come. When this appeared improbable
for that night, I undressed, and went to bed ; and there,
I began to wonder fearfully what would be done to me.
Whether it was a criminal act that I had committed ? Wheth-
er I should be taken into custody, and sent to prison ?
Whether I was at all in danger of being hanged ?

I never shall forget the waking, next morning ; the being
cheerful and fresh for the first moment, and then the being V
weighed down by the stale and dismal oppression of remem-
brance. Miss Murdstone reappeared before I was out of
bed ; told me, in so many words, that I was free to walk in
the garden for half an hour and no longer ; and retired, leav-
ing the door open, that I might avail myself of that permis-
sion.

I did so, and did so every morning of my imprisonment,
which lasted five days. If I could have seen my mother
ilone, I should have gone down on my knees to her and be-
sought her forgiveness ; but I saw no one, Miss Murdstone
excepted, during the whole time â€” except at evening prayers
in the parlor ; to which I was escorted by Miss Murdstone
after everybody else was placed ; where I was stationed, a
young outlaw, all alone by myself near the door ; and whence
I was solemnly conducted by my jailer, before any one arose
*rom the devotional posture. I only observed that my mother
was as far off from me as she could be, and kept her face an-
other way, so that I never saw it ; and that Mr. Murdstone 's
Uand was bound up in a large linen wrapper.

The length of those five days I can convey no idea of to
any one. They occupy the place of years in my remem-
brance. The way in which I listened to all the incidents of
the house that made themselves audible to me ; the ringing
of bells, the opening and shutting of doors, the murmuring of
Yoices, the footsteps on the stairs ; to any laughing, whistling,
or singing, outside, which seemed more dismal than anything
else to me in my solitude and disgrace â€” the uncertain pace
of the hours, especially at night, when I would wake thinking
it was morning, and find that the family were not yet gone to
bed, and that all the length of night had yet to come â€” the
depressed dreams and nightmares I had â€” the return of da)',
noon, afternoon, evening, when the boys played in the church-
yard, and I watched them from a distance within the room,
being ashamed to show myself at the window lest they should
Hnow I was a prisoner â€” the strange sensation of never hear

DAVID COPI ERFIELD.

ing myself speak â€” the fleeting intervals of something like
cheerfulness, which came with eating and drinking, and went
away with it â€” the setting in of rain one evening, with a fresh
smell, and its coming down faster and faster between me and
the church, until it and gathering night seemed to quencn me
in gloom, and fear, and remorse â€” all this appears to have
^one round and round for years instead of days, it is so vividly
and strongly stamped on my remembrance.

On the last night of my restraint, I was awakened by hear-
ing my own name spoken in a whisper. I started up in bed,
and putting out my arms in the dark, said :

" Is that you, Peggotty ? "

There was no immediate answer, but presently I heard my
name again, in a tone so very mysterious and awful, -Jiat I
think I should have gone into a fit, if it had not occurred to
me that it must have come through the keyhole.

I groped my way to the door, and putting my own lips to
the keyhole, whispered :

" Is that you, Peggotty, dear ? "

" Yes, my own precious Davy," she replied. " Be as soft
as a mouse, or the Cat'll hear us."

I understood this to mean Miss Murdstone, and was sen-
sible of the urgency of the case ; her room being close by.

" How's mama, dear Peggotty. Is she very angry with
me?"

I could hear Peggotty crying softly on her side of :he key-
hole, as I was doing on mine, before she answered. " No.
Not very."

" What is going to be done with me, Peggotty dear ? Do
you know ? "

" School. Near London," was Peggotty's answer. I was
obliged to get her to repeat it, for she spoke it the first time
quite down my throat, in consequence of my having forgotten
to take my mouth away from the keyhole and put my ear
there ; and though her words tickled me a good deal, I didn't
hear them.

" When, Peggotty ? "

" To-morrow."

" Is that the reason why Miss Murdstone took the cJothes
out of my drawers ? " which she had done, though I have for-
gotten to mention it.

" Yes," said Peggotty. " Box."

" Shan't I see mama? "

/ FALL WTO DLSCRACE.

u Yes," said Peggotty. "Morning."

Then Peggotty fitted her mouth close to the keyhole, and
delivered these words through it with as much feeling and
Earnestness as a keyhole has ever been the medium of commu-
nicating, I will venture to assert : shooting in each broken
little sentence in a convulsive little burst of its own.

" Davy, dear. If I ain't been azackly as intimate with
you. Lately, as I used to be. It ain't because I don't lov^
you. Just as well and more, my pretty poppet. It's because
I thought it better for you. And for some one else besides.
Davy, my darling, are you listening ? Can you hear ? "

" Ye â€” ye â€” ye â€” yes, Peggotty ! " I sobbed.

" My own ! " said Peggotty, with infinite compassion.
*' What I want to say, is. That you must never forget me.
For I'll never forget you. And I'll take as much care of your
mama, Davy. As ever I took of you. And I won't leave her.
The day may come when she'll be glad to lay her poor hed*k
On her stupid, cross, old Peggotty's arm again. And I'll wi...
to you, my dear. Though I ain't no scholar. And I'll â€”

I'll " Peggotty fell to kissing the keyhole, as she couldn't

kiss me.

" Thank you, dear Peggotty ! " said I. " Oh, thank you !
Thank you ! Will you promise me one thing, Peggotty ?
Will you write and tell Mr. Peggotty and little Em'ly, and Mrs.
Gummidge and Ham, that I am not so bad as they might
suppose, and that I sent 'em all my love â€” especially to little
Em'ly ? Will you, if you please, Peggotty ? "

The kind soul promised, and we both of us kissed tb*Â» key-
hole with the greatest affection â€” I patted it with my hand, 1
recollect, as if it had been her honest face â€” and parted.
From that night there grew up in my breast a feeling for Peg-
gotty which I cannot very well define. She did not replace
my mother ; no one could do that ; but she came into a va-
cancy in my heart, which closed upon her, and I felt towards
her something I have never felt for any other human being.
It was a sort of comical affection, too ; and yet if she had
died, I cannot think what I should have done, or how I should
have acted out the tragedy it would have been to me.

In the morning Miss Murdstone appeared as usual, and
told me I was going to school ; which was not altogether such
news to me as she supposed. She also informed me that
when I was dressed, I was to come down stairs into the parlor,
and have my breakfast. There I found my mother, very pale,

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

and with red eyes : into whose arms I ran, and begged her
pardon from my suffering soul.

" Oh, Davy ! " she said. "That you could hurt any one I
love ! Try to be better, pray to be better ! I forgive you ;
but I am so grieved, Davy, that you should have such bad
passions in your heart."

They had persuaded her that I was a wicked fellow, and
she was more sorry for that, than for my going away. I felt
it sorely. I tried to eat my parting breakfast, but my tears
dropped upon my bread-and-butter, and trickled into my tea.
I saw my mother look at me sometimes, and then glance at
the watchful Miss Murdstone, and then look down, or look
away.

" Master Copperfield's box there ! " said Miss Murdstone,
when wheels were heard at the gate.

I looked for Peggotty, but it was not she ; neither she nor
Mr. Murdstone appeared. My former acquaintance, the car-
rier, was at the door ; the box was taken out to his cart, and
lifted in.

" Clara ! " said Miss Murdstone, in her warning note.

" Ready, my dear Jane," returned my mother. " Good
* ' " } Davy. You are going for your own good. Good bye,
yhy child. You will come home in the holidays, and be a bet-
ter boy."

" Clara ! " Miss Murdstone repeated.

"Certainly, my dear Jane," replied my mother, who was
holding me. " I forgive you, my dear boy. God bless you ! "

" Clara ! " Miss Murdstone repeated.

Miss Murdstone was good enough to take me out to the
cart, and say on the way that she hoped I would repent, be-
fore I came to a bad end ; and then I got into the cart, and
the lazy horse walked off with it.

CHAPTER V.

AM SENT AWAY FROM HOME,

We might have gone about half a mile, and my pocket-
handkerchief was quite wet through, when the carrier stopped
short.

Looking out to ascertain for what. I saw, to my amazement,

AM SENT AWAY FROM HOME.

Peggotty burst from a hedge and climb into the cart. Sfta
took me in both her arms, and squeezed me to her stays until
the pressure on my nose was extremely painful, though I never
thought of that till afterwards when I found it very tender.
Not a single word did Peggotty speak. Releasing one of her
arms, she put it down in her pocket to the elbow, and brought
out some paper bags of cakes which she crammed into my
pockets, and a purse which she put into my hand, but not one
word did she say. After another and a final squeeze with
both arms, she got down from the cart and ran away ; and my
belief is, and has always been, without a solitary button on
her gown. I picked up one, of several that were rolling about,
and treasured it as a keepsake for a long time.

The carrier looked at me, as if to inquire if she were com-
ing back. I shook my head, and said I thought not. " Then,
come up," said the carrier to the lazy horse ; who came up
accordingly.

Having by this time cried as much as I possibly could, I
began to think it was of no use crying any more, especially as
neither Roderick Random, nor that Captain in the Royal
British Navy had ever cried, that I could remember, in trying
situations. The carrier seeing me in this resolution, proposed
that my pocket-handkerchief should be spread upon the horse's
back to dry. I thanked him, and assented ; and particularly-
small it looked, under those circumstances.

I had now leisure to examine the purse. It was a stiff
leather purse, with a snap, and had three bright shillings in
it, which Peggotty had evidently polished up with whitening,
for my greater delight. But its most precious contents were
two half-crowns folded together in a bit of paper, on which
was written in my mother's hand, " For Davy. With my
love." I was so overcome by this, that I asked the carrier to
be so good as to reach me my pocket-handkerchief again ; but
he said he thought I had better do without it, and I thought
I really had, so I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and stopped
myself.

For good, too ; though, in ' consequence of my previous
emotions, I was still occasionally seized with a stormy sob.
After we had jogged on for some little time, I asked the cai^
rier if he was going all the way ?

" All the way where ? " inquired the carrier.

"There," I said.

" Where's there ? " inquired the carrier.

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Near London," I said.

"Why that horse," said the carrier, jerking the rein to
point him out, " would be deader than pork afore he got over
half the ground."

" Are you only going to Yarmouth, then? " I asked.

" That's about it," said the carrier. " And there I shall
*ake you to the stage-cutch, and the stage-cutch that'll take
you to â€” wherever it is."

As this was a great deal for the carrier (whose name was
Mr. Barkis) to say â€” he being, as I observed in a former chap-
ter, of a phlegmatic temperament, and not at all conversa-
tionalâ€” I offered him a cake as a mark of attention, which he
ate at one gulp, exactly like an elephant, and which made no
more impression on his big face than it would have done on
an elephant's.

" Did she make 'em, now ? " said Mr. Barkis, always lean-
ing forward, in his slouching way, on the footboard of the
cart with an arm on each knee.

" Peggotty, do you mean, sir ? "

" Ah ! " said Mr. Barkis. " Her."

" Yes. She makes all our pastry and doe* ail our cook-

fag-"

" Do she though ? " said Mr. Barkis.

He made up his mouth as if to whistle, but he didn't
whistle. He sat looking at the horse's ears, as if he saw
something new there ; and sat so for a considerable time.
By-and-by, he said :

" No sweethearts, I b'lieve ? "

"Sweetmeats did you say, Mr. Baskis?" Fori thought
he wanted something else to eat, and had pointedly alluded
to that description of refreshment.

" Hearts," said Mr. Barkis. " Sweethearts ; no person
walks with her ? "

" With Peggotty ? "

" Ah ! " he said. " Her."

" Oh, no. She never had a sweetheart."

" Didn't she, though ? " said Mr. Barkis.

Again he made up his mouth to whistle, and again he
didn't whistle, but sat looking at the horse's ears.

" So she makes," said Mr. Barkis, after a long interval of
reflection, " all the apple parsties, and doos all the cookingt
do she ? "

I replied that such was the fact.

AM SENT AWAY FROM HOME.

" Well. I'll tell you what," said Mr. Barkis, j' P'raps
you might be writin' to her ? "

" I shall certainly write to her," I rejoined.

" Ah ! " he said, slowly turning his eyes towards me.
" Well ! If you was writin' to her, p'raps you'd recollect to say
that Barkis was willin' ; would you ? "

" That Barkis was willing," I repeated, innocently. " Is
that all the message ? "

" Ye- â€” es," he said, considering. " Ye â€” es. Barkis is
willin'."

" But you will be at Blunderstone again to-n: orrow, Mr.
Barkis," I said, faltering a little at the idea of my being far
away from it then, " and could give your own message so
much better."

As he repudiated this suggestion, however, with a jerk of
his head, and once more confirmed his previous request by
saying, with profound gravity. " Barkis is willin'. That's the
message," I readily undertook its transmission. While I was
waiting for the coach in the hotel at Yarmouth that very
afternoon, I procured a sheet of paper and an inkstand and
wrote a note to Peggotty, which ran thus : " My dear Peg-
gotty. I have come here safe. Barkis is willing. My love
to mama. Yours affectionately. P. S. He says he particu-
larly wants you to know â€” Barkis is willing."

When I had taken this commission on myself prospec-
tively, Mr. Barkis relapsed into perfect silence : and I, feel-
ing quite worn out by all that had happened lately, lay down
on a sack in the cart and fell asleep. I slept soundly until we
got to Yarmouth : which was so entirely new and strange to me
in the inn-yard to which we drove, that I at once abandoned a
latent hope I had had of meeting with some of Mr. Peggotty's
family there, perhaps even with little Em'ly herself.

The coach was in the yard, shining very much all over,
but without any horses to it as yet ; and it looked in that state
as if nothing was more unlikely than its ever going to Lon-
don. I was thinking this, and wondering what would ulti-
mately become of my box, which Mr. Barkis had put down
on the yard-pavement by the pole (he having driven up the
yard to turn his cart), and also what would ultimately become
of me, when a lady looked out of a bow-window where some
fowls and joints of meat were hanging up, and said ;

" Is that the little gentleman from Blunderstone ? "

" Yes, ma'am," I said.

7Â°

DAl-ID COPPERFIELD.

M What name ? " inquired the lady.
" Copperfield, ma'am," I said.

" That won't do," returned the lady. " Nobody's dinner
is paid for here, in that name."

" Is it Murdstone, ma'am ? " I said.

"If you're Master Murdstone," said the lady, "why do
Wou go and give another name, first? "

I explained to the lady how it was, who then rang a bell,
and called out, " William ! show the coffee-room ! " upon
which a waiter came running out of a kitchen on the opposite
side of the yard to show it, and seemed a good deal surprised
when he was only to show it to me.

It was a large long room with some large maps in it. I
doubt if I could have felt much stranger if the maps had been
real foreign countries, and I cast away in the middle of them.
I felt it was taking a liberty .to sit down, with my cap in my
hand, on the corner of the chair nearest the door ; and when
the waiter laid a cloth on purpose for me, and put a set of
casters on it, I think I must have turned red all over with
modesty.

He brought me some chops, and vegetables, and took the
covers off in such a bouncing manner that I was afraid I
must have given him some offence. But he greatly relieved
my mind by putting a chair for me at the table, and saying
very affably, " Now, six-foot ! come on ! "

I thanked him, and took my seat at the board ; but found
it extremely difficult to handle my knife and fork with any-
thing like dexterity, or to avoid splashing myself with the
gravy, while he was standing opposite, staring so hard, and
making me blush in the most dreadful manner every time I
caught his eye. After watching me into the second chop, he
said :

" There's half a pint of ale for you. Will you have if
now ? "

I shanked him and said " Yes." Upon which he poured
it oui of a jug into a large tumbler, and held it up against the
light, and made it look beautiful.

" My eye ! " he said. " It seems a good deal, don't it ? "
" It does seem a good deal," I answered with a smile. For it
was quite delightful tome to find him so pleasant. He was a
twinkling-eyed, pimple-faced man, with his hair standing up-
right all over his head ; and as he stood with one arm a-
kimbo, holding up the glass to the light with the other hand<
he looked quite friendly.

AM SEN7 A WA Y FROM HOME.

u There was a gentleman here yesterday," he said â€” " a
stout gentleman, by the name of Topsawyer â€” perhaps you
know him ? "

" No," I said, " I don't think " >

"In breeches and gaiters, broad-brimmed hat, gray coat,
speckled choker," said the waiter.

" No," I said bashfully, " I haven't the pleasure "

" He came in here," said the waiter, looking at the light
through the tumbler, "ordered a glass of this ale â€” would
order it â€” I told him not â€” drank it, and fell dead. It was
too old for him. It oughtn't to be drawn ; that's the fact."

I was very much shocked to hear of this melancholy acci-
dent, and said I thought I had better have some water.

" Why you see," said the waiter, still looking at the light
through the tumbler, with one of his eyes shut up, " our peo-
ple don't like things being ordered and left. It offends 'em.
But ./'ll drink it, if you like. I'm used to it, and use is every-
thing. I don't think it'll hurt me, if I throw my head back,
and take it off quick. Shall I ? "

I replied that he would much oblige me by drinking it, if
he thought he could do it safely, but by no means otherwise.
When he did throw his head back, and take it off quick, I had
a horrible fear, I confess, of seeing him meet the fate of the
lamented Mr. Topsawyer, and fall lifeless on the carpet. But
it didn't hurt him. On the contrary, I thought he seemed the
fresher for it.

" What have we got here ? " he said, putting a fork into
my dish. " Not chops ? "
" Chops," I said.

" Lord bless my soul ! " he exclaimed, " I didn't know they
were chops. Why a chop's the very thing to take off the bad
effects of that beer ! Ain't it lucky ? "

So he took a chop by the bone in one hand, and a potato
in the other, and ate away with a very good appetite, to my
extreme satisfaction. He afterwards took another chop, and
another potato ; and after that another chop and another
potato. When he had done, he brought me a pudding, and
having set it before me, seemed to ruminate, and to become
absent in his mind for some moments.

" How's the pie ? " he said, rousing himself.

" It's a pudding," I made answer.

" Pudding ! " he exclaimed. " Why, bless me, so it is !
What ? " looking at it nearer. " You don't mean to say it's a
batter-pudding ? "

DAVID COPPERFIELD-

" Yes, it is indeed."
Why, a batter-pudding," he said, taking up a table-
spoon, " is my favorite pudding ! Ain't that lucky ? Come
on, little 'un, and let's see who'll get most."

The waiter certainly got most. He entreated me moie
than once to come in and win, but what with his table spoon
to my teaspoon, his dispatch to my dispatch, and his appetite
to my appetite, I was left far behind at the first mouthful, and
had no chance with him. I never saw anyone enjoy a pud^
ding so much, I think ; and he laughed, when it was all
gone, as if his enjoyment of it lasted still.

Finding him so very friendly and companionable, it was
then that I asked for the pen and ink and paper, to write to
Peggotty. He not only brought it immediately, but was good
enough to look over me while I wrote the letter. When I had
finished it, he asked me where I was going to school.

I said, "Near London," which was all I knew.

" Oh ! my eye ! " he said, looking very low-spirited, " I. am
sony for that."

"Why?" I asked him.

" Oh, Lord ! " he said, shaking his head, " that's the school
where they broke the boy's ribs â€” two ribs â€” a little boy he
was. I should say he was â€” let me see â€” how old are you,
about?"

I told him between eight and nine.

" That's just his age," he said. " He was eight years and
six months old when they broke his first rib ; eight years
and eight months old when they broke his second, and did
for him."

I could not disguise from myself, or from the waiter, that
this was an uncomfortable coincidence, and inquired how it
was done. His answer was not cheering to my spirits, for it
t nsisted of two dismal words, " With whopping."

The blowing of the coach-horn in the yard was a season-
able diversion, which made me get up and hesitatingly inquire,
'n the mingled pride and diffidence of having a purse (which I
took out of my pocket), if there were anything to pay.

" There's a sheet of letter-paper," he returned. " Did you
ever buy a sheet of letter-paper ? "

I could not remember that I ever had.

" It's dear," he said, " on account of the duty. Three*
pence. That's the way we're taxed in this country. There's
nothing else, except the waiter. Never mind the ink. / lose
by that."

AM SENT AWAY FROM IIOML\

" What should you â€” what should I â€” how much ought I to
â– â€” what would it be right to pay the waiter, if you please ? " I
stammered, blushing.

" If I hadn't a family, and that family hadn't the cow-
pock," said the waiter, " I wouldn't take a sixpence. If I
didn't support a aged pairint, and a lovely sister," â€” here the
waiter was greatly agitated â€” " I wouldn't take a farthing. If
I had a. good place, and was treated well here, I should beg ac-
ceptance of a trifle, instead of taking of it. But I live on bro-
ken wittles â€” and I sleep on the coals " â€” here the waiter burst
into tears.

I was very much concerned for his misfortunes, and felt
that any recognition short of ninepence would be mere brutal-
ity and hardness of heart. Therefore I gave him one of my
three bright shillings, which he received with much humility
and veneration, and spun up with his thumb, directly after-
wards, to try the goodness of.

It was a little discoucerting to me, to find, when I was being
helped up behind the coach, that I was supposed to have eat-
en all the dinner without any assistance. I discovered this,
from overhearing the lady in the bow-window say to the guard,
" Take care of that child, George, or he'll burst ! " and from
observing that the women-servants who were about the place
came out to look and giggle at me as a young phenomenon.
My unfortunate friend the waiter, who had quite recovered his
spirits, did not appear to be disturbed by this, but joined in
the general admiration without being at all confused. If I
had any doubt of him, I suppose this half-awakened it ; but I
am inclined to believe that with the simple confidence of a
child, and the natural reliance of a child upon superior years
(qualities I am very sorry any children should prematurely
change for worldly wisdom), I had no serious mistrust of him'
on the whole, even then. ,

I felt it rather hard, I must own, to be made, without de- j
serving it, the subject of jokes between the coachman and
guard as to the coach drawing heavy behind, on account of my
sitting there, and as to the greater expediency of my travelling
by wagon. The story of my supposed appetite getting wind
among the outside passengers, they were merry upon it like-
wise ; and asked me whether I was going to be paid for, at
school, as two brothers or three, and whether I was contracted
for, or went upon the regular terms ; with other pleasant ques-
tions. But the worst of it was, that I knew I should be

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

ashamed to eat anything, when an opportunity offered, an<5
that, after a rather light dinner, I should remain hungry all
night â€” for I had left my cakes behind, at the hotel, in my
hurry. My apprehensions were realized. When we stopped
for supper I couldn't muster courage to take any, though I
should have liked it very much, but sat by the fire and said I
didn't want anything. This did not save me from more jokes,
either ; for a husky-voiced gentleman with a rough face, who
had been eating out of a sandwich-box nearly all the way, ex-
cept when he had been drinking out of a bottle, said I was
like a boa-constrictor, who* took enough at one meal to last
him a long time ; after which he actually brought a rash out
upon himself with boiled beef.

We had started from Yarmouth at three o'clock in the
afternoon, and we were due in London about eight next morn-
ing. It was midsummer weather, and the evening was very
pleasant. When we passed through a village, I pictured to
myself what the insides of the houses were like, and what the
inhabitants were about ; and when boys came running after
us, and got up behind and swung there for a little way, I won-
dered whether their fathers were alive, and whether they were
happy at home. I had plenty to think of, therefore, besides
my mind running continually on the kind of place I was going to
â– â€” which was an awful speculation. Sometimes, I remember,
I resigned myself to thoughts of home and Peggotty ; and to
endeavoring, in a confused, blind way, to recall how I had felt,
and what sort of boy I used to be before I bit Mr. Murdstone :
which I couldn't satisfy myself about by any means, I seemed
to have bitten him in such a remote antiquity.

The night was not so pleasant as the evening, for it got
chilly ; and being put between two gentlemen (the rough-faced
one and another) to prevent my tumbling off the coach, I was
nearly smothered by their falling asleep, and completely block-
ing me up. They squeezed me so hard sometimes, that I
could not help crying out, " Oh, if you please ! " â€” which they
didn't like at all, because it woke them. Opposite me was an
elderly lady in a great fur cloak, who looked in the dark more
like a haystack than a lady, she was wrapped up to such a
degree. This lady had a basket with her, and she hadn't
known what to do with it, for a long time, until she found that,
on account of my legs being short, it could go underneath me.
It cramped and hurt me so, that it made me perfectly miser-
able ; but if I moved in the least, and made a glass that was

AM SENT AWAY FROM HOME.

in the basket rattle against something else (as it was sure to
do), she gave me the cruellest poke with her foot, and said,
" Come, don't you fidget. Your bones are young, enough,
An sure ! "

At last the sun rose, and then my companions seemed to
sleep easier. The difficulties under which they had labored
all night, and which had found utterance in the most terrific
gasps and snorts, are not to be conceived. As the sun got
higher, their sleep became lighter, and so they gradually one
by one awoke. I recollect being very much surprised by the
feint everybody made, then, of not having been to sleep at all,
and by the uncommon indignation with which every one re-
pelled the charge. I labor under the same kind of astonish-
ment to this day, having invariably observed that of all human
weaknesses, the one to which our common nature is the least
disposed to confess (I cannot imagine why) is the weakness of
having gone to sleep in a coach.

What an amazing place London was to me when I saw it
in the distance, and how I believed all the adventures of all
my favonte heroes to be constantly enacting and re-enacting
there, and how I vaguely made it out in my own mind to be
fuller of wonders and wickedness than all the cities of the
earth, I need not stop here to relate. We approached it bv
degrees, and got, in due time, to the inn in the Whitechapel
district, for which we were bound. I forgot whether it was
the Blue Bull or the Blue Boar ; but I know it was the Blue
Something, and that its likeness was painted up on the back
of the coach.

The guard's eye lighted on me as he was getting down, and
he said at the booking-office door :

" Is there anybody here for a yoongster booked in the
name of Murdstone, from Bloonderstone, Sooffolk, to be left
till called for ? "

Nobody answered.

" Try Copperfield, if you please, sir," said I, looking help-
lessly down.

" Is there anybody here for a yoongster, booked in the
name of Murdstone, from Bloonderstone, Sooffolk, but own-
ing to the name of Copperfield, to be left till called for ? " said
the guard. " Come ! Is there anybody ? "

No. There was nobody. I looked anxiously around ; but
the inquiry made no impression on any of the bystanders, if I
except a man in gaiters, with one eye, who suggested that they

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

had better put a brass collar round my neck, and tie me up in
the stable.

A ladder was brought, and I got down after the lady, who
was like a haystack ; not daring to stir, until her basket was
removed. The coach was clear of passengers by that time,
the luggage was very soon cleared out, the horses had been
taken out before the luggage, and now the coach itself was
wheeled and backed off by some hostlers, out of the way.
Still, nobody appeared, to* claim the dusty youngster from
Blunderstone, Suffolk.

More solitary than Robinson Crusoe, who had nobody to
look at him, and see that he was solitary, I went into the
booking office, and, by invitation of the clerk on duty, passed
behind the counter, and sat down on the scale at which they
weighed the luggage. Here, as I sat looking at the parcels,
packages, and books, and inhaling the smell of stables (ever
since associated with that morning), a procession of most
tremendous considerations began to inarch through my mind.
Supposing nobody should ever fetch me, how long would they
consent to keep me there ? Would they keep me long enough
to spend seven shillings ? Should I sleep at night in one of
those wooden bins, with the other luggage, and wash myself
at the pump in the yard in the morning ; or should I be turned
out every night, and expected to come again to be left till called
for, when the office opened next day ? Supposing there was
no mistake in the case, and Mr. Murdstone had devised this
plan to get rid of me, what should I do ? If they allowed me
to remain there until my seven shillings were spent, I couldn't
hope to remain there when I began to starve. That would
obviously be inconvenient and unpleasant to the customers, be-
sides entailing on the Blue Whatever-it-was, the risk of funeral
expenses. If I started off at once, and tried to walk back
home, how could I ever find my way, how could I ever hope
to walk so far, how could I make sure of any one but Peggotty,
even if I got back ? If I found out the nearest proper
authorities, and offered myself to go for a soldier, or a sailor,
I was such a little fellow that it was most likely they wouldn't
take me in. These thoughts, and a hundred other such
thoughts, turned me burning hot, and made me giddy with
apprehension and dismay. I was in the height of my fever
when a man entered and whispered to the clerk, who presently
slanted me off the scale, and pushed me over to him, as if I
were weighed, bought, delivered, and paid lox.

AM SENT AWAY FROM HOME.

As I went out of the office, hand in hand with this new
acquaintance, I stole a look at him. He was a gaunt, sallow
young man, with hollow cheeks, and a chin almost as black
as Mr. Murdstone's ; but there the likeness ended, for his
whiskers were shaved off, and his hair, instead of being glossy,
was rusty and dry. He was dressed in a suit of black clothes
which were rather rusty and dry too, and rather short in the
sleeves and legs ; and he had a white neckerchief on, that
was not over clean. I did not, and do not, suppose that this
neckerchief was all the linen he wore, but it was all he showed
or gave any hint of.

" You're the new boy ? " he said.

" Yes, sir," I said.

I supposed I was. I didn't know.

" I'm one of the masters at Salem House," he said.

I made him a bow and felt very much overawed. I was so
ashamed to allude to a common-place thing like my box, to a
scholar and a master at Salem House, that we had gone some
little distance from the yard before I had the hardihood to
mention it. We turned back, on my humbly insinuating that
it might be useful to me hereafter ; and he told the clerk that
the carrier had instructions to call for it at noon.

" If you please, sir," I said, when we had accomplished
about the same distance as before, " is it far ? "

" It's down by Blackheath," he said.

" Is that far, sir ? " I diffidently asked.

" It's a good step," he said. u We shall go by the stage-
coach. It's about six miles."

I was so faint and tired, that the idea of holding out for
six miles more was too much for me. I took heart to tell him
that I had had nothing all night, and that if he would allow
me to buy something to eat, I should be very much obliged to
him. He appeared surprised at this â€” I see him stop and look
at me now â€” and after considering for a few moments, said he
wanted to call on an old person -who lived not far off, and
that the best way would be for me to buy some bread, or
whatever I liked best that was wholesome, and make my
breakfast at her house, where we could get some milk.

Accordingly we looked in at a baker's window, and after
I had made a series of proposals to buy everything that was
bilious in the shop, and he had rejected them one by one, we
decided in favor of a nice little loaf of brown bread, which cost
me threepence. Then, at the grocer's shop, we bought an egg

DAVID C0PPERF1ELD.

and a slice of streaky bacon ; which still left what I thought a
good deal of change, ov.t of the second of the bright shillings,
and made me consider London a very cheap place. These
provisions laid in, we want on through a great noise and up
roar that confused my weary head beyond descripticn, and
over a bridge, which no doubt, was London Bridge (indeed I
think he told me so, but I was half asleep), until we came tc
the poor person's house, which was a part of some alms-houses,
as I knew by their look, and by an inscription on a stone over
the gate, which said they were established for twenty-five pool
women.

The Master at Salem House lifted the latch of one of a
number of little black doors that were all alike, and had each
a little diamond-paned window on one side, and another little
diamond-paned window above ; and we went into the little
house of one of these poor old women, who was blowing a fire
to make a little saucepan boil. On seeing the master enter,
the old woman stopped with the bellows on her knee, and
said something that I thought sounded like " My Charley ! "
but on seeing me come in too, she got up, and rubbing hei
hands made a confused sort of half curtsey.

" Can you cook this young gentleman's breakfast for him,
if you please ? " said the Master at Salem House.

" Can I ? " said the old woman. " Yes can I, sure ! "

" How's Mrs. Fibbitson to-day ? " said the Master, iookÂ»
ing at another old woman in a large chair by the fire, who
was such a bundle of clothes that I feel grateful to this hour
for not having sat upon her by mistake.

" Ah, she's poorly," said the first old woman. " It's one
of her bad days. If the fire was to go out, through any acci-
dent, I verily believe she'd go out too, and never come to life
again."

As they looked at her, I looked at her also. Although it
was a warm day, she seemed to think of nothing but the fire.
I fancied she was jealous even of the saucepan on it ; and I
have reason to know that she took its impressment into the
service of boiling my egg and broiling my bacon, in dudgeon ,
for I saw her, with my own discomfited eyes, shake her fist
at me once, when those culinary operations were going on,
and no one else was looking. The sun streamed in at the little
window, but she sat with her own back and the back of the
large chair towards it, screening the fire as if she were sedu-
lously keeping it warm, instead of it keeping her warm, and

AM SENT AWAY FROM HOME.

watching it in a most distrustful manner. The completion of
the preparations for my breakfast, by relieving the fire, gave
her such extreme joy that she laughed aloud â€” and a very un-
melodious laugh she had, I must say.

I sat down to my brown loaf, my egg, and my rasher of
bacon, with a basin of milk besides, and made a most deli -
cious meal. While I was yet in the full enjoyment of it, the
Md woman of the house said to the Master :

" Have you got your flute with you ? "

"Yes," he returned.

" Have a blow at it," said the old woman, coaxingly.
v Do ! "

The Master, upon this, put his hand underneath the skirts
of his coat, and brought out his flute in three pieces, which he
screwed together, and began immediately to play. My im-
pression is, after many years of consideration, that theTe
never can have been anybody in the world who played worse.
He made the most dismal sounds I have ever heard produced
by any means, natural or artificial. I don't know what the
tunes were â€” if there were such things in the performance at all,
which I doubt â€” but the influence of the strain upon me was,
first, to make me think of all my sorrows until I could hardly
keep my tears back ; then to take away my appetite ; and
lastly, to make me so sleepy that I couldn't keep my eyes
open. They begin to close again, and I begin to nod, as the
recollection rises fresh upon me. Once more the little room,
with its open corner cupboard, and its square-backed chairs,
and its angular little staircase leading to the room above, and
its three peacock's feathers displayed over the mantel-pieceâ€”
I remember wondeiing when I first went in, what that pea-
cock would have thought if he had known what his finery
was doomed to come to â€” fades from before me, and I nod,
and sleep. The flute becomes inaudible, the wheels of the
coach are heard instead, and I am on my journey. The
coach jolts, I wake with a start, and the flute has come back
again, and the Master at Salem House is sitting with his legs
crossed, playing it dolefully, while the old woman of the house
looks on delighted. She fades in her turn, and he fades, and
all fades, and there is no flute, no Master, no Salem House,
no David Copperfield, no anything but heavy sleep.

I dreamed, I thought, that once while he was blowing into
this dismal flute, the old woman of the house, who had gone
nearer and nearer to him in her ecstatic admiration, leaned

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

over the back of his chair and gave him an affectionate
squeeze round the neck, which stopped his playing for a mo-
ment. I was in the middle state between sleeping and wak-
ing, either then or immediately afterwards ; for, as he resumed
â€”it was a real fact that he had stopped playing â€” I saw and
heard the same old woman ask Mrs. Fibbitson if it wasn't de-
licious (meaning the flute), to which Mrs. Fibbitson replied,
" Ay, ay ! yes ! " and nodded at the fire ; to which, I am per
suaded, she gave the credit of the whole performance.

When I seemed to have been dozing a long while, the
Master at Salem House unscrewed his flute into the three
pieces, put them up as before, and took me away. We found
the coach very near at hand, and got upon the roof ; but I
was so dead sleepy, that when we stopped on the road to take
up somebody else, they put me inside where there were no
passengers, and where I slept profoundly, until I found the
coach going at a footpace up a steep hill among green leaves.
Presently, it stopped, and had come to its destination.

A short walk brought us â€” I mean the Master and me â€” â–
to Salem House, which was enclosed with a high brick wall,
and looked very dull. Over a door in this wall was a board
with Salem House upon it ; and through a grating in this
door we were surveyed, when we rang the bell, by a surly face,
which I found, on the door being opened, belonged to a stout
man with a bull-neck, a wooden leg, overhanging temples, and
his hair cut close all round his head.

"The new boy," said the Master.

The man with the wooden leg eyed me all over â€” it didn't
take long, for there was not much of me â€” and locked the gate
behind us, and took out the key. We were going up to the
house, among some dark heavy trees, when he called after my
conductor.

" Hallo ! "

We looked back, and he was standing at the door of a
little lodge, where he lived, with a pair of boots in his hand.

" Here ! The cobble's been," he said, " since you've
been out, Mr. Mell, and he says he can't mend 'em any more.
He says there ain't a bit of the original boot left, and he won-
ders you expect it."

With these words he threw the boots towards Mr. Mell
who went back a few paces to pick them up, and looked at
them (very disconsolately, I was afraid) as we went on to-
gether. I observed *hen, for the first time, that the boots he

AM SENT AWAY FROM HOME.

had on were a good deal the worse for wear, and that his
stocking was just breaking out in one place, like a bud.

Salem House was a square brick building with wings, of a
bare and unfurnished appearance. All about it was so very
quiet, that I said to Mr. Mell I supposed the boys were out ;
but he seemed surprised at my not knowing that it was holi-
daytime. That all the boys were at their several homes,,
That Mr, Creakle, the proprietor, was clown by the sea-side
with Mrs. and Miss Creakle. And that I was sent in holiday-
time as a punishment for my misdoing. All of which he ex-
plained to me as we went along.

I gazed upon the school-room into which he took me, as
the most forlorn and desolate place I had ever seen. I see
it now. A long room, with three long rows of desks, and six
of forms, and bristling all round with pegs for hats and
slates. Scraps of old copy-books and exercises litter the
dirty floor, Some silkworms' houses, made of the same
materials, are scattered over the desks. Two miserable little
white mice, left behind by their owner, are running up and
down in a fusty castle made of pasteboard and wire, looking
in all the corners with their red eyes for anything to eat. A
bird, in a cage very little bigger than himself, makes a mourn-
ful rattle now and. then in hoppmg on his perch, two inches
high, or dropping from it ; but neither sings nor chirps.
There is a strange unwholesome smell upon the room, like
mildewed corduroys, sweet apples wanting air, and rotten
books. There could not well be more ink splashed about it,
if it had been roofless from its first construction, and the skies
had rained, snowed, hailed, and blown ink through the vary-
ing seasons of the year.

Mr. Mell having left me while he took his irreparable
boots up stairs, I went softly to the upper end of the room,
observing all this as I crept along. Suddenly I came upon a
pasteboard placard, beautifully written, which was lying on
the desk, and bore these words : " Take care of him. He
vites."

I got upon the desk immediately, apprehensive of at least
a great dog underneath. But, though I looked all round
with anxious eyes, I could see nothing of him. I was still
engaged in peering about, when Mr. Mell came back, and
asked me what I did up there ?

" I beg your pardon, sir," says I, " if you please, I'm look-
ing for the dog."

82 DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Dog ? " says he, <; What dog ? "
" Isn't it a dog, sir ? "
" Isn't what a dog ? "

" That's to be taken care of, sir ; that bites ? n

" No, Copperfield," says he, gravely, " that's not a dog.
That's a boy. My instructions are, Copperfield, to put this
placard on your back. I am sorry to make such a beginning
vith you, but I must do it."

With that he took me down, and tied the placard, which
,vas neatly constructed for the purpose, on my shoulders like
a knapsack ; and wherever I went, afterwards, I had the con-
solation of carrying it.

What I suffered from that placard nobody can imagine.
Whether it was possible for people to see me or not, I always
fancied that somebody was reading it. It was no relief to
turn round and find nobody ; for wherever my back was,
there I imagined somebody always to be. That cruel man
with the wooden leg, aggravated my sufferings. He was in
authority, and if he ever saw me leaning against a tree, or a
wall, or the house, he roared out from his lodge-door in a
stupendous voice, " Hallo, you sir ! You Copperfield ! Show
that badge conspicuous, or I'll report you ! " The playground
was a bare gravelled yard, open to all the back of the house
and the offices ; and I knew that the servants read it, and
the butcher read it, and the baker read it ; that everybody, in
a word, who came backwards and forwards to the house, of a
morning when I was ordered to walk there, read that I was
to be taken care of, for I bit. I recollect that I positively
began to have a dread of myself, as a kind of wild boy who
did bite.

There was an old door in this playground, on which the
boys had a custom of carving their names. It was completely
covered with such inscriptions. In my dread of the end of
the vacation and their coming back, I could not read a boy's
name, without inquiring in what tone and with what emphasis
he would read, " Take care of him. He bites; There was
one boy â€” a certain J. Steerforth â€” who cut his name very deep
and very often, who, I conceived, would read it in a rather
strong voice, and afterwards pull my hair. There was an-
other boy, one Tommy Traddles, who I dreaded would make
game of it, and pretend to be dreadfully frightened of me.
There was a third, George Demple, who I fancied would sing
it. I have looked, a little shrinking creature, at that doorÂ»

AM SENT A WA Y FROM HOME.

until the owners of all the names â€” there were hve-and-forty
of them in the school then, Mr. Mell said â€” seemed to send
me to Coventry by general acclamation, and to cry out, each
in his own way, " Take care of him. He bites ! "

It was the same with the places at the desks and forms.
It was the same with the groves of deserted bedsteads I
peeped at, on my way to, and when I was in; my own bed. I
remember dreaming, night after night, of being with my mothel
as she used to be, or of going to a party at Mr. Peggotty's, or
of travelling outside the stage-coach, or of dining again with
my unfortunate friend the waiter, and in all these circum-
stances making people scream and stare, by the unhappy dis-
closure that I had nothing on but my little night-shirt, and
that placard.

In the monotony of my life, and in my constant apprehen-
sion of the re-opening of the school, it was such an insupport-
able affliction ! I had long tasks every day to do with Mr.
Mell ; but I did them, there being no Mr. and Miss Murdstone
here, and got through them without disgrace. Before, and
after them, I walked about â€” supervised, as I have mentioned,
by the man with the wooden leg. How vividly I call to mind
the damp about the house, the green cracked flagstones in
the court, an old leaky water-butt, and the discolored trunks
of some of the grim trees, which seemed to have dripped
more in the rain than other trees, and to have blown less in
the sun ! At one we dined, Mr. Mell and I, at the upper end
of a long bare dining-room, full of deal tables, and smelling
of fat. Then, we had more tasks until tea, which Mr. Mell
drank out of a blue tea-cup, and I out of a tin pot. All day
long, and until seven or eight in the evening, Mr. Mell, at his-
own detached desk in the school-room, worked hard with pen,
ink, ruler, books, and writing-paper, making out the bills (as
I found) for last half-year. When he had put up his things
for the night, he took out his flute, and blew at it, until I
almost thought he would gradually blow his whole being into
the large hole at the top, and ooze away at the keys.

I picture my small self in the dimly-lighted rooms, sitting
with my head upon my hand, listening to the doleful perform-
ance of Mr. Mell, and conning to-morrow's lessons. I pic-
ture myself with my books shut up, still listening to the
doleful performance of Mr. Mell, and listening through it to
what used to be at home, and to the blowing of the wind on
Yarmouth flats., and feeling very sad and solitary. I picturG

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

myself going up to bed, among the unused rooms, and sitting
on my bedside crying for a comfortable word from Peggotty.
I picture myself coming down stairs in the morning, and look-
ing, through a long ghastly gash of a staircase window at the
school-bell hanging on the top of an outhouse with a weather-
cock above it ; and dreading the time when it shall ring J.
Steerforth and the rest to work. Such time is only second,
in my foreboding apprehensions, to the time when the man
with the wooden leg shall unlock the rusty gate to give admis-
sion to the awful Mr. Creakle. I cannot think I was a very
dangerous character in any of these aspects, but in all of them
I carried the same warning on my back.

Mr. Mell never said much to me, but he was never harsh
to me. I suppose we were company to each other, without
talking. I forgot to mention that he would talk to himself
sometimes, and grin, and clench his fist, and grind his teeth,
and pull his hair in an unaccountable manner. But he had
these peculiarities. At first they frightened me, though I soon
got used to them.

CHAPTER VI.

I ENLARGE MY CIRCLE OF ACQUAINTANCE.

I had led this life about a month, when the man with the
wooden leg began to stump about with a mop and a bucket of
water, from which I inferred that preparations were making to
receive Mr. Creakle and the boys. I was not mistaken ; for
the mop came into the school-room before long, and turned
out Mr. Mell and me, who lived where we could, and got on
how we could, for some days, during which we were always in
the way of two or three young women, who had rarely shown
themselves before, and were so continually in the midst of
dust that I sneezed almost as much as if Salem House had
been a great snuff-box.

One day I was informed by Mr. Mell that Mr. Creakle
would be home that evening. In the evening, after tea, I
heard that he was come. Before bedtime, I was fetched bj
the man with the wooden leg to appear before him.

/ ENLARGE MY CIRCLE OF ACQUAINTANCE. 85

Mr. Creakle's part of the house was a good deal more com-
fortable than ours, and he had a snug bit of garden- that looked
pleasant after the dusty playground, which was such a desert
in miniature, that I thought none but a camel, or a dromedary,
could have felt at home in it. It seemed to me a bold thing
even to take notice that the passage looked comfortable, as I
went on my way, trembling, to Mr. Creakle's presence ; which
so abashed me, when I was ushered into it, that I hardly savÂ»
Mrs. Creakle or Miss Creakle (who were both there, in the
parlor), or anything but Mr. Creakle, a stout gentleman with
a bunch of watch-chain and seals, in an arm-chair, with a tum-
bler and bottle beside him.

" So ! " said Mr. Creakle, " This is the young gentleman
whose teeth are to be filed ! Turn him round."

The wooden-legged man turned me about so as to exhibit
the placard ; and having afforded time for a full survey
of it, turned me about again, with my face to Mr. Creakle,
and posted himself at Mr. Creakle's side. Mr. Creakle's face
was fiery, and his eyes were small, and deep in his head ; he
had thick veins in his forehead, a little nose, and a large chin.
He was bald on the top of his head ; and had some thin wet-
looking hair that was just turning gray, brushed across each
temple, so that the two sides interlaced on his forehead. But
the circumstance about him which impressed me most, was,
that he had no voice, but spoke in a whisper. The exertion
this cost him, or the consciousness of talking in that feeble
way, made his angry face so much more angry, and his thick
veins so much thicker, when he spoke, that I am not surprised,
on looking back, at this peculiarity striking me as his chief
one.

" Now," said Mr. Creakle, " what's the report of this
boy ? "

" There's nothing against him yet," returned the man with
the wooden leg, " there has been no opportunity."

I thought Mr. Creakle was disappointed. I thought Mrs.
and Miss Creakle (at whom I now glanced for the first time,
and who were, both, thin and quiet) were not disappointed.

" Come here, sir ! " said Mr. Creakle, beckoning to me.

" Come here ! " said the man with the wooden leg, re-
peating the gesture.

" I have the happiness of knowing your father-in-law,"
whispered Mr. Creakle, taking me by the ear, " and a worthy
man he is, and a man of strong character. He knows me^

DAVID C0PPERF1ELD.

and I know him. Do you know me ? Hey ? " said Mr. Creakle
pinching my ear with ferocious playfulness.

" Not yet, sir," I said, flinching with the pain.

" Not yet ? Hey ? " repeated Mr. Creakle. " But yot.
will soon. Hey ? "

" You will soon. Hey ? " repeated the man with the wood-
en leg. I afterwards found that he generally acted, with his
strong voice, as Mr. Creakle's interpreter to the boys.

I was very much frightened, and said I hoped so, if he
pleased. I felt, all this while, as if my ear were blazing ; he
pinched it so hard.

" I'll tell you what I am," whispered Mr. Creakle, btting
it go at last, with a screw at parting that brought the water
into my eyes. " I'm a Tartar."

" A Tartar," said the man with the wooden leg.

" When I say I'll do a thing, I do it," said Mr. Creakle ;
" and when I say I will have a thing done, I will have it
done."

" â€” Will have a thing done, I will have it done," repeated
the man with the wooden leg.

" I am a determined character," said Mr. Creakle. " That's
what I am. I do my duty. That's what / do. My flesh and
blood," he looked at Mrs. Creakle as he said this, "when it
rises against me, is not my flesh and blood. I discard it. Has
that fellow," to the man with the wooden leg, "been here
again ? "

" No," was the answer.

" No," said Mr. Creakle. "He knows better. He knows
me. Let him keep away. I say let him keep away," said Mr.
Creakle, striking his hand upon the table, and looking at Mrs.
Creakle, " for he knows me. Now you have begun to know
me too, my young friend, and you may go. Take him away."

I was very glad to be ordered away, for Mrs. and Miss
Creakle were both wiping their eyes, and I felt as uncomforta-
ble for them as I did for myself. But I had a petition on my
mind which concerned me so nearly, that I couldn't help say-
ing, though I wondered at my own courage :

" If you please, sir "

Mr. Creakle whispered, " Hah ! What's this ? " and bent
his eyes upon me, as if he would have burnt me up with them.

" If you please, sir," I faltered, " if I might be allowed (I
am very sorry indeed, sir, for what I did) to take this writing
off before the boys come back "

/ ENLARGE MY CIRCLE OF ACQUAINTANCE. 87

Whether Mr. Creakle was in earnest, or whether he only
did it to frighten me, I don't know, but he made a burst out
of his chair, before which I precipitately retreated, without
waiting for the escort of the man with the wooden leg, and
never once stopped until I reached my own bedroom, where,
finding I was not pursued, I went to bed, as it was time, and
lay quaking, for a couple of hours.

Next morning Mr. Sharp came back. Mr. Sharp was the
first master, and superior to Mr. Mell. Mr. Mell took his
meals with the boys, but Mr. Sharp dined and supped at Mr.
Creakle's table. He was a limp, delicate-looking gentleman,
I thought with a good deal of nose, and a way of carrying his
head on one side, as if it were a little too heavy for him. His
hair was very smooth and wavy ; but I was informed by the
very first boy who came back that it was a wig (a second-hand
one he said), and that Mr. Sharp went out every Saturday
afternoon to get it curled.

It was no other than Tommy Traddles who gave me this
piece of intelligence. He was the first boy who returned.
He introduced himself by informing me that I should find his
name on the right-hand corner of the gate, over the top-bolt;
upon that I said, " Traddles ? " to which he replied, " The
same," and then he asked me for a full account of myself and
family.

It was a happy circumstance for me that Traddles came
back first. He enjoyed my placard so much, that he saved
me from the embarrassment of either disclosure or conceal-
ment, by presenting me to every other boy who came back,
great or small, immediately on his arrival, in this form of in-
troduction, " Look here ! Here's a game ! " Happily, too, the
greater part of the boys came back low-spirited, and were not
so boisterous at my expense as I had expected. Some of
them certainly did dance about me like wild Indians, and the
greater part could not resist the temptation of pretending that
I was a dog, and patting and smoothing me, lest I should bite,
and saying, " Lie down, sir ! " and calling me Towzer. This
was naturally confusing, among so many strangers, and cost
me some tears, but on the whole it was much better than I
had anticipated.

I was not considered as being formally received into the
school, however, until J. Steerforth arrived. Before this boy,
who was reputed to be a great scholar, and was very good-
looking, and at least half-a-dozen years my senior. I was car-

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

ried as before a magistrate. He inquired, under a shed ifi
the playground, into the particulars of my punishment, and
was pleased to express his opinion that it was " a jolly
shame ; " for which I became bound to him ever afterwards.

" What money have you got, Copperfield ? " he said, walk-
ing aside with me when he had disposed of my affair in these
terms.

I told him seven shillings.

" You had better give it to me to take care of," he said.
" At least, you can if you like. You needn't if you don't
like."

I hastened to comply with his friendly suggestion, and
opening Peggotty's purse, turned it upside down into his
hand.

" Do you want to spend any thing now ? " he asked me.
" No, thank you," I replied.

" You can if you like, you know," said Steerforth. " Say
the word."

" No, thank you, sir," I repeated.

" Perhaps you'd like to spend a couple of shillings or so,
in a bottle of currant wine by-and-by, up in the bedroom ? *
said Steerforth. " You belong to my bedroom, I find ? "

It certainly had not occurred to me before, but I said,
Yes, I should like that.

"Very good," said Steerforth. " You'll be glad to spend
another shilling or so, in almond cakes, I dare say ? "

I said, Yes, I should like that, too.

" And another shilling or so in biscuits, and another in
fruit, eh ? " said Steerforth. " I say, young Copperfield,
you're going it ! "

I smiled because he smiled, but I was a little troubled in
tny mind, too.

" Well ! " said Steerforth, " we must make it stretch as
far as we can ; that's all. I'll do the best in my power for you.
I can go out when I like, and I'll smuggle the prog in." With
these words he put the money in his pocket, and kindly told
me not to make myself uneasy; he would take care it should
be all right.

He was as good as his word, if that were all right which
I had a secret misgiving was nearly all wrong â€” for I feared it
was a waste of my mother's two half-crowns â€” though I had
preserved the piece of paper they were wrapped in : which
was a precious saving. When we went up stairs to bed, he

I ENLARGE MY CIRCLE OF ACQUAINTANCE. 89

produced the whole seven shillings' worth, and laid it out on
my bed in the moonlight, saying :

" There you are, young Copperfield, and a royal spread
you've got."

I couldn't think of doing the honors of the feast, at my
time of life, while he was by ; my hand shook at the very
thought of it. I begged him to do me the favor of presiding ;
End my request being seconded by the other boys who were
in that room, he acceded to it, and sat upon my pillow, hand-
ing round the viands â€” with perfect fairness, I must say â€” and
dispensing the currant wine in a little glass without a foot,
which was his own property. As to me, I sat on his left hand,
and the rest were grouped about us, on the nearest beds and
on the floor.

How well I recollect our sitting there, talking in whispers ;
or their talking, and my respectfully listening, I ought rather
to say -f the moonlight falling a little way into the room,
through the window, painting a pale window on the floor, and
the greater part of us in shadow, except when Steerforth dip-
ped a match into a phosphorus-box, when he wanted to look
for anything on the board, and shed a blue glare over us that
was gone directly ! A certain mysterious feeling, consequent
on the darkness, the secrecy of the revel, and the whisper in
which everything was said, steals over me again, and I listen
to all they tell me with a vague feeling of solemnity and awe,
which makes me glad that they are all so near, and frightens
me (though I feign to laugh) when Traddles pretends to see
a ghost in the corner.

I heard all kinds of things about the school and all be-
longing to it. I heard that Mr. Creakle had not preferred
his claim to being a Tartar without reason ; that he was the
sternest and most severe of masters ; that he laid about him,
right and left, every day of his life, charging in among the
boys like a trooper, and slashing away, unmercifully. That
he knew nothing himself, but the art of slashing, being more
ignorant (J. Steerforth said) than the lowest boy in the school ;
that he had been, a good many years ago, a small hop-dealer
in the Borough, and had taken to the schooling business after
being bankrupt in hops, and making away with Mrs. Creakle's
money. With a good deal more of that sort, which I won-
dered how they knew.

I heard that the man with the wooden leg, whose name
was Tungay, was an obstinate barbarian who had formerly

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

assisted in the hop business, had come into the scholastic line
with Mr. Creakle, in consequence, as was supposed amonj
the boys, of his having broken his leg in Mr. Creakle's ser-
vice, and having done a deal of dishonest work for him, and
knowing his secrets. I heard that with the single exception
of Mr. Creakle, Tungay considered the whole establishment,
masters and boys, as his natural enemies, and that the onlj
delight of his life was to be sour and malicious. I heard than
Mr. Creakle had a son, who had not been Tungay's friends
and who, assisting in the school, had once held some remon-
strance with his father on an occasion when its discipline was
very cruelly exercised, and was supposed, besides, to have
protested against his father's usage of his mother. I heard
that Mr. Creakle had turned him out of doors, in conse-
quence, and that Mrs. and Miss Creakle lxad been in a sad
way ever since.

But the greatest wonder that I heard of Mr. Creakle was,
there being one boy in the school on whom he never ventured
to lay a hand, and that boy being J. Steerforth. Steerforth him-
self confirmed this when it was stated, and said that he should
like to begin to see him do it. On being asked by a mild boy
(not me) how he would proceed if he did begin to see him do
it, he dipped a match into his phosphorus-box on purpose to
shed a glare over his reply, and said he would commence by
knocking him down with a blow on the forehead from the
seven-and-sixpenny ink-bottle that was always on the mantel'
piece. We sat in the dark for some time, breathless.

I heard that Mr. Sharp and Mr. Mell were both supposed
to be wretchedly paid ; and that when there was hot and cold
meat for dinner at Mr. Creakle's table, Mr. Sharp was al-
ways expected to say he preferred cold ; which was again cor-
roborated by J. Steerforth, the only parlor boarder. I heard
that Mr. Sharp's wig didn't fit him ; and that he needn't be
so "bounceable" â€” somebody else said "bumptious" â€” about
it, because his own red hair was very plainly to be seen be-
hind.

I heard that one boy, who was a coal-merchant's son,
came as a set off against the coal-bill, and was called, on that
account, " Exchange or Barter " â€” a name selected from the
arithmetic-book as expressing this arrangement. I heard that
the table-beer was a robbery of parents, and the pudding an
imposition. I heard that Miss Creakle was regarded by the
school in general as being in love with Steerforth ; and I am

MY " FIRST HALF ''AT SALEM HOUSE.

sure, as I sat in the dark, thinking of his nice voice, and his
fine face, and his easy manner, and his curling hair, I thought
it very likely. I heard that Mr. Mell was not a -bad sort of
fellow, but hadn't a sixpence to bless himself with ; and that
there was r o doubt that old Mrs. Mell, his mother, was as
poor as Job. I thought of my breakfast then, and what had
sounded like " My Charley ! " but I was, I am glad to re-
member, as mute as a mouse about it.

The hearing of all this, and a good deal more, outlasted
ihe banquet some time. The greater part of the guests had
gone to bed as soon as the eating and drinking were over ; and
we, who had remained whispering and listening, half undressed,
at last betook ourselves to bed, too.

"Good night, young Copperfield," said Steerforth. "I'll
take care of you."

" You're very kind," I gratefully returned. " I am very
much obliged to you."

" You haven't got a sister, have you ? " said Steerforth,
yawning.

" No," I answered.

" That's a pity," said Steerforth. " If you had one, I
should think she would have been a pretty, timid, little,
bright-eyed sort of girl. I should have liked to know her.
Good night, young Copperfield."

" Good night, sir," I replied.

I thought of him very much after I went to bed, and
raised myself, I recollect, to look at him where he lay in the
moonlight, with his handsome face turned up, and his head
reclining easily on his arm. He was a person of great power
in my eyes ; that was, of course, the reason of my mind run -
ning on him. No veiled future dimly glanced upon him in
the moonbeams. There was no shadowy picture of his foot-
steps, in the garden that I dreamed of walking in all night.

CHAPTER VII.

MY " FIRST HALF " AT SALEM HOUSE.

School began in earnest next day. A profound impression
was made upon me, I remember, by the roar of voices in the
school-room suddenly becoming hushed as death when Mr.

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Creakle entered after breakfast, and stood in the doorwaj
looking round upon us like a giant in a story-book surveying
his captives.

Tungay stood at Mr. Creakle's elbow. He had no occa-
sion, I thought, to cry out " Silence ! " so ferociously, for the
boys were all struck speechless and motionless.

Mr. Creakle was seen to speak, and Tungay was heard, tc
this effect :

" Now, boys, this is a new half. Take care what you're
about, in this new half. Come fresh up to the lessons, I ad-
vise you, for I come fresh up to the punishment. I won't
flinch. It will be of no use your rubbing yourselves ; you
won't rub the marks out that I shall give you. Now get to
work, every boy ! "

When this dreadful exordium was over, and Tungay had
stumped out again, Mr. Creakle came to where I sat, and told
me that if I were famous for biting, he was famous for biting,
too. He then showed me the cane, and asked me what I
thought of that, for a tooth ? Was it a sharp tooth, hey ? Was
it a double tooth, hey ? Had it a deep prong, hey ? Did it
bite, hey ? Did it bite ? At every question he gave me a
fleshy cut with it that made me writhe ; so I was very soon
made free of Salem House (as Steerforth said), and was very
soon in tears also.

Not that I mean to say these were special marks of dis-
tinction, which only I received. On the contrary, a large ma-
jority of the boys (especially the smaller ones) were visited
with similar instances of notice, as Mr. Creakle made the
round of the school-room. Half the establishment was writh-
ing and crying, before the day's work began ; and how much
of it had writhed and cried before the day's work was over, I
am really afraid to recollect, lest I should seem to exaggerate.

I should think there never can have been a man who en<
joyed his profession more than Mr. Creakle did. He had Â£.
delight in cutting at the boys, which was like the satisfaction,
of a craving appetite. I am confident that he couldn't resist
a chubby boy, especially ; that there was a fascination in such
a subject, which made him restless in his mind, until he had
scored and marked him for the day. I was chubby myself,
and ought to know. I am sure when I think of the fellow
now, my blood rises against him with the disinterested indig-
nation I should feel if I could have known all about him
without having ever been in his power ; but it rises hotly, be*

MY " FIRST HALF "AT SALEM HOUSE.

cause I know him to have been an incapable brute, who had
no mor^ right to be possessed of the great trust he held, than
to be Lord High Admiral, or Commander-in-chief â€” in either of
which capacities, it is probable, that he would have done in-
finitely less mischief.

Miserable little propitiators of a remorseless Idol, how ab-
ject we were to him ! What a launch in life I think it nows
on looking back, to be so mean and servile to a man of such
parts and pretensions !

Here I sit at the desk again, watching his eye â€” humblj
watching his eye, as he rules a ciphering book for another vic -
tim whose hands have just been flattened by that identical
ruler, and who is tr] ing to wipe the sting out with a pocket-
handkerchief. I have plenty to do. I don't watch his eye in
idleness, but because I am morbidly attracted to it, in a dread
desire to know what he will do next, and whether it will be my
turn to suffer, or somebody else's. A lane of small boys be-
yond me, with the same interest in his eye, watch it too. I
think he knows it, though he pretends he don't. He makes
dreadful mouths as he rules the ciphering book ; and now he
throws his eye sideways down our lane, and we all droop over
our books and tremble. A moment afterwards we are again
eyeing him. An unhappy culprit, found guilty of imperfect
exercise, approaches at his command. The culprit falters ex-
cuses, and professes a determination to do better to-morrow.
Mr. Creakle cuts a joke before he beats him, and we laugh at
it, â€” miserable little dogs, we laugh, with our visages as white
as ashes, and our hearts sinking into our boots.

Here I sit at the desk again, on a drowsy summer after-
noon. A buzz and hum go up around me, as if the boys were
so many blue-bottles. A cloggy sensation of the lukewarm
fat of meat is upon me (we dined an hour or two ago), and my
head is as heavy as so much lead. I would give the world to
go to sleep. I sit with my eye on Mr. Creakle, blinking at
him like a young owl ; when sleep overpowers me for a min-
ute, he still looms through my slumber, ruling those ciphering
books, until he softly comes behind me and wakes me to
plainer perception of him, with a red ridge across my back.

Heie I am in the playground, with my eye still fascinated
by him, though I can't see him. The window at a little dis-
tance from which I know he is having his dinner, stands for
him, and I eye that instead. If he shows his face near it,
mine assumes an imploring and submissive expression. If

DAVID COPPERFIELD

he looks out through the glass the boldest boy (Steerforth ex-
cepted) stops in the middle of a shout or yell, and becomes
contemplative. One day, Traddles (the most unfortunate boy
in the world) breaks that window accidentally with a ball. I
shudder at this moment with the tremendous sensation of see-
ing it done, and feeling that the ball has bounded on to Mr.
Creakle's sacred head.

Poor Traddles ! In a tight sky-blue suit that made his
arms and legs like German sausages, or roly-poly puddings,
he was the merriest and most miserable of all the boys. He
was always being caned â€” I think he was caned every day
that half-year, except one holiday Monday when he was only
ruler'd on both hands â€” and was always going to write to his
uncle about it, and never did. After laying his head on the
desk for a little while, he would cheer up somehow, begin to
laugh again, and draw skeletons all over his slate, before his
eyes were dry. I used at first to wonder what comfort Trad-
dles found in drawing skeletons ; and for some time looked
upon him as a sort of hermit, who reminded himself by those
symbols of mortality that caning couldn't last for ever. But
I believe he only did it because they were easy, and didn't
want any features.

He was very honorable, Traddles was, and held it as a
3clemn duty in the boys to stand by one another. He suf-
fered for this on several occasions ; and particularly once,
when Steerforth laughed in church, and the Beadle thought it
was Traddles, and took him out. I see him now, going away
in custody, despised by the congregation. He never said
who was the real offender, though he smarted for it next day,
and was imprisoned so many hours that he came forth with a
whole churchyardfui of skeletons swarming all over his Latin
Dictionary. But he had his reward. Steerforth said there
' was nothing of the sneak in Traddles, and we all felt that
to be the highest praise. For my part, I could have gone
through a good deal (though I was much less brave than
Traddles, and nothing like so old) to have won such a recom-
pense.

To see Steerforth walk to church before us, arm-in-arm
with Miss Cr-akle, was one of the great sights of my life. J
didn't think Miss Creakle equrJ to little Em'ly in point of
beauty, and I didn't love her (I didn!t dare) ; but I thought
her a young lady of extraordinary attractions, and in point of
gentility not to be surpassed. When Steerforth, in white

MY " FIRST HALF "AT SALEM HOUSE.

trousers, carried her parasol for her, I felt proud to know
him ; and believed that she could not choose but adore him
with all her heart. Mr. Sharp and Mr. Mell were both
notable personages in my eyes ; but Steerforth was to them
what the sun was to two stars,

Steerforth continued his protection of me, and proved a
very useful friend, since nobody dared to annoy one whom he
honored with his countenance. He couldn't â€” or at all events
he didn't â€” defend me from Mr. Creakle, who was very severe
with me ; but whenever I had been treated worse than usual,
lie always told me that I wanted a little of his pluck, and
that he wouldn't have stood it himself ; which I felt he in-
tended for encouragement, and considered to be very kind of
him. There was one advantage, and only one that I know
of, in Mr. Creakle's severity. He found my placard in his
way when he came up or clown behind the form on which I
sat, and wanted to make a cut at me in passing ; for this
reason it was soon taken off, ana I saw it no more.

An accidental circumstance cemented the intimacy be-
tween Steerforth and me, in a manner that inspired me with
great pride and satisfaction, though it sometimes led to in-
convenience. It happened on one occasion, when he was
doing me the honor of talking to me in the playground, that
I hazarded the observation that something or somebody â€” I
forget what now â€” was like something or somebody in Pere-
grine Pickle. He said nothing at the time ; but when I was
going to bed at night, asked me if I had got that book ?

I told him no, and explained how it was that I had read
it, and all those other books of which I have made mention.

" And do you recollect them ? " Steerforth said.

Oh, yes, I replied ; I had a good memory, and I believed
I recollected them very well.

" Then I tell you what, young Copperfield," said Steei
forth, " you shall tell 'em to me. I can't get to sleep verv
early at night, and I generally wake rather early in the morn-
ing. We'll go over 'em o.ie after another. We'll make some
regular Arabian Nights of it."

I felt extremely flattered by this arrangement, and we com-
menced carrying it into execution that very evening. What
ravages I committed on my favorite authors in the course of
my interpretation of them, I am not in a condition to say, and
should be very unwilling to know ; but I had a profound faith
in them, and I had. to the best of my belief, a simple earnest

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

manner of narrating what I did narrate ; and these qualities
went a long way.

The drawback was, that I was often sleepy at night, ol
out of spirits and indisposed to resume the story, and then it
was rather hare] work, and it must be done ; for to disap-
point or to displease Steerforth was of course out of the ques-
tion. In the morning too, when I felt weary, and should have
enjoyed another hour's repose very much, it was a tiresome
thing to be roused, like the Sultana Scheherazade, and forced
into a long story before the getting-up bell rang ; but Steer-
forth was resolute ; and as he explained to me, in return, my
sums and exercises, and anything in my tasks that was too
hard for me, I was no loser by the transaction. Let me do
myself justice, however. I was moved by no interested or
selfish motive, nor was I moved by fear of him. I admired
and loved him, and his approval was return enough. It was
so precious to me, that I look back on these trifles, now, with
an aching heart.

Steerforth was considerate too, and showed his considera-
tior,, in one particular instance, in an unflinching manner that
was a little tantalizing, I suspect, to poor Traddles and the
rest. Peggotty's promised letter â€” what a comfortable letter
it was ! â€” arrived before " the half " was many weeks old, and
with it a cake in a perfect nest of oranges, and two bottles of
cowslip wine. This treasure, as in duty bound, I laid at the
feet of Steerforth, and begged him to dispense.

"Now, I'll tell you what, young Copperfleld, the winÂ©
shall be kept to wet your whistle when you are story-telling."

I blushed at the idea, and begged him, in my modesty,
not to think of it. But he said he had observed I was some-
times hoarse â€” a little roopy was his exact expression â€” and it
should be, every drop, devoted to the purpose he had men-
tioned. Accordingly, it was locked up in his box, and drawn
off by himself in a phial, and administered to me through a
piece of quill in the cork, when I was supposed to be in want
of a restorative. Sometimes, to make it a more sovereign
specific, he was so kind as to squeeze orange juice into it, or
to stir it up with ginger, or dissolve a peppermint drop in it ;
and although I cannot assert that the flavor was improved by
these experiments, or that it was exactly the compound one
would have chosen for a stomachic, the last thing at night
and the first thing in the morning, I drank it gratefully, and
was very sensible of his attention.

MY " FIRST HALF "AT SALEM HOUSE.

We seem, to me, to have been months over Peregrine, and
months more over the other stories. The institution never
flagged for want of a story, I am certain, and the wine lasted
out almost as well as the matter. Poor Traddles â€” I never
think of that boy but with a strange disposition to laugh, and
with tears in my eyes â€” was a sort of chorus, in general, and
affected to be convulsed with mirth at the comic parts, and to
be overcome with fear when there was any passage of an
alarming character in the narrative. This rather put me out,
very often. It was a great jest of his, I recollect, to pretend
that he couldn't keep his teeth from chattering, whenever
mention was made of an Alguazil in connection with the ad-
ventures of Gil Bias ; and I remember that when Gil Bias
met the captain of the robbers in Madrid, this unlucky joker
counterfeited such an ague of terror, that he was overheard
by Mr. Creakle, who was prowling about the passage, and
handsomely flogged for disorderly conduct in the bedroom.

Whatever I had within me that was romantic and dreamy,
was encouraged by so much story-telling in the dark ; and in
that respect the pursuit may not have been very profitable to
me. But the being cherished as a kind of plaything in my
room, and the consciousness that this accomplishment of mine
was bruited about among the ooys, and attracted a good deal
of notice to me though I was the ycungest there, stimulated
me to exertion. In a school carried on by sheer cruelty,
whether it is presided over by a dunce or not, there is not
likely to be much learnt. I believe our boys were generally
as ignorant a set as any schoolboys in existence ; they were
too much troubled and knocked about to learn ; they could
no more do that to advantage, than anyone can do anything
to advantage in a life of constant misfortune, torment and
worry. But my little vanity, and Steerforth's help, urged me
on somehow ; and without saving me from much, if anything,
in the way of punishment, made me, for the time I was there,
an exception to the general body, insomuch that I did steadily
pick up some crumbs of knowledge.

In this I was much assisted by Mr. Mell, who had a liking
for me that I am grateful to remember. It always gave me
pain to observe that Steerforth treated him with systematic
disparagement, and seldom lost an occasion of wounding his
feelings, or inducing others to do so. This troubled me the
more for a long time, because I had soon told Steerforth, from
whom I could no more keep such a secret than I could keep

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

a cake or any other tangible possession, about the two old
women Mr. Mell had taken me to see ; and I was always
afraid that Steerforth would let it out, and twit him with it.

We little thought, any one of us, I dare say, when I ate
my breakfast that first morning, and went to sleep under the
shadow of the peacock's feathers to the sound of the flute,
what consequences would come of the introduction into these
alms-houses of my insignificant person. But the visit had its
unforeseen consequences, and of a serious sort, too, in their
way.

One day when Mr. Creakle kept the house from indisposi-
tion, which naturally diffused a lively joy through the school,
there was a good deal of noise in the course of the morning's
work. The great relief and satisfaction experienced by the
boys made them difficult to manage ; and though the dreaded
Tungay brought his wooden leg in twice or thrice, and took
notes of the principal offenders' names, no great impression
was made by it, as they were pretty sure of getting into
trouble to-morrow, do what they would, and thought it wise,
no doubt, to enjoy themselves to-day.

It was, properly, a half-holiday ; being Saturday. But as
the noise in the playground would have disturbed Mr. Creakle,
and the weather was not favorable for going out wralking, we
were ordered into school in the afternoon, and set some lighter
tasks than usual, which were made for the occasion. It was
the day of the week on which Mr. Sharp went out to get his
wig curled ; so Mr. Mell, who always did the drudgery, what-
ever it was, kept school by himself.

If I could associate the idea of a bull or a bear with any
one so mild as Mr. Mell, I should think of him, in connection
with that afternoon when the uproar was at its height, as of one
of those animals, baited by a thousand dogs. I recall him
bending his aching head, supported on his bony hand, over
the book on his desk, and wretchedly endeavoring to get on
with his tiresome work, amidst an uproar that might have made
the Speaker of the House of Commons giddy. Boys started
in and out of their places, playing at puss-in-the-corner with
other boys ; there were laughing boys, singing boys, talking
boys, dancing boys, howling boys ; boys shuffled with theii
feet, boys whirled about him, grinning, making faces, mimick-
ing him behind his back and before his eyes ; mimicking his
poverty, his boots, his coat, his mother, everything belonging
>o him that they should have had consideration for.

MY " FIRST-HALF" A T SALEM HOUSE.

"Silence !" cried Mr. Mell, suddenly rising up, and strik
ing his desk with the book. " What does this mean ? It's
impossible to bear it. It's maddening. How can you do it
to me, boys ? "

It was my book that he struck his desk with; and as I
stood beside him, following his eye as it glanced round the
room, I saw the boys all stop, some suddenly surprised, some
half afraid, and some sorry perhaps.

Steerforth's place was at the bottom of the school, at the
opposite end of the long room. He was lounging with his
back against the wall, and his hands in his pockets, and looked
at Mr. Mell with his mouth shut up as if he were whistling,
when Mr. Mell looked at him.

" Silence, Mr. Steerforth ! " said Mr. Mell.

" Silence yourself," said Steerforth, turning red. " Whom
are you talking to ? "

" Sit down," said Mr. Mell.

" Sit down yourself," said Steerforth, " and i lind your busi-
ness."

There was a titter, and some applause ; but Mr. Mell was
so white, that silence immediately succeeded ; and one boy,
who had darted out behind him to imitate his mother again,
changed his mind, and pretended to want a pen mended.

*' If you think, Steerforth," said Mr. Mell, " that I am not
acquainted with the power you can establish over any mind
here " â€” he laid his hand, without considering what he did (as
I supposed), upon my hand â€” " or that I have not observed
you, within a few moments, urging your juniors on to every
sort of outrage against me, you are mistaken."

" I don't give myself the trouble of thinking at all about
you," said Steerforth, coolly ; " so I'm not mistaken, as it
happens."

" And when you make use of your position of favoritism
here, sir," pursued Mr. Mell, with his lip trembling very much5
" to insult a gentleman â€” "

" A what ? â€” where is he ? " said Steerforth.

Here somebody cried out, " Shame, J. Steerforth ! Too
bad ! " It was Traddles ; whom Mr. Mell instantly discom-
fited by bidding him to hold his tongue.

â€” " To insult one who is not fortunate in life, sir, and who
never gave you the least offence, and the many reasons for
not insulting whom you are old enough and wise enough to
understand," said Mr. Mell, with his lip trembling more and

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

more, " you commit a mean and base action. You can sb
down or stand up as you please, sir. Copperfield, go on."

" Young Copperfield," said Steerforth, coming forward up
the room, "stop a bit. I tell you what, Mr. Mell, once for
all. When you take the liberty of calling me mean or base,
or anything of that sort, you are an impudent beggar. You
are always a beggar, you know â– but when you do that, you
are an impudent beggar."

I am not clear whether he was going to strike Mr. Mell of
Mr. Mell was going to strike him, or there was any such in*
tention on either side. I saw a rigidity come upon the whole
school as if they had been turned into stone, and found Mr.
Creakle in the midst of us, with Tungay at his side, and Mrs.
and Miss Creakle looking in at the door as if they were fright-
ened. Mr. Mell, with his elbows on his desk and his face in
his hands, sat, for some moments, quite still.

" Mr. Mell," said Mr. Creakle, shaking him by the arm ;
and his whisper was so audible now, that Tungay felt it un-
necessary to repeat his words ; " you have not forgotten your-
self, I hope ? "

" No, sir, no," returned the Master, showing his face, and
shaking his head, and rubbing his hands in great agitation.
" No, sir, no. I have remembered myself, I â€” no, Mr. Crea-
kle, I have not forgotten myself, I â€” I have remembered my-
self, sir. I â€” I â€” could wish you had remembered me a little
sooner, Mr. Creakle. It â€” it â€” would have been more kind,
sir, more just, sir. It would have saved me something, sir."

Mr. Creakle, looking hard at Mell, put his hand on Tun-
gay's shoulder, and got his feet upon the form close by, and
sat upon the desk. After still looking hard at Mr. Mell from
this throne, as he shook his head, and rubbed his hands, and
remained in the same state of agitation, Mr. Creakle turned
to Steerforth, and said :

" Now, sir, as he don't condescend to tell me, what is this ? "

Steerforth evaded the question for a little while ; looking
in scorn and anger on his opponent, and remaining silent. I
could not help thinking even in that interval, I remember,
what a noble fellow he was in appearance, and how homely
and plain Mr. Mell looked opposed to him.

" What did he mean by talking about favorites, then ? *
said Steerforth, at length.

" Favorites ? " repeated Mr. Creakle, with the veins in his
forehead swelling quickly. " Who talked about favorites ? "

" He did," said Steerforth^

tflr " FIRST HALF "AT SALEM HO USE. x 0 ?

w And pray, what did you mean by that, sir ? " demanded
tor. Creakle, turning angrily on his assistant.

" I meant, Mr. Creakle," he returned, in a low voice, " as 1
said ; that no pupil had a right to avail himself of his position
of favoritism to degrade me."

" To degrade you ? " said Mr. Creakle. " My stars ! But
give me leave to ask you, Mr. What's-your-name ; " and here
Mr. Creakle folded his arms, cane and all, upon his chest, and
made such a knot of his brows that his little eyes were hardly
visible below them ; " whether, when you talk about favorites,
you show proper respect to me ? To me, sir," said Mr. Crea-
kle, darting his head at him suddenly, and drawing it back
again, "the principal of this establishment, and your em-
ployer."

" It was not judicious, sir, I am willing to admit," said
Mr. Mell. " I should not have done so, if I had been cool."
Here Steerforth struck in.

" Then he said I was mean, and then he said I was basev
and then I called him a beggar. If I had been cool, perhaps
I shouldn't have called him a beggar. But I did, and I am
ready to take the consequences of it."

Without considering, perhaps, whether there were any con-
sequences to be taken, I felt quite in a glow at this gallant
speech. It made an impression on the boys, too, for there
was a low stir among them, though not one spoke a word.

" I am surprised, Steerforth â€” although your candor does
you honor," said Mr. Creakle, " does you honor, certainly â€”
I am surprised, Steerforth, I must say, that you should attach
such an epithet to any person employed and paid in Salem
House, sir."

Steerforth gave a short laugh.

" That's not an answer, sir," said Mr. Creakle, " to my re-
mark. I expect more than that from you, Steerforth."

If Mr. Mell looked homely, in my eyes, before the hand-
some boy, it would be quite impossible to say how homely Mr.
Creakle looked.

" Let him deny it," said Steerforth.

" Deny that he is a beggar, Steerforth ? " cried Mr. Creakle,
*' Why, where does he go a begging ? "

" If he is not a beggar himself, his near relation's one,"
said Steerforth. " It's all the same."

He glanced at me, and Mr. Mell's hand gently patted me
upon the shoulder. I looked up with a flush upon my faca

102

DAVID COPPERF/ELD.

and remorse in my heart, bat Mr. MelPs eyes were fixed on
Steerforth. He continued to pat me kindly on the shoulder,
but he looked at him.

" Since you expect me, Mr. Creakle, to justify myself,"
said Steerforth,' " and to say what I mean, â€” what I have to
say is, that his mother lives on charity in an alms-house."

Mr. Mell still looked at him, and still patted me kindly on
the shoulder and said to himself in a whisper, if I heard right :
" Yes, I thought so."

Mr. Creakle turned to his assistant, with a severe frown
and labored politeness :

" Now you hear what this gentleman says, Mr. Mell.
Have the goodness, if you please, to set him right before the
assembled school."

" He is right, sir, without correction," returned Mr. Mell,
in the midst of a dead silence ; " what he has said is true."

" Be so good then as declare publicly, will you," said Mr.
Creakle, putting his head on one side, and rolling his eyes
round the school, " whether it ever came to my knowledge
until this moment ? "

" I believe not directly," he returned.
'Why, you know not," said Mr. Creakle. "Don't you,
man ? "

" I apprehend you never supposed my worldly, circum-
stances to be very good," replied the assistant. " You know
what my position is, and always has been here."

" I apprehend, if you come to that," said Mr. Creakle,
with his veins swelling again bigger than ever, " that you've
been in a wrong position altogether, and mistook this for a
charity school. Mr. Mell, we'll part, if you please. The
sooner the better."

" There is no time," answered Mr. Mell, rising, " like the
present."

" Sir, to you ! " said Mr. Creakle.

" I take my leave of you, Mr. Creakle, and all of you,"
said Mr. Mell, glancing round the room, and again gently
patting me on the shoulder. " James Steerforth, the best
wish I can leave you is that you may come to be ashamed of
what you have done to-day. At present I would prefer to see
you anything rather than a friend, to me, or to any one in
whom I feel an interest."

Once more he laid his hand upon my shoulder ; and then
taking his flute and a few books from his desk, and leaving

MY " FIRST HALF ''AT SALEM HOUSE. IO;j

the key in it for his successor, he went out of the school, with
his property under his arm. Mr. Creakle then made a speech,
through Tungay, in which he thanked Steerforth for asserting
(though perhaps too warmly) the independence and respect-
ability of Salem House ; and which he wound up by shaking
hands with Steerforth, while we gave three cheers â€” I did not
quite know what for, but I supposed for Steerforth, and sc
joined in them ardently, though I felt miserable. Mr. Creakle
then caned Tommy Traddles for being discovered in tears, in-
stead of cheers, on account of Mr. Mell's departure ; and went
back to his sofa, or his bed, or wherever he had come from,

We were left to ourselves now, and looked very blank, I
recollect, on one another. For myself, I felt so much self-
reproach and contrition for my part in what had happened^
that nothing would have enabled me to keep back my tears
but the fear that Steerforth, who often looked at me, I saw,
might think it unfriendly â€” or, I should rather say, considering
our relative ages, and the feeling with which I regarded him^
undutiful â€” if I showed the emotion which distressed me. He
was very angry with Traddles, and said he was glad he had
caught it.

Poor Traddles, who had passed the stage of lying with his
head upon the desk, and was relieving himself as usual with a
burst of skeletons, said he didn't care. Mr. Mellwas ill-used.

" Who has ill-used him, you girl ? " said Steerforth.

" Why, you have," returned Traddles.

" What have I done ? " said Steerforth.

" What have you done ? " retorted Traddles. " Hurt his
feelings and lost him his situation."

" His feelings ! " repeated Steerforth disdainfully. " His
feelings will soon get the better of it, I'll be bound. His
feelings are not like yours, Miss Traddles. As to his situa
tion â€” which was a precious one, wasn't it ! â€” do you suppose 1
am not going to write home, and take care that he gets some
money ? Polly ? "

We thought this intention very noble in Steerforth, whose
mother was a widow, and rich, and would do almost anything,
it was said, that he asked her. We were all extremely glad
to see Traddles so put down, and exalted Steerforth to the
skies ; especially when he told us, as he condescended to do.
that what he had done had been done expressly for us. and
for our cause, and that he had conferred a great boon nx*?"
us by unselfishly doing it.

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

But I must say that when I was going on with a story iff
the dark that night, Mr. MelPs old flute seemed more than
once to sound mournfully in my ears ; and that when at last
Steerforth was' tired, and I lay down in my bed, I fancied it
playing so sorrowfully somewhere, that I was quite wretched.

I soon forgot him in the contemplation of Steerforth, who,
in any easy amateur way, and without any book (he seemed
to me to know everything by heart), took some of his classes
until a new master was found. The new master came from a
grammar-school, and before he entered on his duties, dined
in the parlor one day, to be introduced to Steerforth. Steer-
forth approved of him highly, and told us he was a Brick.
Without exactly understanding what learned distinction was
meant by this, I respected him greatly for it, and had no
doubt whatever of his superior knowledge : though he never
took the pains with me â€” not that / was anybody â€” that Mr.
Mell had taken.

There was only one other event in this half-year, out of
the daily school-life, that made an impression upon me which
still survives. It survives for many reasons.

One afternoon, when we were all harassed into a state of
dire confusion, and Mr. Creakle was laying about him dread-
fully, .Tungay came in, and called out in his usual strong way:
" Visitors for Copperfield ! "

A few words were interchanged between him and Mr.
Creakle, as, who the visitors were, and what room they were
to be shown into ; and then I, who had, according to custom,
stood up on the announcement being made, and felt quite
faint with astonishment, was told to go by the back stairs and
get a clean frill on, before I repaired to the dining-room.
These orders I obeyed, in such a flutter and hurry of my
young spirits as I had never known before ; and when I got
to the parlor-door, and the thought came into my head that it
might be my mother â€” I had only thought of Mr. or Miss
Murdstone until then â€” I drew back my hand from the lock,
and stopped to have a sob before I went in.

At first I saw nobody ; but feeling a pressure against the
door, I looked round it, and there, to my amazement, were
Mr. Peggotty and Ham, ducking at me with their hats, and
squeezing one another against the wall. I could not help
laughing ; but it was much more in the pleasure of seeing
them, than at the appearance they made. We shook hands
!n a very cordial way ; and I laughed and laughed, until I
pulled out my pocket-handkerchief and wiped my eyes.

MY " FIRST HALF" A T SALEM HOUSE.

Mr. Peggotty (who never shut his mouth once, I rernem-
bei, during the visit) showed great concern when lie saw me
do this, and nudged Ham to say something.

" Cheer up, Mas'r Davy bor' ! " said Ham, in his simper-
ing way. " Why, how you have growed ! "

" Am I grown ? " I said, drying my eyes. I was not cry-
ing at anything particular that I know of ; but somehow it
made me cry, to see old friends.

" Growed, Mas'r Davy bor' ? Ain't he growed ! " said
Ham.

" Ain't he growed ! " said Mr. Peggotty.

They made me laugh again by laughing at eath other, and
then we all three laughed until I was in danger of crying
again.

" Do you know how mama is, Mr. Peggotty ? J* I said*
u And how my dear, dear, old Peggotty is ? "
" Oncommon," said Mr. Peggotty.
" And little Em'ly, and Mrs. Gummidge ? "
" On â€” common," said Mr. Peggotty.

There was a silence. Mr. Peggotty, to relieve it, took two
prodigious lobsters, and an enormous crab, and a large canvas
bag of shrimps, out of his pockets, and piled them up in
Ham's arms.

" You see," said Mr. Peggotty, " knowing as you was par-
tial to a little relish with your wittles when you was along with
us, we took the liberty. The old Mawther biled 'em, she did,
Mrs. Gummidge biled 'em. Yes," said Mr. Peggotty, slowly,
who I thought appeared to stick to the subject on account of
having no other subject ready, " Mrs. Gummidge, I do assure
you, she biled 'em."

I expressed my thanks. Mr. Peggotty, after looking at
Ham, who stood smiling sheepishly over the shell-fish, without
making any attempt to help him, said :

" We come, you see, the wind and tide making in oui
favor, in one of our Yarmouth lugs to Gravesen'. My sister
she wrote to me the name of this here place, and wrote to me
as if ever I chanced to come to Gravesen', I was to come over
and inquire for Mas'r Davy, and give her dooty, humbly wish-
ing him well, and reporting of the fam'ly as they was oncom-
mon toe-be-sure. Little Em'ly, you see, she'll write co my
sister when I go back as I see you, and as you was similarly
oncommon, and so we make it quite a merry-go-rounder."

I was obliged to consider a little before I understood what

Â£06 DAVID COPPERFIELD

Mr. Peggotty meant by this figure, expressive of a complete
circle of intelligence. I then thanked him heartily ; and said,
with a consciousness of reddening, that I supposed little Em'ly
was altered j:oo, since we used to pick up shells and pebbles
on the beach.

" She's getting to be a woman, that's wot she's getting to
' be," said Mr. Peggotty. " Ask him."

He meant Ham, who beamed with delight and assent over
the bag of shrimps.

" Her pretty face ! " said Mr. Peggotty, with his own shin-
ing like a light.

" Her learning ! " said Ham.

" Her writing ? " said Mr. Peggotty. " Why it's as black
as jet i And so large it is, you might see it anywheres."

It was perfectly delightful to behold with what enthusiasm
Mr. Peggotty became inspired when he thought of his little
favorite. He stands before me again, his bluff hairy face
irradiating with a joyful love and pride for which I can find no
description. His honest eyes fire up, and sparkle, as if their
depths were stirred by something bright. His broad chest
heaves with pleasure. His strong loose hands clench them-
selves, in his earnestness ; and he emphasizes what he says
with a right arm that shows, in my pigmy view, like a sledge
hammer.

Ham was quite as earnest as he. I dare say they would
have said much more about her, if they had not been abashed
by the unexpected coming in of Steerforth, who, seeing me in
a corner speaking with two strangers, stopped in a song he
was singing, and said. " I didn't know you were here, young
Copperfield ! " (for it was not the usual visiting room) and
crossed by us on his way out.

I am not sure whether it was in the pride of having such
a friend as Steerforth, or in the desire to explain to him how
I came to have such a friend as Mr. Peggotty, that I called
to him as he was going away. But I said, modestly â€” Good
Heaven, how it all comes back to me this long time after-
wards ! â€”

u Don't go, Steerforth, if you please. These are two Yar-
mouth boatmen â€” very kind, good people â€” who are relations
of my nurse, and have come from Gravesend to see me."

" Aye, aye ? " said Steerforth, returning. " I am glad to
see them. How are you both ? "

There was an ease in his manner â€” a gay and light manner

MY * FIRST HALF ''AT SALEM HOUSE. j 07

it was, but not swaggering â€” which I still believe to have borne
a kind of enchantment with it. I still believe him, in virtue
of this carriage, his animal spirits, his delightful* voice, his
handsome face and figure, and, for aught I know, of some
inborn power of attraction besides (which I think a few people
possess), to have carried a spell with him to which it was a
natural weakness to yield, and which not many persons could
withstand. I could not but see how pleased they were with
him, and how they seemed to open their hearts to him in a
moment.

" You must let them know at home, if you please, Mr,
Peggotty," I said, " when that letter is sent, that Mr. Steerforth
is very kind to me, and that I don't know what I should ever
do here without him."

" Nonsense !" said Steerforth, laughing. "You mustn't
tell them anything of the sort."

" And if Mr. Steerforth ever comes into Norfolk or Suffolk,
Mr. Peggotty," I said, "while I am there, you may depend
upon it I shall bring him to Yarmouth, if he will let me, to
see your house. You never saw such a good house, Steer-
forth. It's made out of a boat ! "

" Made out of a boat, is it ? " said Steerforth. " It's the
right sort of house for such a thorough-built boatman."

"So 'tis, sir, so 'tis, sir," said Ham, grinning. "You're
right, young gen'l'm'n. Mas'r Davy, bor', gen'l'm'n's right.
A thorough-built boatman ! Hor, hor ! That's what he is,
too ! "

Mr. Peggotty was no less pleased than his nephew, though
his modesty forbade him to claim a personal compliment so
Vociferously.

" Well, sir," he said, bowing and chuckling, and tucking
in the ends of his neckerchief at his breast, " I thankee, sir,
I thankee ! I do my endeavors in my line of life, sir."

" The best of men can do no more, Mr. Peggotty," said
Steerforth. He had got his name already.

" I'll pound it it's wot vou do yourself, sir." said Mr. Peg-
gotty, shaking his head, " and wot you do we/1 â€” right well !
I thankee, sir. I'm obleeged to you, sir, for your welcoming
manner of me. I'm rough, sir, but I'm ready â€” least ways, I
hope I'm ready, you unnerstand. My house ain't much for to
see, sir, but it's hearty at your service if ever you should come
along with Mas'r Davy to see it. I'm a reg'lar Dodman, I
am," said Mr. Peggotty, by which he meant snail, and this

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

was in allusion to his being slow to go, for he had attempted
to go after every sentence, and had somehow or other come
back again ; " but I wish you both well, and I wish you
happy ! "

Ham echoed this sentiment, and we parted with them in
the heartiest manner. I was almost tempted that evening to
tell Steerforth about pretty little Em'ly, but I was too timid
of mentioning her name, and too much afraid of his laughing
at me. I remember that I thought a good deal, and in an
uneasy sort of way, about Mr. Peggotty having said that she
was getting on to be a woman ; but I decided that was non-
sense.

We transported the shell-fish, or the " relish " as Mr. Peg-
gotty had modestly called it, up into our room unobserved,
and made a great supper that evening. But Traddles couldn't
get happily out of it. He was too unfortunate even to come
through a supper like anybody else. He was taken ill in the
night â€” quite prostrate he was â€” in consequence of Crab ; and
after being drugged with black draughts and blue pills, to an
extent which Demple (whose father was a doctor) said was
enough to undermine a horse's constitution, received a caning
and six chapters of Greek Testament for refusing to confess.

The rest of the half-year is a jumble in my recollection of
the daily strife and struggle of our lives ; of the waning sum-
mer and the changing season ; of the frosty mornings when
we were rung out of bed, and the cold, cold smell of the dark
nights when we were rung into bed ; of the evening schoolroom
dimly lighted and indifferently warmed, and the morning
schoolroom which was nothing but a great shivering-machine ;
of the alternation of boiled beef with roast beef, and boiled
mutton with roast mutton ; of clods of bread-and-buttei, dog's-
eared lesson-books, cracked slates, tear-blotted copy-books,
canings, rulerings, hair-cuttings, rainy Sundays, suet puddings,
and a dirty atmosphere of ink surrounding all.

I well remember though, how the distant idea of the holi-
days, after seeming for an immense time to be a stationary
speck, began to come towards us, and to grow and grow.
How from counting months, we came to weeks, and then to
days ; and how I then began to be afraid that I should not be
sent for, and when I learnt from Steerforth that I had been
sent for and was certainly to go home, had dim forebodings
that I might break my leg first. How the breaking-up day
changed its place fast, at last, from the week after next to

MY HOLIDA YS.

iog

next week, this week, the day after to-morrow, to-morrow, to-
day, to-night â€” when I was inside the Yarmouth mail, and
going home.

I had many a broken sleep inside the Yarmouth mail, and
many an incoherent dream of all these things. But when I
awoke at intervals, the ground outside the window was not
the playground of wSalem House, and the sound in my ears
was not the sound of Mr. Creakle giving it to Traddles, but
aras the sound of the coachman touching up the horses.

CHAPTER VIII,

MY HOLIDAYS. ESPECIALLY ONE HAPPY AFTERNOON.

When we arrived before day at the inn where the mail
stopped, which was not the inn where my friend the waiter
lived, I was shown up to a nice little bedroom, with Dolphin
painted on the door. Very cold I was, I know, notwithstand-
ing the hot tea they had given me before a large fire down
stairs ; and very glad I was to turn into the Dolphin's bed,
pull the Dolphin's blankets round my head, and go to sleep.

Mr. Barkis the carrier was to call for me in the morning
at nine o'clock. I got up at eight, a little giddy from the
shortness of my night's rest, and was ready for him before the
appointed time. He received me exactly as if not five min-
utes had elapsed since we were last together, and I had only
been into the hotel to get change for sixpence, or something
of that sort.

As soon as I and my box were in the cart, and the carrier
was seated, the lazy horse walked away with us all at his
accustomed pace.

"You look very well, Mr. Barkis," I said, thinking he
would like to know it.

Mr. Barkis rubbed his cheek with his cuff and then looked
at his cuff as if he expected to find some of the bloom upon
it ; but made no other acknowledgment of the compliment.

" I gave your message, Mr. Barkis," I said : " I wrote to
Peggotty."

" Ah ! " said Mr. Barkis.

DAVID COPPER FIELD.

Mr. Barkis seemed gruff, and answered drily.
"Wasn't it right, Mr. Barkis?" I asked, aftei a little
hesitation.

" Why, no," said Mr. Barkis.
" Not the message ? "

"The message was right enough, perhaps," said Mr,
Barkis ; " but it come to and end there."

Not understanding what he meant, I repeated, inquisitively :
w Came to an end, Mr. Barkis ? "

" Nothing come of it," he explained, looking at me side
ways. " No answer."

" There was an answer expected, was there, Mr. Barkis ? "
said I, opening my eyes. For this was a new light to me.

" When a man says he's willin'," said Mr. Barkis, turning
his glance slowly on me again, " it's as much as to- say, that
man's a waitin' for a answer."

" Well, Mr. Barkis ? "

"Well," said Mr. Barkis, carrying his eyes back to his
horse's ears ; " that man's been a waitin' for a answer ever
since."

" Have you told her so, Mr. Barkis ? "

" N â€” no," growled Mr. Barkis, reflecting about it. " I
ain't got no call to go and tell her so. I never said six words
to her myself, /ain't a goin' to tell her so."

" Would you like me to do it, Mr. Barkis ? " said I, doubt-
fully.

" You might tell her, if you would," said Mr. Barkis, with
another slow look at me, " that Barkis was a waitin' for a an-
swer. Says you â€” what name is it ? "

" Her name ? "

"Ah ! " said Mr. Barkis, with a nod of his head.
" Pegrotty."

" Chrisen name ? Or nat'ral name ? " said Mr. Barkis.
" Oh, it's not her christian name. Her christian name is
Clara."

" Is it though ? " said Mr. Barkis.

He seemed to find an immense fund of reflection in this
circumstance, and sat pondering and inwardly whistling foi
some time.

" Well ! " he resumed at length. " Says you, ' Peggotty !
Barkis is a waitin' for a answer.' Says she, perhaps, ' An-
swer to what ? ' Says you, 1 To what I told you.' 1 What iÂ§
chat ? ' says she. 1 Barkis is willin',' says you."

MY HOLIDAYS.

ill

This extremely artful suggestion, Mr. Barkis accompanied
â€¢rirh a nudge of his elbow that gave me quite a stitch in my
side. After that, he slouched over his horse in his us"ual man-
ner ; and made no other reference to the subject except, half
an hour afterwards, taking a piece of chalk from his pockety
and writing up, inside the tilt of the cart, " Clara Peggotty" â€” â–
apparently as a private memorandum.

Ah, what a strange feeling it was to be going home when
it was not home, and to find that every object I looked at, re-
minded me of the happy old home, which was like a dream I
could never dream again ! The days when my mother and I
and Peggotty were all in all to one another, and there was no
one to come between us, rose up before me so sorrowfully on
the road, that I am not sure I was glad to be there â€” not sure
but that I would rather have remained away, and forgotten it in
Steerforth's company. But there I was ; and soon I was at
our house, where the bare old elm trees wrung their many
hands in the black wintry air, and shreds of the old rooks'
nests drifted away upon the wind.

The carrier put my box down at the garden gate, and left
me. I walked along the path towards the house, glancing at
the windows, and fearing at every step to see Mr. Murdstone
or Miss Murdstone lowering out of one of them. No face ap-
peared, however ; and being come to the house, and knowing
how to open the door, before dark, without knocking, I went
in with a quiet, timid step.

God knows how infantine the memory may have been,
that was awakened within me by the sound of my mother's
voice in the old parlor, when I set foot in the hall. She was
singing in a low tone. I think I must have lain in her arms,
and heard her singing so to me when I was but a baby. The
strain was new to me, and yet it was so old that it rilled my
heart brimful ; like a friend come back from a long absence.

I believed, from the solitary and thoughtful way in which
my mother murmured her song, that she was alone. And I
went softly into the room. She was sitting by the fire, suck-
ling an infant, whose tiny hand she held against her neck.
Her eyes were looking down upon its face, and she sat singing
to it. I was so far right, that she had no other companion.

I spoke to her, and she started, and cried out. But seeing
me, she called me her dear Davy, her own boy ! and coming
half across the room to meet me, kneeled down upon the
ground and kissed me, and laid my head down on her bosom

i*2

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

near the little creature that was nestling there, and put its han<J
up to my lips.

I wish I had died. I wish I had died then, with that feel-
ing in my heart ! I should have been more fit for Heaven
than I ever have been since.

" He is your brother," said my mother, fondling me,
" Davy, my pretty boy ! My poor child ! " Then she kissed;
me more and more, and clasped me round the neck. This she
was doing when Peggotty came running in, and bounced down
on the ground beside us, and went mad about us both for a
quarter of an hour.

It seemed that I had not been expected so soon, the car-
rier being much before his usual time. It seemed, too, that
Mr. and Miss Murdstone had gone out upon a visit in the
neighborhood, and would not return before night. I had
never hoped for this. I had never thought it possible that
we three could be together undisturbed, once more ; and I
felt, for the time, as if the old days were come back.

We dined together by the fireside. Peggotty was in at-
tendance to wait upon us, but my mother wouldn't let her do
it, and made her dine with us. I had my own old plate, with
a brown view of a man-of-war in full sail upon it, which Peg-
gotty had hoarded somewhere all the time I had been away,
and would not have had broken, she said, for a hundred
pounds. I had my own old mug with David on it, and my
old little knife and fork that wouldn't cut.

While we were at table, I thought it a favorable occasion
to tell Peggotty about Mr. Barkis, who, before I had finished
what I had to tell her, began to laugh, and throw her apron
over her face.

" Peggotty," said my mother. " What's the matter ? "

Peggotty only laughed the more, and held her apron tight
over her face when my mother tried to pull it away, and sat
as if her head were in a bag.

" What are you doing, you stupid creature ? " said my
mother, laughing.

"Oh, drat the man!" cried Peggotty. "He wants to
marry me."

" It would be a very good match for you ; wouldn't it ? * .
said my mother.

" Oh ! I don't know," said Peggotty. " Don't ask me. I
wouldn't have him if he was made of gold. Nor I wouldn't
have anybody,"

MY HO LID A VS.

"Then why don't you tell him so, you ridiculous thing ? "
said my mother.

" Tell him so," retorted Peggotty, looking out of her apron.
(i He has never said a word to me about it. He knows better.
If he was to make so bold as say a word to me, I should slap
his face."

tier own was as red as ever I saw it, or any other face, I
think ; but she only covered it again, for a few moments at a
time, when she was taken with a violent fit of laughter ; and
after two or three of those attacks, went on with her dinner.

I remarked that my mother, though she smiled when
Peggotty looked at her, became more serious and thoughtfuL
I had seen at first that she was changed. Her face was very
pretty still, but it looked careworn, and too delicate ; and her
hand was so thin and white that it seemed to me to be almost
transparent. But the change to which I now refer was super-
added to this : it was in her manner, which became anxious
and fluttered. At last she said, putting out her hand, and
laying it affectionately on the hand of her old servant :

" Peggotty dear, you are not going to be married ? "

" Me, ma'am ? " returned Peggotty, staring. " Lord bless
you, no ! "

" Not just yet ? " said my mother, tenderly.

" Never ! " cried Peggotty.

My mother took her hand, and said :

"Don't leave me, Peggotty. Stay with me. It will not
be for long, perhaps. What should I ever do without you ! "

" Me leave you, my precious ! " cried Peggotty. " Not for
all the world and his wife. Why, what's put that in youi
silly little head ? " For Peggotty had been used of old to talk
to my mother sometimes, like a child.

But my mother made no answer, except to thank her, and
Peggotty went running on in her own fashion.

" Me leave you ? I think I see myself. Peggotty go
away from you ? I should like to catch her at it ! No, no, no,"
said Peggotty, shaking her head, and folding her arms ; " not
she, my dear. It isn't that there ain't some Cats that would
be well enough pleased if she did, but they sha'n't be pleased.
They shall be aggravated. I'll stay with you till I am 3
cross cranky old woman. And when I'm too deaf, and too
lame, and too blind, and too mumbly for want of teeth, to be
of any use at all, even to be found fault with, then I shall gr
to my Davy, and ask him to take me ia"

ii4

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" And Peggotty," says I, " I shall be glad to see you, and
I'll make you as welcome as a queen."

" Bless your dear heart ! " cried Peggotty. " I know you
will ! " And she kissed me beforehand, in grateful acknowl-
edgment of my hospitality. After that, she covered her head
up with her apron again, and had another laugh about Mr.
1 Barkis. After that, she took the baby out of his little cradle,
and nursed it. After that, she cleared the dinner-table ;
after that, came in with another cap on, and her work-box,
and the yard-measure, and the bit of wax-candle, all just the
same as ever.

We sat around the fire, and talked delightfully. I told
them what a hard master Mr. Creakle was, and they pitied me
very much. I told them what a fine fellow Steerforth was,
and what a patron of mine, and Peggotty said she would
walk a score of miles to see him. I took the little baby in
my arms when it was awake, and nursed it lovingly. When
it was asleep again, I crept close to my mother's side, accord-
ing to my old custom, broken now a long time, and sat with
my arms embracing her waist, and my little red cheek on her
â€¢shoulder, and once more felt her beautiful hair drooping over
me â€” like an angel's wing as I used to think, I recollect â€” and
was very happy indeed.

While I sat thus, looking at the fire, and seeing pictures
in the red-hot coals, I almost believed that I had never been
away ; that Mr. and Miss Murdstone were such pictures, and
would vanish when the fire got low ; and that there was noth-
ing real in all that I remembered, save my mother, Peggotty,
and I.

Peggotty darned away at a stocking as long as she could
see, and then sat with it drawn on her left hand like a glove,
and her needle in her right, ready to take another stitch
whenever there was a blaze. I cannot conceive whose
stockings they can have been that Peggotty was always darn-
ing, or where such an unfailing supply of stockings in want
of darning can have come from. From my earliest infancy
she seems to have been always employed in that class ot
needlework, and never by any chance in any other.

" I wonder," said Peggotty, who was sometimes seized
with a fit of wondering on some most unexpected topic.
41 what's become of Davy's great-aunt? "

" Lor, Peggotty ! " observed my mother, rousing herself
from a reverie, " what nonsense you talk ! "

MY HOLIDA YS.

"Well, but I really do wonder, ma'am," said Peggotty.

" What can have put such a person in your head ? " in-
quired my mother. " Is there nobody else in the" world to
come there ? "

" I don't know how it is," said Peggotty, " unkss it's on
account of being stupid, but my head never can pick and choose
Us people. They come and they go, and they don't come and
they don't go, just as they like. I wonder what's become of
her?"

"How absurd you are, Peggotty," returned my mother.
One would suppose you wanted a second visit from her."
"Lord forbid ! " cried Peggotty.

" Well, then, don't talk about such uncomfortable things,
there's a good soul," said my mother. "Miss Betsey is shut
up in her cottage by the sea, no doubt, and will remain there.
At all events, she is not likely ever to trouble us again."

" No ! " mused Peggotty. " No, that ain't likely at all â€” I
wonder, if she was to die, whether she'd leave Davy any*
thing ? "

"Good gracious me, Peggotty," returned my mother,
" what a nonsensical woman you are ! when you know that
she took offence at the poor dear boy's ever being born at
all ! "

" I suppose she wouldn't be inclined to forgive him now,"
hinted Peggotty.

" Why should she be inclined to forgive him now ? " said
my mother, rather sharply.

"Now that he's got a brother, I mean," said Peggotty.

My mother immediately began to cry, and wondered how
Peggotty dared to say such a thing.

" As if this poor little innocent in its cradle had ever done
any harm to you or anybody else, you jealous thing ! " said
she. " You had much better go and marry Mr. Barkis, the
carrier. Why don't you ? "

"I should make Miss Murdstone happy, if I was to," said
Peggotty.

" What a bad disposition you have, Peggotty ! " returned
my mother. "You are as jealous of Miss Murdstone as it is
possible for a ridiculous creature to be. You want to keep
the keys yourself, and give out all the things, I suppose ? I
shouldn't be surprised if you did. When you know that she
only does it out of kindness and the best intentions I Yot
know she does, Peggotty â€” you know it well."

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Peggotty muttered something to the effect of " Bother tlifi
best intentions ! " and something else to the effect that there
was a little' too much of the best intentions going on.

" I know what you mean, you cross thing," said my mother.
" I understand you, Peggotty, perfectly. You know I do, and
I wonder you don't color up like fire. But one point at a
time. Miss Murdstone is the point now, Peggotty, and you
sha'n;t escape from it. Haven't you heard her say, over and
over again, that she thinks I am too thoughtless and too â€” a â€” -
aâ€”"

"Pretty," suggested Peggotty.

"Well," returned my mother, half laughing, " and if she is
so silly as to say so, can I be blamed for it ? "

" No one said you can," said Peggotty.

" No, I should hope not, indeed ! " returned my mother.
" Haven't you heard her say, over and over again, that on
this account she wishes to spare me a great deal of trouble,
which she thinks I am not suited for, and which I really don't
know myself that I am suited for ; and isn't she up early and
late, and going to and fro continually â€” and doesn't she do all
sorts of things, and grope into all sorts of places, coal-holes and
pantries and I don't know where, that can't be very agreeable
â€” and do you mean to insinuate there is no sort of devotion
in that ? "

" I don't insinuate at all," said Peggotty.

"You do, Peggotty," returned my mother. "You never
do anything else, except your work. You are always insinua-
ting. You revel in it. And when you talk of Mr. Murdstone's
good intentions "

" I never talked of 'em," said Peggotty.

" No, Peggotty," returned my mother, " but you insinuated,
That's what I told you just now. That's the worst of you.
You will insinuate. I said, at the moment, that I understood
you, and you see I did. When you talk of Mr. Murdstone's
good intentions, and pretend to slight them (for I don't be-
lieve you really do in your heart, Peggotty), you must be as
well convinced as I am how good they are, and how they
actuate him in everything. If he seems to have been at all
stern with a certain person, Peggotty â€” you understand, and
so I am sure does Davy, that I am not alluding to any body
present â€” it is solely because he is satisfied that it is for a
certain person's benefit. He naturally loves a certain person,
on my account and acts solely for a certain person's good

MY HO LI DA YS

JI7

He is better able to judge of it than I am ; for I very well
know that I am a weak, light, girlish creature, ana! that he
is a firm, grave, serious man. And he takes," said my mother
with the tears which were engendered in her affectionate na-
ture stealing down her face, " he takes great pains with me ;
and I ought to be very thankful to him, and very submissive
to him even in my thoughts ; and when I am not, Peggotty,,
I worry and condemn myself and feel doubtful of my own
heart, and don't know what to do."

Peggotty sat with her chin on the foot of the stocking,
looking silently at the fire.

"There, Peggotty," said my mother, changing her tone,
" don't let us fall out with one another, for I couldn't bear it.
You are my true friend, I know, if I have any in the world.
When I call you a ridiculous creature, or a vexatious thing, or
anything of that sort Peggotty, I only mean that you are my true
friend, and always have been, ever since the night when Mr.
Copperfield first brought me home here, and you came out to
the gate to meet me."

Peggotty was not slow to respond and ratify the treaty of
friendship by giving me one of her best hugs. I think I had
some glimpses of the real character of this conversation at the
time ; but I am sure, now, that the good creature originated it,
and took her part in it, merely that my mother might comfort
herself with the little contradictory summary in which she had
indulged. The design was efficacious ; for I remember that my
mother seemed more at ease during the rest of the evening
and that Peggotty observed her less.

When we had had our tea, and the ashes were thrown up,
and the candles snuffed, I read Peggotty a chapter out of the
Crocodile Book, in remembrance of old times â€” she took it
out of her pocket : I don't know whether she had kept it
there ever since â€” and then we talked about Salem House, which
brought me round again to Steerforth, who was my great sub-
ject. We were very happy ; and that evening, as the last of
its race, and destined evermore to close that volume of my
life, will never pass out of my memory.

It was almost ten o'clock before we heard the sound of
wheels. We all got up then ; and my mother said hurriedly
that, as it was so late, and Mr. and Miss Murdstone approved
of early hours for young people, perhaps I had better go to
bed. I kissed her and went up stairs with my candle directly,
before they came in. It appeared to my childish fancy, as

DAVID COPPERFIELD

I ascended to the bedroom where I had been imprisoned, that
they brought a cold blast of air into the house which blew
away the old familiar feeling like a feather.

I felt uncomfortable about going down to breakfast in the
morning, as I had never set eyes on Mr. Murdstone since the
day when i committed my memorable offence. However, as
it must be done, I went down after two or three false starts
half-way, and as many runs back on tiptoe to my own room?
and presented myself in the parlor.

He was standing before the fire with his back to it, while
Miss Murdstone made the tea. He looked at me steadily
as I entered, but made no sign of recognition whatever.

I went up to him, after a moment of confusion, and said :
" I beg your pardon sir. I am very sorry for what I did, and
I hope you will forgive me."

" I am glad to hear you are sorry, David," he replied.

The hand he gave me was the hand I had bitten. I could
not restrain 'my eye from resting for an instant on a red spot
upon it; but it was not so red as I turned, when I met the
sinister expression in his face.

" How do you do, ma'am ? " I said to Miss Murdstone.

" Ah, dear me ! " sighed Miss Murdstone, giving me the
tea-caddy scoop instead of her fingers. " How long are the
holidays ? "

" A month, ma'am."

" Counting from when ! "

" From to-day ma'am."

" Oh ! " said Miss Murdstone. " Then here's o?ie day off."

She kept a calendar of the holidays in this way, and every
morning checked a day off in exactly the same manner. She
did it gloomily until she came to ten, but when she got into
two figures she became more hopeful, and, as the time advanced,
even jocular.

It was on this very first day that I had the misfortune to
throw her, though she was not subject to such weakness in
general, into a state of violent consternation. I came into
the room where she and my mother were sitting ; and the
baby (who was only a few weeks old) being on my mother's
lap, I took it very carefully in my arms. Suddenly Miss
Murdstone gave such a scream that I all but dropped it.

" My dear Jane ? " cried my mother.

" Good heavens, Clara, do you see ? " exclaimed Miss
Murdstone.

MY HOLIDA VS.

119

" See what, my dear Jane ? " said my mother ; " where ? "

" He's got it!" cried Miss Murdstone. "The^boy has
got the baby ! "

She was limp with horror ; but stiffened herself to make a
dart at me, and take it out of my arms. Then, she turned
faint ; and was so very ill, that they were obliged to give he*
cherry-brandy. I was solemnly interdicted by her on her re
covery, from touching my brother any more on any pretence
whatever ; and my poor mother, who, I could see, wished
otherwise, meekly confirmed the interdict by saying : " No
doubt you are right, my dear Jane."

On another occasion, when we three were together, this
same dear baby â€” it was truly dear to me, for our mother's
sake â€” was the innocent occasion of Miss Murdstone's going
into a passion. My mother, who had been looking at its
eyes as it lay upon her lap, said :

f< Davy ! come here ! " and looked at mine.

I saw Miss Murdstone lay her beads down.

" I declare," said my mother, gently, " they are exactly
alike. I suppose they are mine. I think they are the color
of mine. But they are wonderfully alike."

" What are you talking about, Clara ? " said Miss Murd-
stone.

" My dear Jane," faltered my mother, a little abashed by
the harsh tone of this inquiry, " I find that the baby's eyes
and Davy's are exactly alike."

" Clara ! " said Miss Murdstone, rising angrily, "you are a
positive fool sometimes."

" My clear Jane," remonstrated my mother.

" A positive fool," said Miss Murdstone. " Who else could
compare my brother's baby with your boy ? They are not at
all alike. They are exactly unlike. They are utterly dissimilar
in all respects. I hope they will ever remain so. I will not
sit here, and hear such comparisons made." With that she
stalked out, and made the door bang after her.

In short, I was not a favorite with Miss Murdstone. In
short, I was not a favorite there with anybody, not even with
myself ; for those who did like me could not show it, and those
who did not showed it so plainly that I had a sensitive con-
sciousness of always appearing constrained, boorish, and dull.

I felt that I made them as uncomfortable as they made me.
If I came into the room where they were, and they were talk-
ing together and my mother seemed cheerful, an anxious cloud

120

DAVID COPPERFTELD.

would steal over her face from the moment of my entrance. ft
Mr. Murdstone were in his best humor, I checked him. Ii
Miss Murdstone were in her worst, I intensified it. I had
perception enough to know that my mother was the victim al-
ways ; that she was afraid to speak to me, or be kind to me,
lest she should give them some offence by her manner ol
doing so, 'and receive a lecture afterwards; that she was not
only ceaselessly afraid of her own offending, but of my offend-
ing, and uneasily watched their looks if I only moved.
Therefore I resolved to keep myself as much out of their way
as I could ; and many a wintry hour did I hear the church-
clock strike, when I was sitting in my cheerless bedroom,
wrapped in my little great-coat, poring over a book.

In the evening, sometimes, I went and sat with Peggotty
in the kitchen. There I was comfortable, and not afraid of
being myself. But neither of these resources was approved
of in the parlor. The tormenting humor which was dominant
there stopped them both. I was still held to be necessary to
my poor mother's training, and, as one of her trials, could not
be suffered to absent myself.

" David," said Mr. Murdstone, one day after dinner when
I was going to leave the room as usual ; " I'm sorry to observe
that you are of a sullen disposition."

" As sulky as a bear ! " said Miss Murdstone.

I stood still, and hung my head.

" Now, David," said Mr. Murdstone, " a sullen, obdurate
disposition is, of all tempers, the worst."

" And the boy's is, of all such dispositions that ever I have
seen," remarked his sister, " the most confirmed and stubborn.
I think, my dear Clara, even you must observe it ? "

" I beg your pardon, my dear Jane," said my mother, ,; but
are you quite sure â€” I am certain you'll excuse me, my dear
Jane â€” that you understand Davy ? "

" I should be somewhat ashamed of myself, Clara," re-
turned Miss Murdstone, " if I could not understand the boy;
or any boy. I don't profess to be profound ; but I do lay
claim to common sense."

"No doubt, my dear Jane," returned my mother, "you*
understanding is very vigorous."

" Oh dear, no ! Pray don't say that, Clara," interposed
Miss Murdstone, angrily.

" But I am sure it is," resumed my mother ; " and every-
body knows it is. I profit so much by it myself, in many

MY HOLIDA YS.

121

ways â€” at least I ought to â€” that no one can be more convinced
of it than myself ; and therefore I speak with greai diffidence,
my dear Jane, I assure you."

" We'll say I don't understand the boy, Clara," returned
Miss Murdstone, arranging the little fetters on her wrists.
" We'll agree, if you please, that I don't understand him at all.
He is much too deep for me. But perhaps my brother's
penetration may enable him to have some insight into his
character. And I believe my brother was speaking on the
subject when we â€” not very decently â€” interrupted him."

" I think, Clara," said Mr. Murdstone, in a low grave
voice, " that there may be better and more dispassionate
judges of such a question than you."

"Edward," replied my mother, timidly, "you are a fai
better judge of all questions than I pretend to be. Both you
and Jane are. I only said "

" You only said something weak and inconsiderate," he re-
plied. " Try not to do it again, my dear Clara, and keep a
watch upon yourself."

My mother's lips moved, as if she answered " Yes, my
dear Edward," but she said nothing aloud.

" I was sorry, David," said Mr. Murdstone, turning
his head and his eyes stiffly towards me, " to observe that
you are of a sullen disposition. This is not a character
that I can suffer to develope itself beneath my eyes without an
effort at improvement. You must endeavor, sir, to change it,
We must endeavor to change it for you."

" I beg your pardon, sir," I faltered. " I have never meant
to be sullen since I came back."

" Don't take refuge in a lie, sir ! " he returned so fiercely,
that I saw my mother involuntarily put out her trembling hand
as if to interpose between us. " You have withdrawn yourself
in your sullenness to your own room. You have kept your own
room when you ought to have been here. You know now,
once for all, that I require you to be here, and not there.
Further, that I require you to bring obedience here. You
know me, David. I will have it done."

Miss Murdstone gave a hoarse chuckle.

" I will have a respectful, prompt, and ready bearing to-
wards myself," he continued, " and towards Jane Murdstone,
and towards your mother. I will not have this room shunned
as if it were infected, at the pleasure of a child. Sit down."

He ordered me like a dog, and I obeyed like a dog-

122

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" One thing more," he said. " I observe that you have an
attachment to low and common company. You are not to as-
sociate with servants. The kitchen will not improve you, in
the many respects in which you need improvement. Of the
woman who abets you, I say nothing â€” since you, Claia," ad-
dressing t my mother in a lower voice, " from old associations
and long-established fancies, have a weakness respecting her
which is not yet overcome."

" A most unaccountable delusion it is ! " cried Miss Murd
stone.

" I only say," he resumed, addressing me, " that I dis
approve of your preferring such company as Mistress Peggitty,
and that it is to be abandoned. Now, David, you understand
me, and you know what will be the consequence if you fail to
obey me to the letter."

I knew well â€” better perhaps than he thought, as far as my
poor mother was concerned â€” and I obeyed him to the letter.
I retreated to my own room no more ; I took refuge with Peg-
gotty no more ; but sat wearily in the parlor day after day look-
ing forward to night, and bedtime.

What irksome constraint I underwent, sitting in the same
attitude hours upon hours, afraid to move an arm or a leg
lest Miss Murdstone should complain (as she did on the least
pretence) of my restlessness, and afraid to move an eye least
she should light on some look of dislike or scrutiny that would
find new cause for complaint in mine ! What intolerable dul-
ness to sit listening to the ticking of the clock ; and watching
Miss Murdstone's little shiny steel beads "is she strung them ;
and wondering whether she would ever be married, and if so,
to what sort of unhappy man ; and counting the divisions in
the moulding on the chimney-piece ; and wandering away, with
my eyes, to the ceiling, among the curls and corkscrews in the
paper on the wall !

What walks I took alone, down muddy lanes, in the bad
winter weather, carrying that parlor, and Mr. and Miss Murd-
stone in it, everywhere : a monstrous load that I was obliged
to bear, a daymare that there was no possibility of breaking
in, a weight that brooded on my wits, and blunted them !

What meals I had in silence and embarrassment, always
feeling that there was a knife and fork too many, and those
mine ; an appetite too many, and that mine ; a plate anc
chair too many, and those mine ; a somebody too many, and
that I !

MY HOLIDAYS.

What evenings, when the candles came, and I was ex-
pected to employ myself, but not daring to read an entertain-
ing book, pored over some hard-headed harder-hearted treat
ise on arithmetic ; when the tables of weights and measures set
themselves to tunes, as Rule Britannia, or Away with Melan-
choly ; when they wouldn't stand still to be learnt, but would
go threading my grandmother's needle through my unfortunate
head, m at one ear and out at the other !

What yawns and dozes I lapsed into, in spite of all my
care ; what starts I came out of concealed sleeps with ; what
answers I never got, to little observations that I rarely made j
what a blank space I seemed, which everybody overlooked,
and yet was in everybody's way ; what a heavy relief it was to
hear Miss Murdstone hail the first stroke of nine at night, and
order me to bed !

Thus the holidays lagged away, until the morning came
when Miss Murdstone said : " Here's the last day off ! " and
gave me the closing cup of tea of the vacation.

I was not sorry to go. I had lapsed into a stupid state ;
but I was recovering a little and looking forward to Steerforth,
albeit Mr. Creakle loomed behind him. Again Mr. Barkis
appeared at the gate, and again Miss Murdstone in her warn-
ing voice, said : " Clara ! " when my mother bent over me. to
bid me farewell.

I kissed her, and my baby brother, and was very sorry
then \ but not sorry to go away, for the gulf between us was
there, and the parting was there, every day. And it is not so
much the embrace she gave me, that lives in my mind, though
it was as fervent as could be, as what followed the embrace.

I was in the carrier's cart when I heard her calling to me.
I looked out, and she stood at the garden-gate alone, holding
her baby up in her arms for me to see. It was cold still
weather ; and not a hair of her head, not a fold of her dress,
was stirred, as she looked intently at me, holding up her
child.

So I lost her. So I saw her afterward^ ,vn my sleep at
school â€” a silent presence near my bed â€” looking at me with
the same intent face â€” holding up her baby in her arms

124

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

\ CHAPTER IX.

I HAVE A MEMORABLE BIRTHDAY.

I pass ewer all that happened at school, until the anni-
versary of my birthday came round in March. Except thai
Steerforth was more to be admired than ever, I remember
nothing. He was going away at the end of the half-year, if
not sooner, and was more spirited and independent than be-
fore in my eyes, and therefore more engaging than before ;
but beyond this I remember nothing. The great remembrance
by which that time is marked in my mind, seems to have swal-
lowed up all lesser recollections, and to exist alone.

It is even difficult for me to believe that there was a gap
of full two months between my return to Salem House and
the arrival of that birthday. I can only understand that the
fact was so, because I know it must have been so ; otherwise
I should feel convinced that there was no interval, and that
the one occasion trod upon the other's heels.

How well I recollect the kind of day it was ! I smell the
fog that hung about the place ; I see the hoar frost, ghostly,
through it ; I fee! my rimy hair fall clammy on my cheek ; I
look along the dim perspective of the school-room, with a
sputtering candle here and there to light up the foggy morn-
ing, and the breath of the boys wreathing and smoking in
the raw cold as they blow upon their fingers, and tap their
feet upon the floor.

It was after breakfast, and we had been summoned in
from the playground, when Mr. Sharp entered and said :

" David Copperfield is to go into the parlor."

I expected a hamper from Peggotty, and brightened at the
order. Some of the boys about me put in their claim not to
be forgotten in the distribution of the good things, as I got
out of my seat with great alacrity.

"Don't hurry, David," said Mr. Sharp. "There's time
enough, my boy, don't hurry."

I might have been surprised by the feeling tone in which
he spoke, if I had given it a thought ; but I gave it none until
afterwards. I hurried away to the parlor ; and there I found
Mr. Creakle, sitting at his breakfast with the cane and a news*

I HAVE A MEMORABLE BIRTHDAY.

paper before him, and Mrs. Creakle with an opened letter in
her hand. But no hamper.

" David Copperfield, " said Mrs. Creakle, leading me to
a sofa, and sitting down beside me. " I want to speak to you
very particularly. I have something to tell you, my child."

Mr. Creakle, at whom of course I looked, shook his head
â€¢without looking at me, and stopped up a sigh with a very large
piece of buttered toast. V

" You are too young to know how the world changes
every day," said Mrs. Creakle, "and how the people in it pass
away. But we all have to learn it, David ; some of us when,
we are young, some of us when we are old, some of us at all
times of our lives."

I looked at her earnestly.

" When you came away from home at the end of the vaca-
tion," said Mrs. Creakle, after a pause, "were they all well? "
After another pause, "Was your mama well? "

I trembled without distinctly knowing why, and still looked
at her earnestly, making no attempt to answer.

" Because," said she, "I grieve to tell you that I hear this
morning your mama is very ill."

A mist rose between Mrs. Creakle and me, and her figure
seemed to move in it for an instant. Then I felt the burning
tears run down my face, and it was steady again.

" She is very dangerously ill," she added.

I knew all now.

" She is dead."

There was no need to tell me so. I had already broken
out into a desolate cry, and felt an orphan in the wide world.

She was very kind to me. She kept me there all clay, and
left me alone sometimes ; and I cried, and wore myself to
sleep, and awoke and cried again. When I could cry no more,
I began to think ; and then the oppression on my breast was
heaviest, and my grief a dull pain that there was no ease for.

And yet my thoughts were idle ; not intent on the calamity
that weighed upon my heart, but idly loitering near it- I
thought Â©f our house shut up and hushed. I thought of the
little baby, who, Mrs. Creakle said, had been pining away foi
some time, and who, they believed, would die too. I thought
of my father's grave in the churchyard, by our house, and of
my mother lying there beneath the tree I knew so well. 1
stood upon a chair when I was left alone, and looked into the
glass to see how red my eyes were, and how sorrowful my

126

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

face. I considered, after some hours were gone, if my tears
were really hard to flow now, as they seemed to be, what, in
connection with my loss, it would affect me most to think of
when I drew near home â€” for I was going home to the funeral.
I am sensible of having felt that a dignity attached to me
among the rest of the boys, and that I was important in my
affliction.

If ever child were stricken with sincere grief, I was. But
I remember that this importance was a kind of satisfaction to
me, when I walked in the playground that afternoon while the
boys were in school. When I saw them glancing at me out
of the windows, as they went up to their classes. I fÂ§lt dis-
tinguished, and looked more melancholy, and walked slower.
When school was over, and they came out and spoke to me,
I felt it rather good in myself not to be proud to any of them,
and to take exactly the same notice of them all, as before.

I was to go home next night ; not by the mail, but by the
heavy night-coach, which was called the Fanner, and was
principally used by country-people travelling short intermedi-
ate distances upon the road. We had no story-telling that
evening, and Traddles insisted on lending me his pillow. I
don't know what good he thought it would do me, for I had
one of my own ; but it was all he had to lend, poor fellow,
except a sheet of letter-paper full of skeletons ; and that he
gave me at parting, as a soother of my sorrows and a contri-
bution to my peace of mind.

I left Salem House upon the morrow afternoon. I little
thought then that I left it, never to return. We travelled
very slowly all night, and did not get into Yarmouth before nine
or ten o'clock in the morning. I looked out for Mr. Barkis,
but he was not there ; and instead of him a fat, short-winded,
merry-looking, little old man in black, with rusty little bunches
of ribbons at the knees of his breeches, black stockings, and
a broad-brimmed hat, came puffing up to the coach-window,
and said :

" Master Copperfield ? "

" Yes, sir."

" Will you come with me, young sir, if you please," he
said, opening the door, "and I shall have the pleasure ot
taking you home ? "

I put my hand in his, wondering who he was, and we
walked away to a shop in a narrow street, on which was
written Omer, Draper, Tailor, Haberdasher, Funeral

I HAVE A MEMORABLE BIRTHDAY.

T2T

Furnisher, &c. It was a close and stifling little shop ; full
of all sorts of clothing, made and unmade, including one
window full of beaver-hats and bonnets. We went into a little
back-parlor behind the shop, where we found three young
women at work on a quantity of black materials, which were
heaped upon the table, and little bits and cuttings of which
were littered all over the floor. There was a good fire in the
room, and a breathless smell of warm black crape. I did not
know what the smell was then, but I know now.

The three young women, who appeared to be very indus-
trious and comfortable, raised their heads to look at me, and
then went on with their work. Stitch, stitch, stitch. At the
same time there came from a workshop across a little yard
outside the window, a regular sound of hammering that kept
a kind of tune : Rat â€” tat-tat, rat â€” tat-tat, rat â€” rat-tat, with-
out any variation.

" Well,'' said my conductor to one of the three young
women. " How do you get on, Minnie ? "

"We shall be ready by the trying-on time," she replied
gayly, without looking up. " Don't you be afraid, father."

Mr. Omer took off his broad-brimmed hat, and sat down
and panted. He was so fat that he was obliged to pant some
time before he could say :

"That's right."

" Father ! " said Minnie, playfully. " What a porpoise
you do grow ! "

" Well. I don't know how it is, my dear," he replied, con-
sidering about it. " I am rather so."

" You are such a comfortable man, you see," said Minnie.
u You take things so easy."

"No use taking 'em otherwise, my dear," said Mr. Omer.

" No, indeed," returned his daughter. " We are all pretty
gay here, thank Heaven ! Ain't we, father 5 "

" I hope so, my dear," said Mr. Omer. " As I have got
my breath now, I think I'll measure this young scholar.
Would you walk into the shop, Master Copperfield ? "

I preceded Mr. Omer, in compliance with his request ; and
after showing me a roll of cloth which he said was extra super,
and too good mourning for anything short of parents, he took
my various dimensions, and put them down in a book. While
he was recording them he called my attention to his stock in
trade, and to certain iasnions which he said had "just come
up," and to certain other fashions which he said had "just
gone out."

128

DAVID COPPERFIRLD

li And by that sort of thing we very often lose a little mint
i)f money," said Mr. Omer. " But fashions are like human
beings. They come in, nobody knows when, why, or how ;
and they go out, nobody knows when, why, or how. Every-
thing is like life, in my opinion, if you look at it in that point
of view."

.1 was. too sorrowful to discuss the question, which would
possibly have been beyond me under any circumstances ; and
Mr. Omer took me back into the parlor, breathing with some
difficulty on the way.

He then called down a little break-neck range of steps
behind a door : " Bring up that tea and bread-and-butter ! "
which, after some time, during which I sat looking about me
and thinking, and listening to the stitching in the room and
ihe tune that was being hammered across the yard, appeared
on a tray, and turned out to be for me.

" I have been acquainted with you," said Mr. Omer, after
watching me for some minutes, during which I had not made
much impression on the breakfast, for the black things
destroyed my appetite, " I have been acquainted with you a
long time, my young friend."

" Have you, sir ? "

" All your life," said Mr. Omer. " I may say before it. I
knew your father before you. He was five foot nine and a
half, and he lays in five and twen-ty foot of ground."

" Rat â€” tat-tat, rat â€” tat-tat, rat â€” tat-tat," across the
yard.

" He lays in five and twen-ty foot of ground, if he lays in
a fraction," said Mr. Omer, pleasantly. " It was either his
request or her direction, I forget which."

" Do you know how my little brother is, sir ? " I inquired.

Mr. Omer shook his head.

" Rat â€” tat-tat, rat â€” tat-tat, rat â€” tat-tat."

" He is in his mother's arms," said he.

" Oh, poor little fellow ! Is he dead ? "

" Don't mind it more than you can help," said Mr. Omer,
"Yes. The baby's dead."

My wounds broke out afresh at this intelligence. I left
the scarcely tasted breakfast, and went and rested my head
on another table in a corner of the little room, which Minnie
hastily cleared, lest I should spot the mourning that was
lying there with my tears. She was a pretty good-natured
girl, and put my hair away from my eyes with a soft kind

/ HA VE A MEMORABLE BIRTHDA Y.

couch \ but she was very cheerful at having nearly finished her
work and being in good time, and was so different from me !

Presently the tune left off, and a good-looking young fellow
came across the yard into the room. He had a hammer in
his hand, and his mouth was full of little nails, which he was
obliged to take out before he could speak.

" Well, Joram ! " said Mr. Omer. " How do you get on ? "

"All right," said Joram. "Done, sir."

Minnie colored a little, an d the other two girls smiled at
one another.

" What ! you were at it by candle-li^ht last night, when I
was at the club, then ? Were you ? " sa*Id Mr. Omer, shutting
up one eye.

"Yes," said Joram. "As you said we could make a little
trip of it, and go over together, if it was done, Minnie and
me â€” and you."

" Oh ! I thought you were going to leave me out alto-
gether," said Mr. Omer, laughing till he coughed.

" â€” As you was so good as to say that," resumed the young
man, " why I turned to with a will, you see. Will you give
me your opinion of it ? "

"I will," said Mr. Omer, rising. "My dear;" and he
stopped and turned to me ; " would you like to see your "

"No, father," Minnie interposed.

" I thought it might be agreeable, my dear," said Mr.
Omer. " But perhaps you're right."

I can't say how I knew it was my dear, dear mother's coffin
that they went to look at. I had never heard one making ; I
had never seen one that I know of ; but it came to my mind
what the noise was, while it was going on ; and when the
young man entered, I am sure I knew what he had been
doing.

The work being now finished, the two girls, whose names
I had not heard, brushed the shreds and threads from their
dresses, and went into the shop to put that to rights, and wai'
for customers. Minnie stayed behind to fold up what they
had made, and pack it in two baskets. This she did upon
her knees, humming a lively little tune the while. Joram,
who I had no doubt was her lover, came in and stole a kiss
from her while she was busy (he didn't appear to mind me, at
all), and said her father was gone for the chaise, and he must
make haste and get himself ready. Then he went out again \
and then she put her thimble and scissors in her pocket, and

i3o

DAVID COPPEKFIELD

stuck a needle threaded with black thread neatly in the bosora
of her gown, and put on her outer clothing smartly, at a little
glass behind the door, in which I saw the reflection of her
pleased face.

All this I observed, sitting at the table in the corner with
my head leaning on my hand, and my thoughts running on
^ery different things. The chaise soon came round to the
front of the shop, and the baskets being put in first, I was put
in next, and those three followed. I remember it as a kind of
a half chaise-cart, half pianoforte van, painted of a sombre
color, and drawn by a black horse with a long tail. There was
plenty of room for us all.

I do not think I have ever experienced so strange a feeling
in my life (I am wiser now, perhaps) as that of being with
them, remembering how they had been employed, and seeing
them enjoy the ride. I was not angry with them ; I was more
afraid of them, as if I were cast away among creatures with
whom I had no community of nature. They were very cheer-
ful. The old man sat in front to drive, and the two young
people sat behind him, and whenever he spoke to them leaned
forward, the one on one side of his chubby face and the other
on the other, and made a great deal of him. They would
have talked to me too, but I held back, and moped in my cor-
ner ; scared by their love-making and hilarity, though it was
far from boisterous, and almost wondering that no judgment
came upon them for their hardness of heart.

So, when they stopped to bait the horse, and ate and
drank and enjoyed themselves, I could touch nothing that
they touched, but kept my fast unbroken. So, when we
reached home, I dropped out of the chaise behind, as quickly â€¢
as possible, that I might not be in their company before those
solemn windows, looking blindly on me like closed eyes once
bright. And oh, how little need I had to think what would
move me to tears when I came back â€” seeing the window of
my mother's room, and next it that which, in the better time,
was mine !

I was in Peggotty's arms before I got to the door, and she
took me into the house. Her grief burst out when she first
saw me ; but she controlled it soon, and spoke in whispers,
and walked softly, as if the dead could be disturbed. She
had not been in bed, I found, for a long time. She sat up at
night still, and watched. As long as her poor dear prettj
was above the ground, she said, she would never desert her.

I HAVE A MEMORABLE BIRTH DA Y.

Mr. MurJstone took no heed of me when I went into the
parlor, where he was, but sat by the fireside, weeping silently*
and pondering in his elbow-chair. Miss Murdstone, who was
busy at her writing-desk, which was covered with letters and
papers, gave me her cold finger-nails, and asked me, in an iron
whisper, if I had been measured for my mourning.

I said : " Yes."

" And your shirts," said Miss Murdstone ; " have yoc
brought 'em home ? "

" Yes, ma'am. I have brought home all my clothes,"

This was all the consolation that her firmness administered
to me. I do not doubt that she had a choice pleasure in ex-
hibiting what she called her self-command, and her firmness,
and her strength of mind, and her common sense, and the
whole diabolical catalogue of her unamiable qualities, on such
an occasion. She was particularly proud of her turn for
business ; and she showed it now in reducing everything to
pen and ink, and being moved by nothing. All the rest of that
day, and from morning to night afterwards, she sat at that
desk ; scratching composedly with a hard pen, speaking in
the same imperturbable whisper to everybody ; never relaxing
a muscle of her face, or softening a tone of her voice, or ap-
pearing with an atom of her dress astray.

Her brother took a book sometimes, but never read it that
I saw. He would open it and look at it as if he were reading,
but would remain for a whole hour without turning the leaf,
and then put it down and walk to and fro in the room. I
used to sit with folded hands watching him, and counting his
footsteps, hour after hour. He very seldom spoke to her, and
never to me. He seemed to be the only restless thing, except
the clocks, in the whole motionless house.

In these days before the funeral, I saw but little of Peg-
gotty, except that, in passing up or down stairs, I alway?
found her close to the room where my mother and her bafr
lay, and except that she came to me every night, and sat by
my bed's head while I went to sleep. A day or two before
the burial â€” I think it was a day or two before, but I am con
scious of confusion in my mind about that heavy time, with
nothing to mark its progress â€” she took me into the room. I
only recollect that underneath some white covering on the
bed, with a beautiful cleanliness and freshness all around it,
there seemed to me tojie embodied the solemn stillness that
Was in the house ; and that when she would have turned the

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

covei gently back, I cried : " Oh no ! oh no ! " and held he?
hand.

If the funeral had been yesterday, I could not recollect it
better. The very air of the best parlor, when I went in at the
door, the bright condition of the fire, the shining of the wine
m the decanters, the patterns of the glasses and plates, the
Taint sweet smell of cake, the odor of Miss Murdstone's dress,
and our black clothes. Mr. Chillip is in the room and comes
to speak to me.

" And how is Master David ? " he says kindly.

I cannot tell him very well. I give him my hand, which
he holds in his.

" Dear me ! " says Mr. Chillip, meekly smiling, with some-
thing shining in his eye.. " Our little friends grow up around
us. They grow out of our knowledge, ma'am ? "

This is to Miss Murdstone, who makes no reply.

" There is a great improvement here, ma'am ? " says Mr.
Chillip.

Miss Murdstone merely answers with a frown and a formal
bend ; Mr. Chillip, discomfited, goes into a corner, keeping
me with him, and opens his mouth no more.

I remark this, because I remark everything that happens,
not because I care about myself, or have done since 1 came
home. And now the bell begins to sound, and Mr. Omer
and another come to make us ready. As Peggotty was wont
to tell me, long ago, the followers of my father to the same
grave were made ready in the same room.

There are Mr. Murdstone, our neighbor Mr. Grayper, Mr.
Chillip, and I. When we go out to the door, the Bearers and
their load are in the garden ; and they move before us down
the path, and past the elms, and through the gate, and into
the churchyard, where I have so often heard the birds sing on
a summer morning.

We stand around the grave. The day seems different to
me from every other day, and the light not of the same color
â– â€” of a sadder color. Now there is a solemn hush, which we
have brought from home with what is resting in the mould ;
and while we stand bare-headed, I hear the voice of the cler-
gyman, sounding remote in the open air, and yet distinct and
plain, saying : " I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the
Lord 1 " Then I hear sobs ; and, standing apart among the
lookers-on, I see that good and faithful servant, whom of
ail the people upon earth I Icvc :h_ Lest, and unto whom my

T HAVE A MEMORABLE BIRTHDA Y.

childish heart is certain that the Lord will one day say : " Well
done ! "

There are many faces that I know, among the little crowd :
faces that I knew in church, when mine was always wondering
there ; faces that first saw my mother, when she came to the
village in her youthful bloom. I do not mind them â€” I mind
nothing but my grief â€” and yet I see and know them all ; and
even in the background, far away, see Minnie looking on, and
her eye glancing on her sweetheart, who is near me.

It is over, and the earth is filled in, and we turn to come
away. Before us stands our house, so pretty and unchanged,
so linked in my mind with the young idea of what is gone,
that all my sorrow has been nothing to the sorrow it calls
forth. But they take me on ; and Mr. Chillip talks to me ;
and when we get home, put some water to my lips ; and when
I ask his leave to go up to my room, dismisses me with the
gentleness of a woman.

All this, I say, is yesterday's events. Events of later date
have floated from me to the shore where all forgotten things
will reappear, but this stands like a high rock in the ocean.

I knew that Peggotty would come to me in my room. The
Sabbath stillness -of the time (the day was so like Sunday !
I have forgotten that) was suited to us both. She sat down
by my side upon my little bed ; and holding my hand, and
sometimes putting it to her lips, and sometimes smoothing it
with hers, as she might have comforted my little brother, told
me, in her way, all she had to tell concerning what had hap-
pened .

" She was never well," said Peggotty, " for a long time.
She was uncertain in her mind and not happy. When her
baby was born, I thought at first she would get better, but she
was more delicate, and sunk a little every clay. She used to
like to sit alone before her baby came, and then she cried
but afterwards she used to sing to it â€” so soft, that I once
thought, when I heard her, it was like a voice up in the air,
that was rising away.

" I think she got to be more timid, and more frightened-
like, of late ; and that a hard word was like a blow to her.
But she was always the same to me. She never changed to
her foolish Peggotty, didn't my sweet girl."

Here Peggotty stopped and softly beat upon my hand a
little while.

134

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" The last time that I saw her Kke her own old self, was
the night when you came home, my dear. The day you went
away, she said to me, ' I shall never see my pretty darling
again. Something tells me so, that tells the truth, I know.'

" She tried to hold up after that ; and many a time, when
they told her she was thoughtless and light-hearted, made be-
lieve to be so ; but it was all a bygone then. She never tolc*
her husband what she told me â€” she was afraid of saying it tt>
anybody else â€” till one night, a little more than a week before
it happened, when she said to him : ' My dear, I think I am
dying.'

" Â£ It's off my mind now, Peggotty,' she told me, when I
laid her in her bed that night. ' He will believe it more and
more, poor fellow, every day for a few days to come ; and then
it will be past. I am very tiied. If this is sleep, sit by me
while I sleep â€” don't leave me. God bless both my children !
God protect and keep my fatherless boy ! '

" I never left her afterwards," said Peggotty. " She often
talked of them two down stairs â€” for she loved them ; she
couldn't bear not to love any one who was about her â€” but
when they went away from her bedside, she always turned to
me, as if there was rest where Peggotty was, and never fell
asleep in any other way.

" On the last night, in the evening she kissed me, and
said : â€¢ If my baby should die too, Peggotty, please let them
lay him in my arms, and bury us together.' (It was done ; for
the poor lamb lived but a day beyond her.) ' Let my dearest
boy go with us to our resting-place,' she said, ' and tell him
that his mother, when she lay here, blessed him not once, but
a thousand times.' "

Another silence followed this, and another gentle beating
of my hand.

" It was pretty far in the night," said Peggotty, " when she
asked me for some drink ; and when she had taken it, gave
me such a patient smile, the dear ! â€” so beautiful !

" Daybreak had co ne, and the sun was rising, when she
said to me, how kind and considerate Mr. Copperfield had
always been to her, and how he had borne with her, and told
her, when she doubted herself, that a loving heart was better
and stronger than wisdom, and that he was a happy man in
hers. 'Peggotty, my dear,' she said then, 'put me nearer to
you,' for she was very weak. ' Lay your good arm underneath
my neck,' she said, ' and turn me to you, for your face is going

I BECOME NEGLECTED, AND AM PROVIDED FOR. 1^3

far off, and I want it to be near.' I put it as she asked ; and
oh Davy ! the time had come when my first parting words to
you were true â€” when she was glad to lay her poor head on
her stupid crosj old Peggotty's arm â€” and she died like a child
that had gone to sleep ! "

Thus ended Peggotty's narration. From the moment of
my knowing of the death of my mother, the idea of her as she
had been of late had vanished from me. I remembered her,
from that instant, only as the young mother of my earliest
impressions, who had been used to wind her bright curls
round and round her finger, and to dance with me at twilight
in the parlor. What Peggotty had told me now, was so far
from bringing me back to the latter period, that it rooted
the earlier image in my mind. It may be curious, but it is true.
In her death she winged her way back to her calm untroubled
vouth, and cancelled all the rest.

The mother who lay in the grave, was the mother of my
infancy ; the little creature in her arms, was myself, as I had
once been, hushed for ever on her bosom.

CHAPTER X.

I BECOME NEGLECTED, AND AM PROVIDED FOR.

The first act of business Miss Murdstone performed when
the day of the solemnity was over, and light was freely ad-
mitted into the house, was to give Peggotty a month's warn-
ing. Much as Peggotty would have disliked such a service,
I believe she would have retained it, for my sake, in prefer,
ence to the best upon earth. She told me we must part, and
tcld me why ; and we condoled with one another, in all sin-
cerity.

As to me or my future, not a word was said, or a step
taken. Happy they would have been, I dare say, if they
could have dismissed me at a month's warning too. I mus-
tered courage once, to ask Miss Muidstone when I was going
back to school ; and she answered drily, she believed I was
not going back at all. I was told nothing more. I was very

ious to know what was going to Le done with me, and so

DA VID COPPERFIELD.

was Peggotty ; but neither she nor I could pick up any infos
mation on the subject.

There was one change in my condition, which, while it re-
lieved me of a great deal of present uneasiness, might have
made me, if I had been capable of considering it closely, yet
more uncomfortable about the future. It was this. The con-
straint that had been put upon me, was quite abandoned. I
was so far from being required to keep my dull post in the
parlor, that on several occasions, when I took my seat there,
Miss Murdstone frowned to me to go away. I was so far
from being warned off from Peggotty's society, that, provided
I was not in Mr. Murdstone's, I was never sought out or in-
quired for. At first I was in daily dread of his taking my
education in hand again, or of Miss Murdstone's devoting
herself to it ; but I soon began to think that such fears were
groundless, and that all I had to anticipate was neglect.

I do not conceive that this discovery gave me much pain
then. I was still giddy with the shock of my mother's death,
and in a kind of stunned state as to all tributary things. I
can recollect, indeed, to have speculated, at odd times, on the
possibility of my not being taught any more, or cared for any
more ; and growing up to be a shabby moody man, lounging
an idle life away, about the village ; as well as on the feasi-
bility of my getting rid of this picture by going away some-
where, like the hero in a story, to seek my fortune ; but these
"were transient visions, day dreams I sat looking at sometimes,
as if they were faintly painted or written on the wall of my
room, and which, as they melted away, left the wall blank again."

" Peggotty," I said in a thoughtful whisper, one evening,
when I was warming my hands at the kitchen fire, " Mr.
Murdstone likes me less than he used to. He never liked me
much, Peggotty ; but he would rather not even see me now,
if he can help it."

" Perhaps it's his sorrow," said Peggotty stroking my hair.

" I am sure, Peggotty, I am sorry too. If I believed it
was his sorrow, I should not think of it at all. But it's not
that ; oh, no, it's not that."

" How do you know it's not that ? '* said Peggotty, after a
silence.

" Oh his sorrow is another and quite a different thing.
He is sorry at this moment, sitting by the fireside with Miss
Murdstone ; but if I was to go in, Peggotty, he would be
something besides."

/ BECOME NEGLECTED, AND AM PROVIDED FOR. Yy

" What would he be ? " said Peggotty.

"Angry," I answered, with an involuntary imitation o{
his dark frown. " If he was only sorry, he wouldn't look
at me as he does. I am only sorry, and it makes me feel
kinder."

Peggotty said nothing for a little while ; and Y warmed
my hands, as silent as she.

" Davy," she said at length.
"Yes, Peggotty? "

" I have tried, my dear, all ways I could think oi â€” all the
ways there are, and all the ways there ain't, in short â€” to get
a suitable service here, in Blunderstone ; but there's no such
a thing, my love."

" And what do you mean to do, Peggotty," says I, wist-
fully. " Do you mean to go and seek your fortune ? "

" I expect I shall be forced to go to Yarmouth," replied â€¢
Peggotty, " and live there."

'â€¢ You might have gone farther off," I said, brightening a
little, " and been as bad as lost. I shall see you sometimes,
my dear old Peggotty, there. You won't be quite at the other
end of the world, will you ? "

" Contrary ways, please God ! " cried Peggotty, with great
animation. " As long as you are here, my pet, I shall come
over every week of my life to see you. One day every week
of my life ! "

I felt a great weight taken off my mind by this promise ; but
even this was not all, for Peggotty went on to say :

" I'm a going, Davy, you see, to my brother's, first, for
another fortnight's visit â€” just till I have had time to look
about me, and get to be something like myself again. Now,
I have been thinking, that perhaps, as they don't want you
here at present, you might be let to go along with me."

If anything short of being in a different relation to every
one about me, Peggotty excepted, could have given me a
sense of pleasure at that time, it would have been this pio-
ject of all others. The idea of being again surrounded by
those honest faces, shining welcome on me ; of renewing the
peacefulness of the sweet Sunday morning, when the bells
were ringing, the stones dropping in the water, and the
chadowy ships breaking through the mist ; of roaming up
and down with little Em'ly, telling her my troubles, and find-
ing charms against them in the shells and pebbles on the
beach; made a calm in my heart. It was ruffled next mo

138

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

ment, to be sure, by a doubt of Miss Murdstone giving- hei
consent ; but even that was set at rest soon, for she came out
to take an evening grope in the store-closet while we were
yet in conversation, and Peggotty, with a boldness that amazed
me, broached the topic on the spot.

" The boy will be idle there," said Miss Murdstone, look

â€¢ *ng into a pickle-jar, " and idleness is the root of all evil.
But, to be sure, he would be idle here â€” or anywhere, in my
opinion."

Peggotty had an angry answer ready, I could see ; but
she swallowed it for my sake, and remained silent.

" Humph ! " said Miss Murdstone, still keeping her eye on
the pickles ; " it is of more importance than anything else â€” it
is of paramount importance â€” that my brother should not be
disturbed or made uncomfortable. I suppose I had better

â€¢ say yes."

I thanked her, without making any demonstration of joy,
lest it should induce her to withdraw her assent. Nor
could I help thinking this a prudent course, when she
looked at me out of the pickle-jar, with as great an access of
sourness as if her black eyes had absorbed its contents. How-
ever the permission was given and was never retracted ; for
when the month was out, Peggotty and I were ready to depart.

Mr. Barkis came into the house for Peggotty's boxes. I
had never known him to pass the garden-gate before, but on
this occasion he came into the house. And he gave me a look
as he shouldered the largest box and went out. which I . thought
had meaning in it, if meaning could ever be said to find its
way into Mr. Barkis's visage.

Peggotty was naturally in low spirits at leaving what had
been her home so many years, and where the two strong attach-
ments of her life â€” for my mother and myself â€” had beeiK
formed. She had been walking in the churchyard, too, verv
early ; and she got into the cart, and sat in it with her hand-
kerchief at her eyes.

So long as she remained in this condition, Mr. Barkis gave
no sign of life whatever. He sat in his usual place and atti-
tude, like a great stuffed figure. But when she began to look
about her, and to speak to me, he nodded his head and grinned
several times. I have not the least notion at whoaa. or what
he meant by it.

" It's a beautiful day, Mr. Barkis 1 " I said- Â£2 act of
politeness.

/ BECOME NEGLECTED, AND AM PROVIDED FOR. 139

" It ain't bad," said Mr. Barkis, who generally qualified
his speech, and rarely committed himself.

" Peggotty is quite comfortable now, Mr. Barkis," I reÂ«
marked, for his satisfaction.

" Is she, though ? " said Mr. Barkis.

After reflecting about it, with a sagacious air, Mr. Barkis
eyed her, and said : âœ“

" Are you pretty comfortable ? "

Peggotty laughed, and answered in the affirmative.

" But really and truly, you know. Are you ? " growled
Mr. Barkis, sliding nearer to her on the seat, and nudging
her with his elbow. " Are you ? Really and truly, pretty
comfortable ? Are you ? Eh ? " At each of these inquiries
Mr. Barkis shuffled nearer to her, and gave her another nudge ;
so that at last we were all crowded together in the left-hand
corner of the cart, and I was so squeezed that I could hardly
bear it.

Peggotty calling his attention to my sufferings, Mr. Barkis
gave me a little more room at once, and got away by degrees.
But I could not help observing that he seemed to think he
had hit upon a wonderful expedient for expressing himself in
a neat, agreeable, and pointed manner, without the inconve-
nience of inventing conversation. He manifestly chuckled
over it for some time. By-and-by he turned to Peggotty again,
and repeating, " Are you pretty comfortable, though ? " bore
down upon us as before, until the breath was nearly wedged
out of my body. By-and-by he made another descent upon
us with the same inquiry, and the same result. At length, I
got up whenever I saw him coming, and standing on the foot-
board, pretended to look at the prospect ; after which I did
very well.

He was so polite as to stop at a public-house, expressly on*
our account, and entertain us with broiled mutton and beer.
Even when Peggotty was in the act of drinking, he was seized [
with one of those approaches, and almost choked her. But
as we drew nearer to the end of our journey, he had more to
do and less time for gallantry ; and when we got on Yarmouth
pavement, we were all too much shaken and jolted, I appre-
hend, to have any leisure for anything else.

Mr. Peggotty and Ham waited for us at the old place.
They received me and Peggotty in an affectionate manner,
and shook hands with Mr. Barkis, who, with his hat on the
very back of his head, and a shame-faced leer upon his coun-

140

DAVID COPPERFIELD

tenance, and pervading his very legs, presented but a vacant
appearance, I thought. They each took one of Peggotty's
trunks, and we were going away, when Mr. Barkis solemnly
made a sign to me with his forefinger to come under an arch-
way.

" I say," growled Mr. Barkis, "it was all right."

I looked up into his face, and answered, with an attempt
to be very profound : " Oh ! "

" It didn't come to an end there," said Mr. Barkis? nod^
ding confidentially. " It was all right."

Again I answered, " Oh ! "

" You know who was willin'," said my friend. " It was
Barkis, and Barkis only."
I nodded assent.

" It's all right," said Mr. Barkis, shaking hands ; " I'm a
friend of your'n. You made it all right, first. It's all right."

In his attempts to be particularly lucid, Mr. Barkis was so
extremely mysterious that I might have stood looking in his
face for an hour, and most assuredly should have got as much
information out of it as out of the face of a clock that had
stopped, but for Peggotty's calling me away. As we were
going along, she asked me what he had said ; and I told her
he had said it was all right.

" Like his impudence," said Peggotty, " but I don't mind
that ! Davy dear, what should you think if I was to think of
being married ? "

" Why â€” I suppose you would like me as much then, Peg-
gotty, as you do now ? " I returned, after a little consideration.

Greatly to the astonishment of the passengers in the street,
as well as of her relations going on before, the good soul was.
obliged to stop and embrace me on the spot, with many pro-
testations of her unalterable love.

Tell me what should you say, darling ? " she asked again,
when this was over, and we were walking on.

" If you were thinking of being married â€” to Mr. Barkis,
Peggotty ? "

"Yes," said Peggotty.

" I should think it would be a very good thing. For then
you know, Peggotty, you would always have the horse and cart
to bring you over to see me, and could come for nothing, and
be sure of coming."

" The sense of the dear ? " cried Peggotty. " What I have
been thinking of, this month back ! Yes, my precious ; and

J BECOME NEGLECTED, AND AM PROVIDED FOR. I41

I think I should be more independent altogether, you see ; let
alone my working with a better heart in my own house, than
I could in anybody else's now. I don't know what I might
be fit for, now, as a servant to a stranger. And I shall be
always near my pretty's resting-place," said Peggotty, musing,
:t and be able to see it when I like ; and when / lie down to
rest, I may be laid not far off from my darling girlC"

We neither of us said anything for a little while.

" But I wouldn't so much as give it another thought,'5 said
Peggotty, cheerily, " if my Davy was anyways against it â€” no'
if I had been asked in church thirty times three times over,
and was wearing out the ring in my pocket."

" Look at me, Peggotty," I replied, " and see if I am not
really glad, and don't truly wish it ! " As indeed I did, with
all my heart.

" Well, my life," said Peggotty, giving me a squeeze, " 1
have thought of it night and day, every way I can, and I hope
the right wray; but I'll think of it again, and speak to my
brother about it, and in the meantime we'll keep it to ourselves,
Davy, you and me. Barkis is a good plain creatur'," said
Peggotty, "and if I tried to do my duty by him, I think it
would be my fault if I wasn't â€” if I wasn't pretty comfortable,"
said Peggotty, laughing heartily.

This quotation from Mr. Barkis was so appropriate, and
tickled us both so much, that we laughed again and again, and
were quite in a pleasant humor when we came within view of
Mr. Peggotty's cottage.

It looked just the same, except that it may, perhaps, have
shrunk a little in my eyes ; and Mrs. Gummidge was waiting
at the door as if she had stood there ever since. All within
was the same, down to the seaweed in the blue mug in my
bedroom. I went into the out-house to look about me ; and
the very same lobsters, crabs, and crawfish possessed by the
same desire to pinch the world in general, appeared to be in
the same state of conglomeration in the same old corner.

But there was no little Em'ly to be seen, so I asked Mr.
Peggotty where she was.

" She's at school, sir," said Mr. Peggotty, wiping the heat
consequent on the porterage of Peggotty's box, from his
forehead ; " she'll be home." looking at the Dutch clock,
u in from twenty minutes to half-an-hour's time. We all
on us feel the loss of her, bless ye 1 "

Mrs. Gummidge moaned.

142

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Cheer up, Mawther ! " cried Mr. Peggotty.

" I feel it more than anybody else," said Mrs. Gum
midge : " I'm a lone lorn creetur', and she used to be a'most
the only think that didn't go contrairy with me."

Mrs. Gummidge, whimpering and shaking her head, ap-
plied herself to blowing the fire. Mr. Peggotty, looking
round upon us while she was so engaged, said in a low voice,
which he shaded with his hand : " The old 'un ! " From this
I rightly conjectured that no improvement had taken place
since my last visit in the state of Mrs. Gummidge's spirits.

Now, the whole place was, or it should have been, quite
as delightful a place as ever ; and yet it did not impress me
in the same way. I felt rather disappointed with it. Perhaps
it was because little Em'ly was not at home. I knew the way
by which she would come, and presently found myself stroll-
ing along the path to meet her.

A figure appeared in the distance before long, and I soon
knew it to be Em'ly, who was a little creature still in stature,
though she was grown. But when she drew nearer, and I
saw her blue eyes looking bluer, and her dimpled face look-
ing brighter, and her whole self prettier and gayer, a curious
feeling came over me that made me pretend not to know her,
and pass by as if I were looking at some thing a long way off.
I have done such a thing since in later life, or I am mistaken.

Little Em'ly didn't care a bit. She saw me well enough ;
but instead of turning round and calling after me, ran away
laughing. This obliged me to run after her, and she ran so
fast that we were very near the cottage before I caught, her.

" Oh, it's you, is it ? " said little Em'ly.

" Why, you knew who it was, Em'ly," said I.

" And didn't you know who it was ? " said Em'ly. I was
going to kiss her, but she covered her cherry lips with her
aands, and said she wasn't a baby now, and ran away, laugh
mg more than ever, into the house.

She seemed to delight in teasing me, which was a change
in her I wondered at very much. The tea-table was ready,
and our little locker was put out in its old place, but instead
of coming to sit by me, she went and bestowed her company
upon that grumbling Mrs. Gummidge ; and on Mr. Peggotty's
inquiring why, rumpled her hair all over her face to hide it;
and would do nothing but laugh.

" A little puss it is ! " said Mr. Peggotty, patting her with
his great hand.

(BECOME NEGLECTED, AND AM PROVIDED FOR. 143

" So sh' is ! so sh' is I" cried Ham. " Mas'r Davy bor,
so sh' is ! " and he sat and chuckled at her for some time, in
a state of mingled admiration and delight, that made his face
a burning red.

Little Em'ly was spoiled by them all, in fact j and by no
one more than Mr. Peggotty himself, whom she could have
coaxed into any thing by only going and laying her cheek
against his rough whisker. That was my opinion, at least,
Â»v!ien I saw her do it ; and I held Mr. Peggotty to be thor-
oughly in the right. But she was so affected and sweet-
natured, and had such a pleasant manner of being both
sly and shy at once, that she captivated me more than ever.

She was tender-hearted, too ; for when, as we sat round
the fire after tea, an allusion was made by Mr. Peggotty over
his pipe to the loss I had sustained, the tears stood in her
eyes, and she looked at me so kindly across the table, that I
felt quite thankful to her.

" Ah ! " said Mr. Peggotty, taking up her curls, and run-
ning them over his hand like water, " here's another orphan,
you see, sir. And here," said Mr. Peggotty, giving Ham a
back-handed knock in the chest, " is another of 'm, though he
don't look much like it."

" If I had you for my guardian, Mr. Peggotty," said I,
shaking my head, " I don't think I should feel much like it."

" Well said, Mas'r Davy, bor ! " cried Ham in an ecstasy.
" Hoorah ! Well said ! Nor more you wouldn't ! Hor J
Hor!" â€” Here he returned Mr. Peggotty's back-hander, and
little Em'ly got up and kissed Mr. Peggotty.

" And how's your friend, sir ? " said Mr. Peggotty to me.

" Steerforth ? " said I.

" That's the name ! " cried Mr. Peggotty, turning to Ham.
u I knowed it was something in our way."

" You said it was Rudderford," observed Ham, laughing.

" Well ! " retorted Mr. Peggotty. " And ye steer with ;
rudder, don't ye ? It ain't fur off. How is he, sir ? "

" He was very well indeed when I came away, Mr. Peg-
gotty."

" There's a friend ! " said Mr. Peggotty, stretching out
his pipe. " There's a friend, if you talk of friends ! Why,
Lord love my heart alive, if it ain't a treat to look at him ! "

" He is very handsome, is he not ? " said I, my heart
farming with this praise.

"Handsome!" cried Mr. Peggotty. "He stands up to

144

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

you like â€” like a â€” why I don't know what he don't stand up to
you like. He's so bold ! "

" Yes ! That's just his character," said I. " He's as
brave as a lion, and you can't think how frank he is, Mr.
Peggotty."

"And I do suppose, now," said Mr. Peggotty, looking at
me through the smoke of his pipe, " that in the way of book
laming he'd take the wind out of a'most any thing."

" Yes," said I, delighted; "he knows every thing. He is
astonishingly clever."

" There's a friend ! " murmured Mr. Peggotty, with a
grave toss of his head.

" Nothing seems to cost him any trouble," said I. " He
knows a task if he only looks at it. He is the best cricketer
you ever saw. He will give you almost as many men as you
like at draughts, and beat you easily."

Mr. Peggotty gave his head another toss, as much as to
say : " Of course he will."

" He is such a speaker," I pursued, "that he can win any-
body over ; and I don't know what you'd say if you were to
hear him sing, Mr. Peggotty."

Mr. Peggotty gave his head another toss, as much as to
say : " I have no doubt of it."

" Then, he's such a generous, fine, noble fellow," said I,
quite carried away by my favorite theme, " that it's hardly
possible to give him as much praise as he deserves. I am
sure I can never feel thankful enough for the generosity with
which he has protected me, so much younger and lower in the
school than himself."

I was running on, very fast indeed, when my eyes rested
on little Em'ly's face, which was bent forward over the table,
listening with the deepest attention, her breath held, her blue
eyes sparkling like jewels, and the color mantling in her
cheeks. She looked so extraordinarily earnest and pretty,
that I stopped in a sort of wonder ; and they all observed her
at the same time, for as I stopped, they laughed and looked
at her.

" Em'ly is like me," said Peggotty, " and would like to see
him."

Em ly was confused by our all observing her, and hung
down her head, and her face was covered with blushes. Glanc-
ing up presently through her stray curls, and seeing that we
-.ere all looking at her still (I am sure I, for one, cculd have

/ BECOME NEGLECTED, A1VD A. If PROVIDED FOR. I4S

looked at her for hours), she ran away, and kept away till it
was nearly bedtime.

I lay down in the old little bed in the stern of tne boat,
and the wind camt; moaning on across the flat as it had done
before. But I could not help fancying, now, that it moaned
of those* who were gone ; and instead of thinking that the sea
might rise in the night and float the boat away, I. thought of
the sea that had risen, since I last heard those sounds, and
drowned my happy home. I recollect, as the wind and water
began to sound fainter in my ears, putting a short clause into
my prayers, petitioning that I might grow up to marry little
Em'ly, and so dropping lovingly asleep.

The clays passed pretty much as they had passed before,
except â€” it was a great exception â€” that little Em'ly and I sel-
dom wandered on the beach now. She had tasks to learn,
and needlework to do ; and was absent during a great part of
each day. But I felt that we should not have had these
old wanderings, even if it had been otherwise. Wild and full
of childish whims as Em'ly was, she was more of a little woman
than I h-J supposed She seemed to have got a great dis-
tance aAay from me, in little more than a year. She liked
me, but she laughed at me, and tormented me ; and when I
went to meet her, stole home another way, and was laughing
at the door when I came back, disappointed. The best times
were when she sat quietly at work in the doorway, and I sat
on the wooden steps at her feet, reading to her. It seems to
me at this hour, that I have never seen such sunlight as on
those bright April afternoons ; that I have never seen such a
sunny little figure as I used to see, sitting in the doorway of
the old boat ; that I have never beheld such sky, such water,
such glorified ships sailing away into golden air.

On the very first evening after our arrival, Mr. Barkis ap-
peared in an exceedingly vacant and awkward condition, and
with a bundle of oranges tied up in a Handkerchief. As he
made no allusion of any kind to this property, he was supposed
to have left \\ behind him by accident when he went away \
until Ham, running after him to restore it, came back with the
information that it was intended for Peggotty. After that oc-
casion he appeared every evening at exactly the same hour,
and always with a little bundle, to which he never alluded, and
which he regularly put behind the door, and left there. These
offerings of affection were of a most various and eccentric de-
scription. Among them I remember a double set of pigs'

146

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

trotters, a huge pin-cushion, half a bushel or so ot apples, a
pair of jet earrings, some Spanish onions, a box of dominoes,
a canary bird and cage, and a leg of pickled pork.

Mr. Barkis's wooing, as I remember it, was altogether ol
a peculiar kind. He very seldom said anything ; but would
sit by the fire in much the same attitude as he sat in his cart,
and stare heavily at Peggotty, who was opposite. One night,
being, as I suppose, inspired by love, he made a dart at the
bit of wax candle she kept for her thread, and put it in his
waistcoat-pocket and carried it off. After that, his great de-
light was to produce it when it was wanted, sticking to the
lining of his pocket, in a partially melted state, and pocket it
again when it was done with. He seemed to enjoy himself
very much, and not to feel at all called upon to talk. Even
when he took Peggotty out for a walk on the flats, he had no
uneasiness on that head, I believe ; contenting himself with
now and then asking her if she was pretty comfortable ; and ]
remember that sometimes, after he was gone, Peggotty would
throw her apron over her face, and laugh for half-an-hour.
Indeed, we were all more or less amused, except that miser-
able Mrs. Gummidge, whose courtship would appear to have
been of an exactly parallel nature, she was so continually re-
minded by these transactions of the old one.

At length, when the term of my visit was nearly expired,
it was given out that Peggotty and Mr. Barkis were going to
make a day's holiday together, and that little Em'ly and I
were to accompany them. I had but a broken sleep the night
before, in anticipation of the pleasure of a whole day with
Em'ly. We were all astir betimes in the morning ; and while
we were yet at breakfast, Mr. Barkis appeared in the distance,
driving a chaise-cart towards the object of his affections.

Peggotty was dressed as usual, in her neat and quiet mourn-
ing ; but Mr. Barkis bloomed in a new blue coat, of which the
taiior had given him such good measure, that the cuffs would
have rendered gloves unnecessary in the coldest weather, while
the collar was so high that it pushed his hair up on end on the
t.cp of his head. His bright buttons, too, were of the largest
size. Rendered complete by drab pantaloons and a buff waist-
coat, I thought Mr. Barkis a phenomenon of respectability.

When we were all in a bustle outside the door, I found
that Mr. Peggotty was prepared with an old shoe, which was
to be thrown after us for luck, and which he offered to Mrs
Gummidge for that purpose.

J BECOME NEGLECTED, AND AM PROVIDED FOR. 147

" No. It had better be done by somebody else, Dan'l,"
said Mrs. Gummidge. " I'm a lone lorn creetur' myself, and
everythink that reminds me of creeturs that ain't lone and
'orn, goes contrairy with me."

" Come, old gal ! " cried Mr. Peggotty. " Take and heave

it"

"No, Dan'l," returned Mrs. Gummidge, whimpering und
shaking her head. " If I felt less, I could do more. You
don't feel like me, Dan'l ; thinks don't go contrairy with you,
nor you with them ; you had better do it yourself."

But here Peggotty, who had been going about from one to
another in a hurried way, kissing everybody, called out from
the cart, in which we all were by this time (Em'ly and I on
two little chairs, side by side), that Mrs. Gummidge must do it.
So Mrs. Gummidge did it â€¢ and, I am sorry to relate, cast a
damp upon the festive character of our departure, by immedi-
ately bursting into tears, and sinking subdued into the arms of
Ham, with the declaration that she knowed she was a burden,
and had better be carried to the House at once. Which I
really thought was a .sensible idea, that Ham might have acted
on.

Away we went, however, on our holiday excursion ; and
the first thing we did was to stop at a church, where Mr.
Barkis tied the horse to some rails, and went in with Peggotty,
leaving Em'ly and me alone in the chaise. I took that occa-
sion to put my arm round Ern'ly's waist, and propose that as I
was going away so very soon now, we should determine to be
very affectionate to one another, and very happy, all day.
Little Em'ly consenting, and allowing me to kiss her, I became
desperate ; informing her, I recollect, that I never could love
another, and that I was prepared to shed the blood of any-
body who should aspire to her affections.

How merry little Em'ly made herself about it ! With what
a demure assumption of being immensely older and wiser than
I, the fairy little woman said I was " a silly boy ; " and then
laughed so charmingly that I forgot the pain of being called
by that disparaging name, in the pleasure of looking at her.

Mr. Barkis and Peggotty were a good while in the church,
but came out at last, and then we drove away into the country.
As we were going along, Mr. Barkis turned to me, and said,
with a wink, â€” by-the-by, I should hardly have thought, before^
that he could wink :

" What name was it as I wrote up in the cart ? 99

1 48

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Clara Peggotty," I answered.

" What name would it be as I should write up now, if there
was a tilt here ? "

" Clara Peggotty, again ? " I suggested.

" Clara Peggotty Barkis ! " he returned, and burst into a
Toar of laughter that shook the chaise.

In a word, they were married, and had gone into the
church for no other purpose. Peggotty was resolved that it
should be quietly done ; and the clerk had given her away,
and there had been no witnesses of the ceremony. She was
a little confused when Mr. Barkis made this abrupt announce-
ment of their union, and could not hug me enough in token
of her unimpaired affection ; but she soon became herself
again, and said she was very glad it was over.

We drove to a little inn in a bye road, where we were ex-
pected, and where we had a very comfortable dinner, and
passed the day with great satisfaction. If Peggotty had
been married every day for the last ten years, she could
hardly have been more at her ease about it ; it made no
sort of difference in her : she was just the same as ever, and
went out for a stroll with little Em'ly and me before tea,
while Mr. Barkis philosophically smoked his pipe, and en-
joyed himself, I suppose, with the contemplation of his hap-
piness. If so, it sharpened his appetite ; for I distinctly
called to mind that, although he had eaten a good deal of
pork and greens at dinner, and had finished ofT with a fowl or
two, he was obliged to have cold boiled bacon for tea, and
disposed of a large quantity without any emotion.

I have often thought, since, what an odd, innocent, out-of-
the-way kind of wedding it must have been ! We got into the
chaise again soon after dark, and drove cosily back, looking
up at the stars, and talking about them. I was their chief
exponent, and opened Mr. Barkis's mind to an amazing ex-
tent. I told him all I knew, but he would have believed any-
thing I might have taken it into my head to impart to him ;
for he had a profound veneration for my abilities, and in-
formed his wife in my hearing, on that very occasion, that I
was " a young Roeshus " â€” by which I think he meant prodigy.

When we had exhausted the subject of the stars, or rather
when I had exhausted the mental faculties of Mr. Barkis, little
Em'ly and I made a cloak of an old wrapper, and sat under
it for the rest of the journey. Ah, how I loved her ! What
happiness (I thought) if we were married, and were going

f BECOME NEGLECTED, AND AM PROVIDED FOR. 149

away anywhere to live among the trees and in the fields, never
growing older, never growing wiser, children ever, rambling
hand in hand through sunshine and among flowery meadows,
laying down our heads on moss at night, in a sweet sleep of
purity and peace, and buried by the birds when we were dead \
Some such picture, with no real world in it, bright with the
light of our innocence, and vague as the stars afar off, was in
my mind all the way. I am glad to think there were two such
guileless hearts at Peggotty's marriage as little Em'ly's and
mine. I am glad to think the Loves and Graces took such
airy forms in its homely procession.

Well, we came to the old boat again in good time at night ;
and there Mr. and Mrs. Barkis bade us good bye, and drove
away snugly to their own home. I felt then, for the first time,
that I had lost Peggotty. I should have gone to bed with a
sore heart indeed under any other roof but that which shel-
tered little Em'ly's head.

Mr. Peggotty and Ham knew what was in my thoughts as
Well as I did, and were ready with some supper and their hos-
pitable faces to drive it away. Little Em'ly came and sat be-
side me on the locker for the only time in all that visit; and
it was altogether a wonderful close to a wonderful clay.

It wras a night tide ; and soon after we went to bed, Mr.
Peggotty and Ham went out to fish. I felt very brave at
being left alone in the solitary house, the protector of Em'ly
and Mrs. Gummidge, and only wished that a lion or a serpent,
or any ill-disposed monster, would make an attack upon us,
that I might destroy him, and cover myself with glory. But
as nothing of the sort happened to be walking about on Yar-
mouth flats that night, I provided the best substitute I could
by dreaming of dragons until morning.

With morning came Peggotty ; who called to me, as usual>
under my window, as if Mr. Barkis the carrier had been from
first to last a dream too. After breakfast she took me to her
own home, and a beautiful little home it was. Of all the
movables in it, I must have been most impressed by a cer
tain old bureau of some dark wood in the parlor (the tile-
floored kitchen was the general sitting room), with a retreat-
ing top which opened, let down, and became a desk, within
which was a large quarto edition of Fox's Book of Martyrs.
This precious volume, of which I do not recollect one word, I
immediately discovered and immediately applied myself to ;
and I never visited the house afterwards, but I kneeled on a

DAVID COPFERFIELD.

chair, opened the cacket where this gem was enshrined, spread
my arms over the desk, and fell to devouring the book afresh
I was chiefly edified, I am afraid, by the pictures, which were
numerous and represented all kinds of dismal horrors ; but
the Martyrs and Feggotty's house have been inseparable in
my mind ever since, and are now.

I took leave of Mr. Peggotty and Ham, and Mrs. Gum-
midge, and little Em'ly, that day ; and passed the night at
Peggotty's in a little room in the roof (with the crocodile book
on a shelf by the bed's head), which was to be always mine,
Peggotty said, and should always be kept for me in exactly
the same state.

" Young or old, Davy dear, as long as I am alive and
have this house over my head," said Peggotty, " you shall
find it as if I expected you here directly minute. I shall keep
it every day, as I used to keep your old little room, my dar-
ling ; and if you was to go to China, you might think of it as
being kept just the same, all the time you were away."

I felt the truth and constancy of my dear old nurse with
all my heart, and thanked her as well as I could. That was
not very well, for she spoke to me thus, with her arms round
my neck, in the morning, and I was going home in the morn-
ing, and I went home in the morning, with herself and Mr.
Barkis in the cart. They left me at the gate, not easily or
lightly ; and it was a strange sight to me to see the cart go
on, taking Peggotty away, and leaving me under the old elm-
trees looking at the house in which there was no face to look
on mine with love or liking any more.

And now I fell into a state of neglect, which I cannot look
back upon without compassion. I fell at once into a solitary
condition, â€” apart from all friendly notice, apart from the so-
ciety of all other boys of my own age, apart from all compan-
ionship but my own spiritless thoughts, â€” which seems to cast
its gloom upon this paper as I write.

What would I have given, to have been sent to the hardest
school that ever was kept ! â€” to have been taught something
anyhow, anywhere ! No such hope dawned upon me. They
disliked me ; and they sullenly, sternly, steadily overlooked
me. I think Mr. Murdstone's means were straitened at about
this time ; but it is little to the purpose. He could not bear
me ; and in putting me from him, he tried, as I believe, to put
away the notion that I had any claim upon him â€” and suo
ceeded.

1 BECOME NEGLECTED, AND AM PROVIDED FOR. iijj

I was not actively ill-used. I was not beaten, or starved ;
but the wrong that was done to me had no intervals of relent-
ing, and was done in a systematic, passionless manner. Day
after day, week after week, month after month, I was coldly
neglected. I wonder sometimes, when I think of it, what they
would have done if I had been taken with an illness ; whether
I should have lain down in my lonely room, and languished
through it in my usual solitary way, or whether anybody would
have helped me out.

When Mr. and Miss Murdstone were at home, I took my
meals with them ; in their absence, I ate and drank by my-
self. At all times I lounged about the house and neighbor-
hood quite disregarded, except that they were jealous of my
making any friends ; thinking, perhaps, that if I did, I might
complain to some one. For this reason, though Mr. Chillip
often asked me to go and see him (he was a widower, having,
some years before that, lost a little small light-haired wife,
whom I can just remember connecting in my own thoughts
with a pale tortoise-shell cat), it was but seldom that I en-
joyed the happiness of passing an afternoon in his closet of a
surgery ; reading some book that was new to me, with the
smell of the whole pharmacopoeia coming up to my nose, or
pounding something in a mortar under his mild directions.

For the same reason, added no doubt to the old dislike
of her, I was seldom allowed to visit Peggotty. Faithful to
her promise, she either came to see me, or met me somewhere
near, once every week, and never empty-handed ; but many
and bitter were the disappointments I had, in being refused
permission to pay a visit to her at her house. Some few
times, however, at long intervals, I was allowed to go there !
and then I found out that Mr. Barkis was something of a
miser, or, as Peggotty dutifully expressed it, was " a little
near," and kept a heap of money in a box under his bed,
which he pretended was only full of coats and trousers. In
this coffer, his riches hid themselves with such a tenacious
modesty, that the smallest instalments could only be tempted
itDut by artifice ; so that Peggotty had to prepare a long and
ifilaborate scheme, a very Gunpowder Plot, for every Satur-
day's expenses.

All this time I was so conscious of the waste of any prom-
ise I had given, and of my being utterly neglected, that I
should have been perfectly miserable, I have no doubt, but for
the old books. They were my only comfort ; and I was as

DAVID CCPPERFIELD.

true to them as they were to me, and read them over and over
I don't know how many times more.

I now approach a period of my life which I can never lose
the remembrance of, while I remember anything ; and the rec-
ollection of which has often, without my invocation, come be*
fore me like a ghost, and haunted happier times.

I had been out, one day, loitering somewhere, in the list-
less meditative manner that my way of life engendered, when,
turning the corner of a lane near our house, I came upon Mr.
Murdstone walking with a gentleman. I was confused, and
was going by them, when the gentleman cried :

" What ! Brooks ! "

" No, sir, David Copperfleld," I said.

" Don't tell me. You are Brooks," said the gentleman,
" You are Brooks of Sheffield. That's your name."

At these words, I observed the gentleman more attentively.
His laugh coming to my remembrance too, I knew him to be
Mr. Quinion, whom I had gone over to Lowestoft with Mr.
Murdstone to see, before â€” it is no matter â€” I need not recall
when.

" And how do you get on, and where are you being edu-
cated, Brooks ? " said Mr. Quinion.

He had put his hand upon my shoulder, and turned me
about, to walk with them. I did not know what to reply, and
glanced dubiously at Mr. Murdstone.

" He is at home at present," said the latter. " He is not
being educated anywhere. I don't know what to do with him.
He is a difficult subject."

That old, double look was on me for a moment; and
then his eye darkened with a frown, as it turned, in its aver-
sion, elsewhere.

" Humph ! " said Mr. Quinion, looking at us both, I
thought. " Fine weather."

Silence ensued, and I was considering how I could best
disengage my shoulder from his hand, and go away, when he
said :

" I suppose you are a pretty sharp fellow still ? Eh,,
Brooks ? "

"Ay! He is sharp enough," said Mr. Murdstone, impa-
tiently. " You had better let him go. He will not thank you
for troubling him."

On this hint, Mr. Quinion released me, and I made the
best of my way home. Looking back as I turned into the

BECOME NEGLECTED, AND AM PEOVJDED FOR. j5j

front garden, I saw Mr. Murdstone leaning against the wick-
et of the churchyard, and Mr. Quinion talking to him. They
were both looking after me, and I felt that they were speaking
of me.

Mr. Quinion lay at our house that night. After breakfast,
xhe next morning, I had put my chair away, and was going out
of the room, when Mr. Murdstone called me back. He then
gravely repaired to another table, where his sister sat herself
at her desk. Mr. Quinion, with his hands in his pockets,
stood looking out of window ; and I stood looking at them all.

" David," said Mr. Murdstone, "to the young this is a
world for action ; not for moping and droning in."

â€” " As you do," added his sister.

''Jane Murdstone, leave it to me, if you please. I say,
David, to the young this is a world for action, and not for
moping and droning in. It is especially so for a young boy of
your disposition, which requires a great deal of correcting ;
and to which no greater service can be done than to force it
to conform to the ways of the working world, and to bend it
and break it."

" For stubbornness won't do here," said his sister. " What
it wants is, to be crushed. And crushed it must be. Shall
be, too ! "

He gave her a look, half in remonstrance, half in approval,
and went on :

u I suppose you know, David, that I am not rich. AV*ny
rate, you know it now. You have received some consid-
erable education already. Education is costly ; and even if it
were not, and I could afford it, I am of opinion that it would
not be at all advantageous to you to be kept at a school. What
is before you, is a fight with the world ; and the sooner you
begin it, the better."'

I think it occurred to me that I had already begun it, in
my poor way ; but it occurs to me now, whether or no.

" You have heard ' the counting-house ' mentioned some
times," said Mr. Murdstone.

"The counting-house, sir? " I repeated.

" Of Murdstone and Grinby, in the wine trade," he re-
plied.

I suppose I looked uncertain, for he went on hastily :
" You have heard the ' counting-house ' mentioned, or tha
business, or the cellars, or the wharf, or something about it''
"I think I have hearr1 "he business mentioned, sir," I said,

*54

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

remembering what I vaguely knew of his and his sister's re
sources. " But I don't know when."

" It does not matter when," he returned. " Mr. Quinion
manages that business."

I glanced at the latter deferentially as he stood looking
out of the window.

" Mr. Quinion suggests that it gives employment to some
other boys, and that he sees no reason why it shouldn't, on
the same terms, give employment to you."

" He having," Mr. Quinion observed in a low voice, and
half turning round, " no other prospect, Murdstone."

Mr. Murdstone, with an impatient, even an angry gesture,
resumed, without noticing what he had said :

" Those terms are, that you will earn enough for yourself
to provide for your eating and drinking, and pocket-money.
Your lodging (which I have arranged for) will be paid by me.
So will your washing."

" Which will be kept down to my estimate," said his sister.

" Your clothes will be looked after for you, too," said Mr.
Murdstone ; " as you will not be able, yet awhile, to get them
for yourself. So you are now going to London, David, with
Mr. Quinion, to begin the world on your own account."

" In short, you are provided for," observed his sister ;
"and you will please to do your duty."

Though I quite understood that the purpose of this an-
nouncement was to get rid of me, I have no distinct remem-
brance whether it pleased or frightened me. My impression
is, that I was in a state of confusion about it, and, oscillating
between the two points, touched neither. Nor had I much
time for the clearing of my thoughts, as Mr. Quinion was to
go upon the morrow.

Behold me, on the morrow, in a much-worn little white hat,
with a black crape round it for my mother, a black jacket, and
a pair of hard stiff corduroy trousers â€” which Miss Murdstone
considered the best armor for the legs in that fight with the
world which was now to come off â€” behold me so attired, and
with my little worldly all before me in a small trunk, sitting, a
lone lorn child (as Mrs. Gummidge might have said), in the
post-chaise that was carrying Mr. Quinion to the London
coach at Yarmouth ! See, how our house and church are
lessening in the distance ; how the grave beneath the tree is
blotted out by intervening objects ; how the spire points ur>
ward from my old playground no more, and the sky is empty I

/ BE GIN LIFE ON MY O WN 'A CCO UNT. 1 5 5

CHAPTER XI.

I BEGIN LIFE ON MY OWN ACCOUNT, AND DON'T LIKE IT.

I know enough of the world now, to have almost lost the
capacity of being much surprised by anything ; but it is matter
of some surprise to me, even now, that I can have been so
easily thrown away at such an age. A child of excellent
abilities, and with strong powers of observation, quick, eager,
delicate, and soon hurt bodily or mentally, it seems wonder-
ful to me that nobody should have made any sign in my be-
half. But none was made ; and I became at ten years old, a
little laboring hind in the service of Murdstone and Grinby.

Murdstone and Grinby's warehouse was at the waterside.
It was down in Blackfriars. Modern improvements have
altered the place ; but it was the last house at the bottom of
a narrow street, curving down hill to the river, with some stairs
at the end, where people took boat. It was a crazy old house
with a wharf of its own, abutting on the water when the tide
was in, and on the mud when the tide was out, and literally
overrun with rats. Its panelled rooms, discolored with the
dirt and smoke of a hundred years, I dare say ; its decaying
floors and staircase ; the squeaking and scuffling of the old
gray rats down in the cellars ; and the dirt and rottenness of
the place are things, not of many years ago, in my mind, but
of the present instant. They are all before me, just as they
were in the evil hour when I went among them for the first
time, with my trembling hand in Mr. Quinionrs.

Murdstone and Grinby's trade was among a good many
kinds of people, but an important branch of it was the supply
of wines and spirits to certain packet ships. I forget now
where they chiefly went, but I think there were some among
them that made voyages both to the East and West Indies.
I know that a great many empty bottles were one of the con-
sequences of this traffic, and that certain men and boys were
employed to examine them against the light, and reject those
that were flawed, and to rinse and wash them. When the
empty bottles ran short, there were labels to be pasted on full
ones, or corks to be fitted to them, or seals to be put upon the

DAVID COPPER FIELD.

corks, or finished bottles to be packed in casks. All this work
was my work, and of the boys employed upon it I was one.

There were three or four of us, counting me. My working
place was established in a corner of the warehouse, where Mr,
Quinion could see me, when he chose to stand up on the
bottom rail of his stool in the counting-house, and look at me
chrough a window above the desk. Hither, on the first morn-
ing of my so auspiciously beginning life on my own account,
the oldest of the regular boys was summoned to show me my
business. His name was Mick Walker, and he wore a ragged
apron and a paper cap. He informed me that his father was
a bargeman, and walked, in a black velvet head-dress, in the
Lord Mayor's show. He also informed me that our principal
associate would be another boy whom he introduced by the â€”
to me â€” extraordinary name of Mealy Potatoes. I discovered,
however, that this youth had not been christened by that
name, but that it had been bestowed upon him in the ware-
house, on account of his complexion, which was pale or mealy.
Mealy's father was a waterman, who had the additional dis-
tinction of being a fireman, and was engaged as such at one
of the large theatres ; where some young relation of Mealy's
â– â€” I think his little sister â€” did Imps in the Pantomimes.

No words can express the secret agony of my soul as I
sunk into this companionship ; compared these henceforth
every-day associates with those of my happier childhood â€” not
to say with Steerforth, Traddles, and the rest of those boys ;
and felt my hopes of growing up to be a learned and dis-
tinguished man crushed in my bosom. The deep remem-
brance of the sense I had, of being utterly without hope now ;
of the shame I felt in my position ; of the misery it was to my
young heart to believe that day by day what I had learned,
and thought, and delighted in, and raised my fancy and my
emulation up by, would pass away from me, little by little,
never to be brought back any more ; cannot be written. As
often as Mick Walker went away in the course of that fore-
noon, I mingled my tears with the water in which I was wash-
ing the bottles ; and sobbed as if there were a flaw in my own
breast, and it were in danger of bursting.

The counting-house clock was at half-past twelve, and there
was general preparation for going to dinner, when Mr. Quinion
tapped at the counting-house window, and beckoned to me to
go in. I went in, and found there a stoutish, middle-aged
person, in a brown surtout and black tights and shoes, with

I BEGIN LIFE ON MY OWN ACCOUNT.

no more hair upon his head (which was a large one, and very
shining) than there is upon an egg, and with a very extensive
face, which he turned full upon me. His clothes were shabby,
but he had an imposing shirt-collar on. He carried a jaunty
sort of a stick, with a large pair of rusty tassels to it ; and a
quizzing-glass hung outside his coat, â€” for ornament' I after-
wards found, as he very seldom looked through it, and couldn'tf
see anything when he did.

"This," said Mr. Quinion, in allusion to myself, " is he."

"This," said the stranger, with a certain condescending
roll in his voice, and a certain indescribable air of doing some-
thing genteel, which impressed me very much, " is Master
Copperfield. I hop; I see you well, sir? "

I said I was very well, and hoped he was. I was sufficient-
ly ill at ease, Heaven knows ; but it was not in my nature to
complain much at that time of my life, so I said I was very
well, and hoped he was.

" I am," said the stranger, " thank Heaven, quite well. I
have received a letter from Mr. Murclstone, in which he men-
tions that he would desire me to receive into an apartment in
the rear of my house, which is at present unoccupied â€” and is,
in short, to be let as a â€” in short," said the stranger, with a
smile and in a burst of confidence, " as a bedroom â€” the young
beginner whom I have now the pleasure to â€” " and the stranger
waved his hand, and settled his chin in his shirt collar.

" This is Mr. Micawber," said Mr. Quinion to me.

" Ahem ! " said the stranger, " that is my name."

" Mr. Micawber," said Mr. Quinion, " is known to Mr.
Murdstone. He takes orders for us on commission, when he
can get any. He has been written to by Mr. Murdstone, on the
subject of your lodgings, and he will receive you as a lodger."

" My address," said Mr. Micawber, " is Windsor Terrace,
City Road. I â€” in short," said Mr. Micawber, with the same
genteel air, and in another burst of confidence â€” " I live there."

I made him a bow.

" Under the impression," said Mr. Micawber, " that youi
peregrinations in this metropolis have not as yet been exten-
sive, and that you might have some difficulty in penetrating
the arcana of the Modern Babylon in the direction of the City
Road â€” in short," said Mr. Micawber, in another burst of con-
fidence, " that you might lose yourself â€” I shall be happy to
call this evening, and install you in the knowledge of the near
est way."

158

DAVID COPPERFIELD

I thanked him with all my heart, for it was friendly in hjifl
to offer to take that trouble.

" At what hour," said Mr. Micawber, "shall I "

" At about eight," said Mr. Quinion.

" At about eight," said Mr. Micawber. " I beg to wish
you good day, Mr. Quinion. I will intrude no longer."

So he put on his hat, and went out with his cane under h:Â£
arm ; very upright, and humming a tune when he was clear of
the counting-house.

Mr. Quinion then formally engaged me to be as useful as
1 could in the warehouse of Murdstone and Grinby, at a salary,
I think, of six shillings a week. I am not clear whether it
was six or seven. I am inclined to believe, from my uncer-
tainty on this head, that it was six at first and seven afterwards.
He paid me a week down (from his own pocket, I believe), and
I gave Mealy sixpence out of it to get my trunk carried to
Windsor Terrace at night, it being too heavy for my strength,
<small as it was. .1 paid sixpence more for my dinner, which
was a meat pie and a turn at a neighboring pump ; and passed
the hour which was allowed for that meal, in walking about
the streets.

At the appointed time in the evening, Mr. Micawber reap-
peared. I washed my hands and face, to do the greater
honor to his gentility, and we walked to our house, as I sup-
pose I must now call it, together ; Mr. Micawber impressing
the names of streets, and the shapes of corner houses upon
me, as we went along, that I might find my way back, easily,
in the morning.

Arrived at his house in Windsor Terrace (which I noticed
was shabby like himself, but also, like himself, made, all the
show it could), he presented me to Mrs. Micawber, a thin and
faded lady, not at all young, who was sitting in the parlor (the
first floor was altogether unfurnished, and the blinds were
kept down to delude the neighbors), with a baby at her breast.
This baby was one of twins ; and I may remark here that I
hardly ever, in all my experience of the family, saw both the
twins detached from Mrs. Micawber at the same time. One
of them was always taking refreshment.

There were two other children ; Master Micawber, aged
about four, and Miss Micawber, aged about three. These,
and a dark-complexioned young woman, with a habit of snort-
ing, who was servant to the family, and informed me, before
half-an-hour had expired, that she was " a Orfling," and came

/ BEGIN jzsFE ON MY OWN ACCOUlK T.

from St. Luke's workhouse, in the neighborhood, completed
the establishment. My room was at the top of the house, at
the back ; a close chamber, stencilled all over with an orna-
ment which my young imagination represented as a blue muf-
fin, and very scantily furnished.

" I never thought," said Mrs. Micawber, when she came
up, twin and all, to show me the apartment, and sat down to
take breath, "before I was married, when I lived with papa
and mama, that I should ever find it necessary to take a
lodger. But Mr. Micawber being in difficulties, all considera-
tions of private feeling must give way."

I said : " Yes, ma'am."

" Mr. Micawber's difficulties are almost overwhelming just
at present," said Mrs. Micawber ; " and whether it is possible
to bring him through them, I don't know. When I lived at
home with papa and mama, I really should have hardly un-
derstood what the word meant, in the sense in which I now
employ it, but experientia docet â€” as papa used to say."

I cannot satisfy myself whether she told me that Mr.
Micawber had been an officer in the Marines, or whether I
have imagined it. I only know that I believe to this hour
that he was in the Marines once upon a time, without know-
ing why. He was a sort of town traveller for a number of
miscellaneous houses, now ; but made little or nothing of it,.
I am afraid.

" If Mr. Micawber's creditors will not give him time," said
Mrs. Micawber, " they must take the consequences ; and the
sooner they bring it to an issue the better. Blood cannot be
obtained from a stor>, neither can anything on account be
obtained at present (not to mention law expenses) from Mr.
Micawber."

I never can quite understand whether my precocious self-
dependence confused Mrs. Micawber in reference to my age>
or whether she was so full of the subject that she would have
talked about it to the very twins if there had been nobody
else to communicate with, but this was the strain in which she
began, and she went on accordingly all the time I knew her.

Poor Mrs. Micawber ! She said she had tried to exert
herself ; and so, I have no doubt, she had. The centre of
the street-door was perfectly covered with a great brass-plate,
on which was engraved " Mrs. Micawber's Boarding Estab-
lishment for Young Ladies ; " but I never found that any young
lady had ever been to school there ; or that any young ladv

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

ever came, or proposed to come ; or that the least preparation
was ever made to receive any young lady. The only visitors I
ever saw or heard of, were creditors. They used to come at all
hours, and some of them were quite ferocious. One dirty-faced
man, I think he was a boot-maker, used to edge himself into the
passage as early as seven o'clock in the morning, and call up
the stairs to Mr. Micawber â€” " Come ! You ain't out yet, you
know. Pay us, will you ? Don't hide, you know ; that's
mean. I wouldn't be mean if I was you. Pay us, will you ?
You just pay us, d'ye hear ? Come ! " Receiving no answer
to these taunts, he would mount in his wrath to the words
*' swindlers " and " robbers ; " and these being ineffectual too,
would sometimes go to the extremity of crossing the street,
and roaring up at the windows of the second floor, where he
knew Mr. Micawber was. At these times, Mr. Micawber
would be transported with grief and mortification, even to the
length (as I was once made aware by a scream from his wife)
of making motions at himself with a razor; but within half an
hour afterwards, he would* polish up his shoes with extraordi-
nary pains, and go out, humming a tune with a greater air of
gentility than ever. Mrs. Micawber was quite as elastic. I
have known her to be thrown into fainting fits by the king's
taxes at three o'clock, and to eat lamb-chops breaded, and
drink warm ale (paid for with tv/o teaspoons that had gone to
the pawnbroker's) at four. On one occasion, when an execu-
tion had just been put in, coming home through some chance
as early as six o'clock, I saw her lying (of course with a twin)
under the grate in a swoon, with her hair all torn ' about hei
face ; but I never knew her more cheerful than she was, that
very same night, over a veal-cutlet before the kitchen fire,
telling me stories about her papa and mama, and the com-
pany they used to keep.

In this house, and with this family, I passed my leisure
time. My own exclusive breakfast of a penny loaf and a
pennyworth of milk, I provided myself, I kept another small
loaf, and a modicum of cheese, on a particular shelf of a par*
ticular cupboard, to make my supper on when I came back at
night. This made a hole in the six or seven shillings, I know
well ; and I was out at the warehouse all day, and had to sup-
port myself on that money all the week. From Monday morn-
ing until Saturday night, I had no advice, no counsel, no en
couragement, no consolation, no assistance, no support, of any
kind, from any one, that I can call to mind, as I hope to go to

/ BEGIN LIFE ON MY O WN -A CCO UNT. j 6 1

I was so young and childish, and so little qualified â€” how
could I be otherwise ? â€” to undertake the whole charge of my
own existence, that often, in going to Murdstone and Grinby's,
of a morning, I could not resist the stale pastry put out for
sale at half-price at the pastrycooks' doors, and spent in that,
the money I should have kept for my dinner. The'n, I went
'without my dinner, or bought a roll or a slice of pudding. I
remember two pudding-shops, between which I was divided,
according to my finances. One was in a court close to St.
Martin's Church â€” at the back of the church, â€” which is now
removed altogether. The pudding at that shop was made of
currants, and was rather a special pudding, but was dear, two-
pennyworth not being larger than a pennyworth of more
ordinary pudding. A good shop for the latter was in the
Strand â€” somewhere in that part which has been rebuilt since.
It was a stout pale pudding, heavy and flabby, and with great
flat raisins in it, stuck in whole at wide distances apart. It
came up hot at about my time every clay, and many a day did
I dine off it. When I dined regularly and handsomely, I had
a saveloy and a penny-loaf, or a fourpenny plate of red beef
from a cook's shop ; or a plate of bread and cheese and a
glass of beer, from a miserable old public-house opposite our
place of business, called the Lion, or the Lion and something
else that I have forgotten. Once, I remember carrying my
own bread (which I had brought from home in the morning)
under my arm, wrapped in a piece of paper, like a book, and
going to a famous alamonde beef-house near Drury Lane, and
ordering a " small plate " of that delicacy to eat with it.
What the waiter thought of such a strange little apparition
coming in all alone, I don't know ; but I can see him now,
staring at me as I ate my dinner, and bringing up the other
waiter to look. I gave him a halfpenny for himself, and I
wish he hadn't taken it.

We had half-an-hour, I think, for tea. When I had money
enough, I used to get half-a-pint of ready-made coffee and a
slice of bread and butter. When I had none, I used to look
at a venison-shop in Fleet-street ; or I have strolled, at such
a time, as far as Covent Garden Market, and stared at the
pine-apples. I was fond of wandering about the Adelphi, be-
cause it was a mysterious place, with those dark arches. I
see myself emerging one evening from some of these arches,
on a little public-house close to the river, with an open space
before it, where some coal-heavers were dancing ; to look at

* 162

DAVID C0PPERF1ELD.

whom I sat down upon a bench. I wonder what they though*
of me J

I was such a child, and so little, that frequently when I
went into the bar of a strange public-house for a glass of ale
or porter, to moisten what I had had for dinner, they were
afraid to give^it me. I remember one hot evening I went into
the bar of a public-house and said to the landlord :

" What is your best â€” your very best â€” ale a glass ? " For
it was a special occasion. I don't know what. It may have
been my birth-day.

" Twopence-halfpenny," says the landlord, " is the price
of the Genuine Stunning ale."

" Then," says I, producing the money, " just draw me a
glass of the Genuine Stunning, if you please, with a good head
to it."

The landlord looked at me in return over the bar, from
head to foot, with a strange smile on his face ; and instead of
drawing the beer, looked round the screen and said some-
thing to his wife. She came out from behind it, with her
work in her hand, and joined him in surveying me. Here we
stand, all three, before me now. The landlord in his shirt
sleeves, leaning against the bar window-frame ; his wife look-
ing over the little half-door ; and I, in some confusion, looking
up at them from outside the partition. They asked me a good
many questions ; as, what my name was, how old I was, where
I lived, how I was employed, and how I came there. To all
of which, that I might commit nobody, I invented, I am afraid,,
appropriate answers. They served me with the ale, though I
suspect it was not the Genuine Stunning ; and the landlord's
wife, opening the little half-door of the bar, and bending down>
gave me my money back, and gave me a kiss that was half
admiring, and half compassionate, but all womanly and good>
I am sure.

I know I do not exaggerate, unconsciously and uninten-
tionally, the scantiness of my resources or the difficulties ot
my life. I know that if a shilling were given me by Mr. Quinion
at any time, I spent it in a dinner or a tea. I know that I
worked from morning until night, with common men and boys,
a shabby child. I know that I lounged about the streets, h>
sufficiently and unsatisfactorily fed. I know that, but for the
mercy of God, I might easily have been, for any care that was
taken of me, a little robber or a little vagabond.

Yet I held some station at Muidstone and Grinby's toa

I BEGIN LIFE ON MY OWNACCOUNT.

Besides that Mr. Quinion did what a careless man so occu-
pied, and dealing with a thing so anomalous, could, to treat
me as one upon a different footing from the rest, I never said,
to man or boy, how it was that I came to be there, or gave
the least indication of being sorry that I was there. That I
suffered in secret, and that I suffered exquisitely, no one ever
knew but I. How much I suffered, it is, as I have said al-
ready, utterly beyond my power to tell. But I kept my own
counsel, and I did my work. I knew from the first, that, if I
could not do my work as well as any of the rest, I could not
hold myself above slight and contempt. I soon became at
least as expeditious and as skilful as either of the other boys.
Though perfectly familiar with them, my conduct and manner
were different enough from theirs to place a space between us.
They and the men generally spoke of me as " the little gent,"
or " the young Suffolker." A certain man named Gregory,
who was foreman of the packers, and another named Tipp,
who was the carman, and wore a red jacket, used to address
me sometimes as " David : " but I think it was mostly when
we were very confidential, and when I had made some efforts
to entertain them, over our work, with some results of the old
readings ; which were fast perishing out of my remembrance.
Mealy Potatoes uprose once, and rebelled against my being
so distinguished ; but Mick Walker settled him in no time.

My rescue from this kind of existence I considered quite
hopeless, and abandoned, as such, altogether. I am solemnly
convinced that I never for one hour was reconciled to it, or
was otherwise than miserably unhappy ; but I bore it ; and
even to Peggotty, partly for the love of her and partly for
shame, never in any letter (though many passed between us)
revealed the truth.

Mr. Micawber's difficulties were an addition to the dis-
tressed state of my mind. In my forlorn state I became quite
attached to the family, and used to walk about, busy with
Mrs. Micawber's calculations of ways and means, and heavy
with the weight of Mr. Micawber's debts. On a Saturday
night, which was my grand treat, â€” partly because it was a great
thing to walk home with six or seven shillings in my pocket,
looking into the shops and thinking what such a sum would
buy, and partly because I went home early, â€” Mrs. Micawber
would make the most heart-rending confidences to me j also
on a Sunday morning, when I mixed the portion of tea or
coffee I had bought over-night, in a little shaving-pot. and sat

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

late at my breakfast. It was nothing at all unusual for Mr.
Micawber to sob violently at the beginning of one of these
Saturday night conversations, and sing about Jack's delight
being his lovely Nan, towards the end of it. I have known
him come home to supper with a flood of tears, and a decla-
ration that nothing was now left but a jail ; and go to bed
making a calculation of the expense of putting bow-windows
to the house, " in case anything turned up," which was his
favorite expression. And Mrs. Micawber was just the same.

A curious equality of friendship, originating, I suppose, in
our respective circumstances, sprung up between me and
these people, notwithstanding the ludicrous disparity in our
years. But I never allowed myself to be prevailed upon to
accept any invitation to eat and drink with them out of their
stock (knowing that they got on badly with the butcher and
baker, and had often not too much for themselves), until Mrs.
Micawber took me into her entire confidence. This she did
one evening as follows :

" Master Copperfield," said Mrs. Micawber, " I make no
stranger of you, and therefore do not hesitate to say that Mr.
Micawber's difficulties are coming to a crisis."

It made me very miserable to hear it, and I looked at Mrs.
Micawber's red eyes with the utmost sympathy.

" With the exception of the heel of a Dutch cheese â€” -which
is not adapted to the wants of a young family " â€” said Mrs.
Micawber, " there is really not a scrap of anything in the
larder. I was accustomed to speak of the larder when I lived
with papa and mama, and I use the word almost unconscious-
ly. What I mean to express is, that there is nothing to eat
in the house."

" Dear me ! " I said, in great concern.

I had two or three shillings of my week's money in my
pocket â€” from which I presume that it must have been on a
Wednesday night when we held this conversation â€” and I
hastily produced them, and with heartfelt emotion begged
Mrs. Micawber to accept of them as a loan. But that lady.
kissing me, and making me put them back in my pocket, re
plied that she couldn't think of it.

" No, my dear Master Copperfield," said she, " far be it
from my thoughts ! But you have a discretion beyond your
years, and can render me another kind of service, if you will ;
and a service I will thankfully accept of."

I begged Mrs. Micawber to name it.

/ BEGIN LIFE ON MY OWN ACCOUNT.

" I have parted with the plate myself," said Mrs. Micaw-
ber. " Six tea, two salt, and a pair of sugars, I have at
different times borrowed money on, in secret, with my own
hands. But the twins are a great tie ; and to me, with my
recollections of papa and mama, these transactions are very
painful. There are still a few trifles that we could parf with.
Mr. Micawber's feelings would never allow him to dispose of
them ; and Clickett " â€” this was the girl from the workhouse â€”
" being of a vulgar mind, would take painful liberties if so much
confidence was reposed in her. Master Copperfield, if I might
ask you " â€”

1 understood Mrs. Micawber now, and begged her to
make use of me to any extent. I began to dispose of the
more portable articles of property that very evening ; and
went out on a similar expedition almost every morning, before
I went to Murdstone and Grinby's.

Mr. Micawber had a few books on a little chiffonier, which
he called the library ; and those went first. I carried them,
one after another, to a bookstall in the City Road â€” one part
of which, near our house, was almost all bookstalls and bird-
shops then â€” and sold them for whatever they would bring.
The keeper of this bookstall, who lived in a little house
behind it, used to get tipsy every night, and to be violently
scolded by his wife every morning. More than once, when I
went there early, I had audience of him in a turn-up bedstead,
with a cut in his forehead or a black eye, bearing witness to
his excesses over night (I am afraid he was quarrelsome in
his drink), and he with a shaking hand, endeavoring to find
the needful shillings in one or other of the pockets of his
clothes, which lay upon the floor, while his wife, with a baby
in her arms and her shoes down at heel, never left off rating
him. Sometimes he had lost his money, and then he would
ask me to call again ; but his wife had always got some â€” had
taken his, I dare say, while he was drunk â€” and secretly com-
pleted the bargain on the stairs, as we went down together.

At the pawnbroker's shop, too, I began to be very well
known. The principal gentleman who officiated behind the
counter, took a good deal of notice of me ; and often got me,
I recollect, to decline a Latin noun or adjective, or to con-
jugate a Latin verb, in his ear, while he transacted my busi-
ness. After all these occasions Mrs. Micawber made a little
treat, which was generally a supper ; and there was a pecu-
liar relish in these meals which I well remember.

i66

DAVID COPPERFIELD

At last Mr. Micawber's difficulties came to a crisis, and
he was arrested early one morning, and carried over to the
King's Bench Prison in the Borough. He told me, as he
went out of the house, that the God of day had now gone
down upon him â€” and I really thought his heart was broken
and mine too. But I heard afterwards, that he was seen to
play a lively game at skittles, before noon.

On the first Sunday after he was taken there, I was to go
and see him, and have dinner with him. I was to ask my
way to such a place, and just short of that place I should see
such another place, and just short of that I should see a yard,
which I was to cross, and keep straight on until I saw a turm
key. All this I did ; and when at last I did see a turnkey
{poor little fellow that I was !), and thought how, when Rod-
crick Random was in a debtors' prison, there was a man there
with nothing on him but an old rug, the turnkey swam before
my dimmed eyes and my beating heart.

Mr. Micawber was waiting for me within the gate, and we
went up to his room (top story but one), and cried very much.
He solemnly conjured me, I remember, to take warning by
his fate ; and to observe that if a man had twenty pounds
a-year for his income, and spent nineteen pounds nineteen
shillings and sixpence, he would be happy, that but if he
spent twenty pounds one he would be miserable. After which
he borrowed a shilling of me for porter, gave me a written
order on Mrs. Micawber for the amount, and put away his
pocket-handkerchief, and cheered up.

We sat before a little fire, with two bricks put within the
rusted grate, one on each side, to prevent its burning too
many coals â– until another debtor, who shared the room with
Mr. Micawber, came in from the bakehouse with the loin of
mutton which was our joint-stock repast. Then I was sent
).ip to "Captain Hopkins" in the room overheard, with Mr,
Micawber's compliments, and I was his young friend, and
would Captain Hopkins lend me a knife and fork.

Captain Hopkins lent me the knife and fork, with his
compliments to Mr. Micawber. There was a very dirty lady
in his little room, and two wan girls, his daughters, with shock
heads of hair. I thought it was better to borrow Captain
Hopkins's knife and fork, than Captain Hopkins's comb.
The Captain himself was in the last extremity of shabbiness,
with large whiskers, and an old, old brown greatcoat with no
other coat below it. I saw his bed rolled up in a corner, and

I BEGIN LIFE ON MY O WN A CCOUNT. 167

what plates and dishes and pots he had, on a shelf ; and I
divined (God knows how ! ) that though the two girls with the
shock heads of hair were Captain Hopkins's children, the
dirty lady was not married to Captain Hopkins. My timid
station on his threshold was not occupied more than a couple
of minutes at most ; but I came down again with all this in
my knowledge, as surely as the knife and fork were in my
hand.

There was something gipsy-like and agreeable in the
dinner, after all. I took back Captain Hopkins's knife and
fork early in the afternoon, and went home to comfort Mrs.
Micawber with an account of my visit. She fainted when she
saw me return, and made a little jug of egg-hot afterwards to
console us while we talked it over.

I don't know how the household furniture came to be sold
for the family benefit, or who sold it, except that / did not.
Sold it was, however, and carried away in a van ; except the
bed, a few chairs, and the kitchen-table. With these posses-
sions we encamped, as it were, in the two parlors of the
emptied house in Windsor Terrace ; Mrs. Micawber, the
children, the Orfling, and myself, and lived in those rooms
night and day. I have no idea for how long, though it seems
to me for a long time. At last Mrs. Micawber resolved to
move into the prison, where Mr. Micawber had now secured
a room to himself. So I took the key of the house to the
landlord, who was veiy glad to get it ; and the beds were
sent over to the King's Bench, except mine, for which a little
room was hired outside the walls in the neighborhood of that
Institution, very much to my satisfaction, since the Micawbers
and I had become too used to one another, in our troubles,
to part. The Orfling was likewise accommodated with an
inexpensive lodging in the same neighborhood. Mine was
a quiet back-garret with a sloping roof, commanding a pleas-
ant prospect of a timber-yard, and when I took possession
of it, with the reflection that Mr. Micawber's troubles had
come to a crisis at last, I thought it quite a paradise.

All this time I was working at Murdstone and Grinby's in
the same common way, and with the same common com-
panions, and with the same sense of unmerited degradation
as at first. But I never, happily for me no doubt, made a
single acquaintance, or spoke to any of the many boys whom
I saw daily in going to the warehouse, in coming from it, and
in prowling about the streets at meal-times. I led the same

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

secretly unhappy life ; but I led it in the same lonely, self*
reliant manner. The only changes I am conscious of are,
firstly, that I had grown more shabby, and secondly, that I
was now relieved of much of the weight of Mr. and Mrs. Micaw-
ber's cares ; for some relatives or friends had engaged to help
them at their present pass, and they lived more comfortably
in the prison than they had lived for a long while out of it. I
used to breakfast with them now, in virtue of some arrange-
ment, of which I have forgotten the details. I forget, too, at
what hour the gates were opened in the morning, admitting
of my going in ; but I know that I was often up at six o'clock,
and that my favorite lounging-place in the interval was old
London Bridge, where I was wont to sit in one of the stone
recesses, watching the people going by, or to look over the
balustrades at the sun shining in the water, and lighting up
the golden flame on the top of the Monument. The Orfling
met me here sometimes, to be told some astonishing fictions
respecting the wharves and the Tower ; of which I can say no
more than that I hope I believed them myself. In the even-
ing I used to go back to the prison, and walk up and down
the parade with Mr. Micawber; or play casino with Mrs.
Micawber, and hear reminiscences of her papa and mama.
Whether Mr. Murdstone knew where I was, I am unable to
say. I never told them at Murdstone and Grinby's.

Mr. Micawber's affairs, although past their crisis, were
very much involved by reason of a certain " Deed," of which
1 used to hear a great deal, and which I suppose, now, to
have been some former composition with his creditors, though
I was so far from being clear about it then, that I am con-
scious of having confounded it with those demoniacal parch-
ments which are held to have, once upon a time, obtained to
a great extent in Germany. At last this document appeared
to be got out of the way, somehow ; at all events it ceased to
be the rock a-head it had been ; and Mrs. Micawber informed
me that " her family " had decided that Mr. Micawber should
apply for his release under the Insolvent Debtors' Act, which
would set him free, she expected, in about six weeks.

" And then," said Mr. Micawber, who was present, " I
have no doubt I shall, please Heaven, begin to be beforehand
with the world, and to live in a perfectly new manner, if â€” in
short, if anything turns up."

By way of going in for anything that might be on the
cards, I call to mind that Mr. Micawber, about this time,

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

169

composed a petition to the House of Commons, praying for
an alteration in the law of imprisonment for debt. 1 set
down this remembrance here, because it is an instance to my-
self of the manner in which I fitted my old books to my
altered life, and made stories for myself, out of- the streets,
and out of men and women; and how some main points in
the character I shall unconsciously develop, 1 suppose, in
writing my life, were gradually forming all this while.

There was a club in the prison, in which Mr. Micawber, as
a gentleman, was a great authority. Mr. Micawber had
stated his idea of this petition to the club, and the club had
strongly approved of the same. Wherefore Mr. Micawber
(who was a thoroughly good-natured man, and as active a
creature about everything but his own affairs as ever existed,
and never so happy as when he was busy about something
that could never be of any profit to him) set to work at the
petition, invented it, engrossed it on an immense sheet of
paper, spread it out on a table, and appointed a time for all
the club, and all within the walls if they chose, to come up to
his room and sign it.

When I heard of this approaching ceremony, I was so anx-
ious to see them all come in, one after another, though I knew
the greater part of them already, and they me, that I got an
hour's leave of absence from Murdstone and Grinby's, and es-
tablished myself in a corner for that purpose. As many of the
principal members of the club as could be got into the small
room without filling it, supported Mr. Micawber in front of the
petition, while my old friend Captain Hopkins (who had washed
himself, to do honor to so solemn an occasion) stationed him-
self close to it, to read it to all who were unacquainted with its
contents. The door was then thrown open, and the general
population began to come in, in a long file, several waiting
outside, while one entered, affixed his signature, and went
out. To everybody in succession, Captain Hopkins said;
" Have you heard it read?" â€” " No." " Would you like to
hear it read?" If he weakly showed the least disposition to
hear it, Captain Hopkins, in a loud sonorous voice, gave him
every word of it. The Captain would have read it twenty
thousand times, if twenty thousand people would have heard
him, one by one. I remember a certain luscious roll he gave
to such phrases as " The people's representatives in Par-
liament assembled," " Your petitioners therefore humbly ap-
proach your honorable house," " His gracious Majesty's un-

170

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

fortunate subjects," as if the words were something real in his
mouth, and delicious to taste ; Mr. Micawber, meanwhile,
listening with a little of an author's vanity, and contemplating
(not severely) the spikes on the opposite wall.

As I walked to and fro daily between Southwark and
Blackfriars, and lounged about at meal-times in obscure
streets, the stones of which may, for anything I know, be
worn at this moment by my childish feet, I wonder how many
of these people are wanting in the crowd that used to come
filing before me in review again, to the echo of Captain Hop-
kins's voice ! When my thoughts go back now, to that slow
agony of my youth, I wonder how much of the histories I in-
vented for such people hangs like a mist of fancy over well-
remembered facts ? When I tread the old ground, I do not
wonder that I seem to see and pit}r, going on before me, an
innocent romantic boy, making his imaginative world out
such strange experiences and sordid things.

CHAPTER XII.

LIKING LIFE ON MY OWN ACCOUNT NO BETTER, I FORM A GRKA*
RESOLUTION.

In clue time, Mr. Micawber's petition was ripe for hearing ;
and that gentleman was ordered to be discharged under the
act, to my great joy. His creditors were not implacable ; and
Mrs. Micawber informed me that even the revengeful boot-
maker had declared in open court that he bore him no malice,
but that when money was owing to him he liked to be paid.
He said he thought it was human nature.

Mr. Micawber returned to the King's Bench when his case
was over, as some fees were to be settled, and some formali-
ties observed, before he could be actually released. The club
received him with transport, and held an harmonic meeting
that evening in his honor ; while Mrs. Micawber and I had a
lamb's fry in private, surrounded by the sleeping family.

" On such an occasion I will give you, Master Copperfield,*
said Mrs. Micawber, " in a little more flip," for we had been
having some already, " the memory of my papa and mama.''

LIKING LIFE OAT MY OWN ACCOUNT, ETC. j Jx

"Are they dead, ma'am?" I inquired, after drinking the
toast in a wineglass.

" My mama departed this life," said Mrs. Micawber, "be*
fore Mr. Micawber's difficulties commenced, or at least before
they became pressing. My papa lived to bail Mr. Micawber
several times, and then expired, regretted bya numerous-
circle."

Mrs. Micawber shook her head, and dropped a pious teai
upon the twin who happened to be in hand.

As I could hardly hope for a more favorable opportunity
of putting a question in which I had a near interest, I said to
Mrs. Micawber :

" May I ask, ma'am, what you and Mr. Micawber intend
to do, now that Mr. Micawber is out of his difficulties, and at
liberty ? Have you settled yet ? "

" My family," said Mrs. Micawber, who always said those
two words with an air, though I never could discover who came
under the denomination, " my family are of opinion that Mr.
Micawber should quit London, and exert his talents in the
country. Mr. Micawber is a man of great talent, Master Cop-
perfield."

I said I was sure of that.

" Of great talent," repeated Mrs. Micawber. " My family
are of opinion, that, with a little interest, something might be
done for a man of his ability in the Custom House. The in-
fluence of my family being local, it is their wish that Mr. Mi-
cawber should go down to Plymouth. They think it indis-
pensable that he should be upon the spot."

" That he may be ready ? " I suggested.

" Exactly," returned Mrs. Micawber. "That he maybe
ready â€” in case of anything turning up."

" And do you go too, ma'am ? "

The events of the day, in combination with the twins, it
not with the flip, had made Mrs. Micawber hysterical, and she
shed tears as she replied :

" I never will desert Mr. Micawber. Mr. Micawber may
have concealed his difficulties from me in the first instance,
but his sanguine temper may have led him to expect that he
would overcome them. The pearl necklace and bracelets
which I inherited from mama, have been disposed of for less
than half their value ; and the set of coral, which was the wed-
ding gift of my papa, has been actually thrown away for noth-
ing. But I will never desert Mr. Micawber. No I " cried

172

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Mrs. Micawber, more affected than before, 1 I will nevei do
it ! It's of no use asking me ! "

I felt quite uncomfortable â€” as if Mrs. Micawber supposed
I had asked her to do anything of the sort ! â€” and sat looking
at her in alarm.

" Mr. Micawber has his faults. I do not deny that he is
improvident. I do not deny that he has kept me in the dark
as to his resources and his liabilities, both," she went on look-
ing at the wall ; " but I never will desert Mr. Micawber ! "

Mrs. Micawber having now raised her voice into a perfect
scream, I was so frightened that I ran off to the club-room,
and disturbed Mr. Micawber in the act of presiding at a long
table and leading the chorus of

Gee up, Dobbin,
Gee ho, Dobbin,
Gee up, Dobbin,
Gee up, and gee ho â€” o â€” o

â€” with the tidings that Mrs. Micawber was in an alarming
state, upon which he immediately burst into tears, and came
away with me with his waistcoat full of the heads and tails
of shrimps, of which he had been partaking.

" Emma, my angel ! " cried Mr. Micawber, running into
the room ; " what is the matter ! "

" I will never desert you, Micawber ! " she exclaimed.

" My life ! " said Mr. Micawber, taking her in his arms,
I am perfectly aware of it."

" He is the parent of my children ! He is the father of
my twins ! He is the husband of my affections," cried Mrs.
Micawber, struggling ; " and I ne â€” ver â€” will â€” desert Mr,
Micawber ! "

Mr. Micawber was so deeply affected by this proof of her
devotion (as to me, I was dissolved in tears), that he hung
over her in a passionate manner, imploring her to look up,
and to be calm. But the more he asked Mrs. Micawber to
look up, the more she fixed her eyes on nothing ; and the
more he asked her to compose herself, the more she wouldn't.
Consequently Mr. Micawber was soon so overcome, that he
mingled his tears with hers and mine ; until he begged me to
do him the favor of taking a chair on the staircase, while he
got her into bed. I would have taken my leave for the night,
but he would not hear of my doing that until the strangers

FIXING LIFE ON MY OWN ACCOUNT, ETC. 173

be\\ should ring. So I sat at the staircase window, until he
came out with another chair and joined me.

" How is Mrs. Micawber now, sir," I said.

*' Very low," said Mr. Micawber, shaking his head; "re-
action. Ah, this has been a dreadful day ! We stand alone
now â€” everything is gone from us ! "

Mr. Micawber pressed my hand, and groaned, and after-
wards shed tears. I was greatly touched, and disappointed
too, for [ had expected that we should be quite gay on this
happy and long-looked for occasion. But Mr. and Mrs. Mi-
cawber were so used to their old difficulties, I think, that they
felt quite shipwrecked when they came to consider that they
were released from them. All their elasticity was departed,
and I never saw them half so wretched as on this night ; inso-
much that when the bell rang, and Mr. Micawber walked with
me to the lodge and parted from me there with a blessing, I
felt quite afraid to leave him by himself, he was so profoundly
miserable.

But through all the confusion and lowness of spirit in which
we had been, so unexpectedly to me, involved, I plainly dis-
cerned that Mr. and Mrs. Micawber and their family were go-
ing away from London, and that a parting between us was
near at hand. It was in my walk home that night, and in the
sleepless hours which followed when I lay in bed, that the
thought first occurred to me â€” though I don't know how it
came into my head â€” which afterwards shaped itself into a
settled resolution.

I had grown to be so accustomed to the Micawbers, and
had been so intimate with them in their distresses, and was so
utterly friendless without them, that the prospect of being
thrown upon some new shift for a lodging, and going once
more among unknown people, was like being that momeni
turned adrift into my present life, with such a knowledge of it
ready made, as experience had given me. All the sensitive
feelings it wounded so cruelly, all the shame and misery it
kept alive within my breast, became more poignant as I thought
of this ; and I determined that the life was unendurable.

That there was no hope of escape from it, unless the es-
cape was my own act, I knew quite well. I rarely heard from
Miss Murdstone, and never 'from Mr. Murdstone ; but two or
three parcels of made or mended clothes had come up for me,
consigned to Mr. Quinion, and in each there was a scrap 01
.paper to the effect that J. M. trusted D. C. was applying hiro-

174

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

self to business, and devoting himself wholly to his dutiesâ€”
not the least hint of my ever being anything else than the
common drudge into which I was fast settling dowi\

The very next day showed me, while my mind was in the
first agitation of what it had conceived, that Mrs. Micawber
had not spoken of their going away without warrant. They
took a lodging in the house where I lived, for a week ; at the
expiration of which time they were to start for Plymouth. Mr.
Micawber himself came down to the counting-house, in tfie
afternoon, to tell Mr. Quinion that he must relinquish me on.
the day of his departure, and to give me a high character,
which I am sure I deserved. And Mr. Quinion, calling in
Tipp the carman, who was a married man, and had a room to
let, quartered me prospectively on him â€” by our mutual con-
sent, as he had every reason to think ; for I said nothing,,
though my resolution was now taken.

I passed my evenings with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, during
the remaining term of our residence under the same roof ; and
I think we became fonder of one another as the time went on.
On the last Sunday, they invited me to dinner ; and we had a
loin of pork and apple sauce, and a pudding. I had bought a
spotted wooden horse over-night as a parting gift to little Wil-
kins Micawber â€” that was the boy â€” and a doll for little Emma.
I had also bestowed a shilling on the Orfling, who was about
to be disbanded.

We had a very pleasant day, though we were all in a ten-
der state about our approaching separation.

" I shall never, Master Copperfield," said Mrs. Micawber,
" revert to the period when Mr. Micawber was in difficulties,
without thinking of you. Your conduct has always been of
the most delicate and obliging description. You have never
been a lodger. You have been a friend."

" My dear," said Mr. Micawber, " Copperfield," for so he
had been accustomed to call me of late, " has a heart to feel
for the distresses of his fellow-creatures when they are behind

a cloud, and a head to plan, and a hand to in short, a

general ability to dispose of such available property as could
be made away with."

I expressed my sense of this commendation, and said I
was very sorry we were going to lose one another.

" My dear young friend," said Mr. Micawber, " I am older
than you ; a man of some experience in life, and â€” and of
some experience, in short, in difficulties, generally speaking.

LIKING LIFE ON MY OWN ACCOUNT, ETC

At present, and until something turns up (which I am, I may
say, hourly expecting), I have nothing to bestow but advice.
Still my advice is so far worth taking that â€” in short, that I
have never taken it myself, and am the " â€” here Mr. Micaw-
ber, who had been beaming and smiling, all over his head and
face, up to the present moment, checked himself and frowned
â€” â€¢t the miserable wretch you behold."

" My dear Micawber ! " urged his wife.

" I say," returned Mr. Micawber, quite forgetting himself,
and smiling again, " the miserable wretch you behold. My
advice is, never do to-morrow what you can do to-day. Pro-
crastination is the thief of time. Collar him ! "

" My poor papa's maxim," Mrs. Micawber observed.

"My dear," said Mr. Micawber, "your papa was very well
in his way, and Heaven forbid that I should disparage him.
Take him for all in all, we ne'er shall â€” in short, make the
acquaintance, probably, of anybody else possessing, at his
time of life, the same legs for gaiters, and able to read the
same description of print, without spectacles. But he applied
that maxim to our marriage, my dear ; and that was so far
prematurely entered into, in consequence, that I never recov-
ered the expense."

Mr. Micawber looked aside at Mrs. Micawber, and added :
" Not that I am sorry for it. Quite the contrary, my love."
After which he was grave for a minute or so.

" My other piece of advice, Copperfield," said Mr. Micaw-
ber, " you know. Annual income twenty pounds, annual ex-
penditure nineteen nineteen six, result happiness. Annual
income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds
ought and six, result misery. The blossom is blighted, the leaf
is withered, the God of clay goes down upon the dreary scene,
and â€” and in short you are for ever floored. As I am ! "

To make his example the more impressive, Mr. Micawber
diank a glass of punch with an air of great enjoyment an<i
satisfaction, and whistled the College Hornpipe.

I did not fail to assure him that I would store these precepts
in my mind, though indeed I had no need to do so, for, at
the time, they affected me visibly. Next morning I met the
whole family at the coach office, and saw them, with a deso-
late heart, take their places outside, at the back.

" Master Copperfield," said Mrs. Micawber, " God bless
you ! I never can forget all that, you know, and I never would
k I could/'

176

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Copperfield," said Mr. Micawber, " farewell ! Everj
happiness and prosperity ! If, in the progress of revolving
years, I could persuade myself that my blighted destiny had
been a warning to you, I should feel that I had not occupied
another man's place in existence altogether in vain. In
case of anything turning up (of which I am rather confi-
dent), I shall be extremely happy if it should be in my power
to improve your prospects."

I think, as Mrs. Micawber sat at the back of the coach
with the children, and I stood in the road looking wistfully at
them, a mist cleared from her eyes, and she saw what a little
creature I really was. I think so, because she beckoned to
me to climb up, with quite a new and motherly expression in
her face, and put her arm round my neck, and gave me just
such a kiss as she might have given to her own boy. I had
barely time to get clown again before the coach started, and I
could hardly see the family for the handkerchiefs they waved.
It was gone in a minute. The Orfling and I stood looking
vacantly at each other in the middle of the road, and then
shook hands and said good-bye ; she going back, I suppose to
St. Luke's workhouse, as I went to begin my weary day at
Murdstone and Grinby's.

But with no intention of passing many more weary days
there. No. I had resolved to run away. â€” To go, by some
means or other, down into the country, to the only relation I
had in the world, and tell my story to my aunt, Miss Betsey,

I have already observed that I don't know how this des-
perate idea came into my brain. But, once there, it remained
there ; and hardened into a purpose than which I have never
entertained a more determined purpose in my life. I am far
from sure that I believed there was anything hopeful in it.
but my mind was thoroughly made up that it must be carried
into execution.

Again, and again, and a hundred times again, since the
night when the thought had first occurred to me and banished
sleep, I had gone over that old story of my poor mother's
about my birth, which it had been one of my great delights in
the old time to hear her tell, and which I knew by heart. My
aunt walked into that story, and walked out of it, a dread and
awful personage ; but there was one little trait in her behavior
which I liked to dwell on, and which gave me some faint
shadow of encouragement. I could not forget how my mother
x*ad thought that she felt her touch her pretty hair with no

LIKING LIFE ON MY OWN ACCOUNT, ETC. 177

ungentle hand ; and though it might have been altogether my
mother's fancy, and might have had no foundation whatever
in fact, I made a little picture, out of it, of my terrible aunt
relenting towards the girlish beauty that I recollected so well
and loved so much, which softened the whole narjative. It
is very possible that it had been in my mind a long time, and
had gradually engendered my determination.

As I did not even know where Miss Betsey lived, I wrote
a long letter to Peggotty, and asked her, incidentally, if she
remembered ; pretending that I had heard of such a lady
living at a certain place I named at random, and had a curi-
osity to kr.ow if it were the same. In the course of that letter,
I told Peggotty that I had a particular occasion for half a
guinea ; and that if she could lend me that sum until I could
repay it, I should be very much obliged to her, and would tell
her afterwards what I had wanted it for.

Peggotty's answer soon arrived, and was, as usual, full of
affectionate devotion. She enclosed the half guinea (I was
afraid she must have had a world of trouble to get it out of
Mr. Barkis's box), and told me that Miss Betsey lived near
Dover, but whether at Dover itself, at Hythe, Sandgate, or
Folkestone, she could not say. One of our men, however,
informing me on my asking him about these places, that they
were all close together, I deemed this enough for my object,
and resolved to set out at the end of that week.

Being a very honest little creature, and unwilling to dis-
grace the memory I was going to leave behind me at Murd-
stone and Grinby's, I considered myself bound to remain until
Saturday night ; and, as I had been paid a week's wages in
advance when I first came there, not to present myself in the
counting-house at the usual hour, to receive my stipend. Foi
this express reason, I had borrowed the half-guinea, that |
might not be without a fund for my travelling expenses. Ac
cordingly, when the Saturday night came, and we were all
waiting in the warehouse to be paid, and Tipp the carman,
who always took precedence, went in first to draw his money,
I shook Mick Walker by the hand ; asked him, when it came
to his turn to be paid, to say to Mr. Quinion that I had gone
to move my box to Tipp's j and, bidding a last good night to
Mealy Potatoes, ran away.

My box was at my old lodging over the water, and I had
written a direction for it on the back of one of our address
cards that we nailed on the casks : " Master David, to be left

t78

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

till called for, at the Coach Office, Dover." This I had in
my pocket ready to put on the box, after I should have got it
out of the house ; and as I went towards my lodging, I
looked about me for some one who would help me to carry it
to the booking-office.

There was a long-legged young man with a very little
empty donkey-cart, standing near and Obelisk, in the Black-
friars Road, whose eye I caught as I was going by, and who,
addressing me as " Sixpenn'orth of bad ha'pence," hoped " I
should know him agin to swear to " â€” in allusion, I have no
doubt, to my staring at him. I stopped to assure him that I
had not done so in bad manners, but uncertain whether ha
might or might not like a job.

" Wot job ? " said the long-legged young man.

;< To move a box," I answered.

" Wot box ? " said the long-legged young man.

I told him mine, which was down, that street there, and
which I wanted him to take to the Dover coach-office for six-
pence.

" Done with you for a tanner ! " said the long-legged young
man, and directly got upon his cart, which was nothing but a
large wooden-tray on wheels, and rattled away at such a rate,
that it was as much as I could do to keep pace with the
donkey.

There was a defiant manner about this young man, and
particularly about the way in which he chewed straw as he
1 spoke to me, that I did not much like ; as the bargain was
made, however, I took him up stairs to the room I was leav-
ing, and we brought the box down, and put it on his cart.
Now, I was unwilling to put the direction-card on there, lest
any of my landlord's family should fathom what I was doing,
and detain me; so I said to the young man that I would be
glad if he would stop for a minute, when he came to the dead-
wall of the King's Bench prison. The words were no sooner
out of my mouth, than he rattled away as if he, my box, the
cart, and the donkey, were all equally mad ; and I was quite
out of breath with running and calling after him, when I caught
him at the place appointed.

Being much flushed and excited, I tumbled my half-guinea
out of my pocket in pulling the card out. I put it in my
mouth for safety, and though my hands trembled a good deal,
had just tied the card on very much to my satisfaction, when
I felt myself violently chucked under the chin by the long-

THE SEQUEL OF MY RESOLUTION.

legged young man, and saw my half-guinea fly out of my mouth
into his hand.

44 Wot ! " said the young man, seizing me by my jacket
collar, with a frightful grin. "This is a pollis case, is it?
You're a going to bolt, are you ? Come to the pollis, you
young warmin, come to the pollis ! "

" You give me my money back, if you please," said I, very
much frightened ; " and leave me alone."

" Come to the pollis ? " said the young man. " You shall
prove it yourn to the pollis."

" Give me my box and money, will you ? " I cried, burst-
ing into tears.

The young man still replied : " Come to the pollis ! " and
was dragging me against the donkey in a violent manner, as
if there were any affinity between that animal and a magis-
trate, when he changed his mind, jumped into the cart, sat
upon my box, and, exclaiming that he would drive to the
pollis straight, rattled away harder than ever.

I ran after him as fast as I could, but I had no breath to
call out with, and should not have dared to call out now,,
if I had. I narrowly escaped being run over, twenty times at
least, in half a mile. Now I lost him, now I saw him, now
I lost him, now I was cut at with a whip, now shouted at, now
down in the mud, now up again, now running into somebody's
arms, now running headlong at a post. At length, confused
by fright and heat, and doubting whether half London might
not by this time be turning out for my apprehension, I left the
young man to go where he would with my box and money ;
and, panting and crying, but never stopping, faced about for
Greenwich, which I had understood was on the Dover Road ;
taking very little more out of the world, towards the retreat of
my aunt, Miss Betsey, than I had brought into it, on the night
when my arrival gave her so much umbrage.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE SEQUEL OF MY RESOLUTION.

For anything I know, I may have had some wild idea of
running all the way to Dover, when I gave up the pursuit of
the young man with the donkey-cart, and started for Greerr

i8o

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

wich. My scattered senses were soon collected as to that
point, if I had ; for I came to a stop in the Kent Road, at a
terrace with a piece of water before it, and a great foolish
image in the middle, blowing a dry shell. Here I sat down
on a door-step, quite spent and exhausted with the efforts I
had already made, and with hardly breath enough to cry for
the loss of my box and half-guinea.

It was by this time dark ; I heard the clocks strike ten, as
I sat resting. But it was a summer night, fortunately, and
fine weather. When I had recovered my breath, and had got
rid of a stifling sensation in my throat, I rose up and went on.
In the midst of my distress, I had no notion of going back.
I doubt if I should have any, though there had been a Swiss
snow-drift in the Kent Road.

But my standing possessed of only three-halfpence in the
world (and I am sure I wonder how they came to be left in
my pocket on a Saturday night !) troubled me none the less
because I went on. I began to picture to myself, as a scrap
of newspaper intelligence, my being found dead in a day or
two, under some hedge ; and I trudged on miserably; though
as fast as I could, until I happened to pass a little shop,
where it was written up that ladies' and gentlemen's ward-
robes were bought, and that the best price was given for rags,
bones, and kitchen-stuff. The master of this shop was sitting
at the door in his shirt sleeves, smoking ; and as there were
a great many coats and pairs of trousers dangling from the
low ceiling, and only two feeble candles burning inside to
show what they were, I fancied that he looked like a man
of revengeful disposition, who had hung all his enemies, and
was enjoying himself.

My late experiences of Mr. and Mrs. Micawber suggested
*:o me that here might be a means of keeping off the wolf for
a little while. I went up the next bye-street, took off my
waistcoat, rolled it neatly under my arm, and came back to
the shop-door. " If you please, sir," I said, " I am to sell
this for a fair price."

Mr. Dolloby â€” Doiloby was the name over the shop-door,
at least â€” took the waistcoat, stood his pipe on its head against
the door-post, went into the shop, followed by me, snuffed the
two candles with his fingers, spread the waistcoat on the
counter, and looked at it there, held it up against the light,
and looked at it there, and ultimately said :

" What do you call a price, now, for this here little weskit \ "

THE SEQUEL OF MY RESOLUTION. 1S1

u Oh, you know best, sir," I returned, modestly.

"I can't be buyer and seller, too," said Mr. Dolicby.
* Put a price on this here little weskit."

" Would eighteenpence be ? " â€” I hinted, after some hesita-
tion.

Mr. Dolloby rolled it up again, and gave it me back. u I
Should rob my family," he said, " if I was to offer ninepence
or it."

This was a disagreeable way of putting the business ; be-
cause it imposed upon me, a perfect stranger, the unpleasant-
ness of asking Mr. Dolloby to rob his family on my account.
My circumstances being so very pressing, however, I said I
would take ninepence for it, if he pleased. Mr. Dolloby, not
without some grumbling, gave ninepence. I wished him good
night, and walked out of the shop, the richer by that sum, and
the poorer by a waistcoat. But when I buttoned my jacket,
that was not much.

Indeed, I foresaw pretty clearly that my jacket would go
next, and that I should have to make the best of my way to
Dover in a shirt and a pair of trousers, and might deem my-
self lucky if I got there even in that trim. But my mind did
not run so much on this as might be supposed. Beyond a
general impression of the distance before me, and of the young
man with the donkey-cart having used me cruelly, I think I
had no very urgent sense of my difficulties when I once again
set off with my ninepence in my pocket.

A plan had occurred to me for passing the night, which
I was going to carry into execution. This was, to lie behind
the wall at the back of my old school, in a corner where
there used to be a haystack. I imagined it would be a kind
of company to have the boys, and the bedroom where I used
to tell the stories, so near me ; although the boys would know
nothing of my being there, and the bedroom would yield me
no shelter.

I had had a hard day's walk, and was pretty well jaded
when I came climbing out, at last, upon the level of Black-
heath. It cost me some trouble to find out Salem House ;
but I found it, and I found a haystack in the corner, and I lay
down by it ; having first walked round the wall, and looked
up at the windows, and seen that all was dark and silent
within. Never shall I forget the lonely sensation of first lying
down, without a roof above my head !

Sleep came upon me as it came on many other outcasts.

182

DAVID COPP3RFIELD.

against whom house-doors were locked, and house-dogs
barked, that night â€” and I dreamed of lying on my old school-
bed, talking to the boys in my room ; and found myself sitting
upright, with Steerforth's name upon my lips, looking wildly
at the stars that were glistening and glimmering above ma
When I remembered where I was at that untimely hour, a
feeling stole upon me that made me get up, afraid of I don't
know what, an<^ walk about. But the fainter glimmering of the
stars, and the pale light in the sky where the day was coming,
reassured me ; and my eyes being very heavy, I lay down
again, and slept â€” though with a knowledge in my sleep that
it was cold â€” until the warm beams of the sun, and the ring-
ing of the getting-up bell at Salem House, awoke me. If I
could have hoped that Steerforth was there, I would have
lurked about until he came out alone ; but I knew he must
have left long since. Traddles still remained, perhaps, but it
was very doubtful ; and I had not sufficient confidence in his
discretion or good luck, however strong my reliance was op
his good nature, to wish to trust him with my situation. So
I crept away from the wall as Mr. Creakle's boys were getting
up, and struck into the long dusty track which I had first
known to be the Dover Road when I was one of them, and
when I little expected that any eyes would ever see me the
wayfarer I was now, upon it.

What a different Sunday morning from the old Sunday
morning at Yarmouth ! In due time I heard the church-bells
ringing, as I plodded on â€¢ and I met people who were going
to church ; and I passed a church or two where the congrega-
tion were inside, and the sound of singing came out into the
sunshine, while the beadle sat and cooled himself in the shade
of the porch, or stood beneath the yew-tree, with his hand
to his forehead, glowering at me going by. But the peace and
rest of the old Sunday morning were on everything, except
me. That was the difference. I felt quite wicked in my dirt
and dust, with my tangled hair. But for the quiet picture 1
had conjured up, of my mother in her youth and beauty, weep
ing by the fire, and my aunt relenting to her, I hardly think I
should have had courage to go on until next day. But it
always went before me, and I followed.

I got, that Sunday, through three-and-twenty miles on the
Straight road, though not very easily, for I was new to that
kind of toil. I see myself, as evening closes in, coming over
the bridge at Rochester, footsore and tired, and eating bread

THE SEQUEL OF MY RESOLUTION 183

that I had bought for supper. One or two little houses, with
the notice, " Lodgings for Travellers," hanging out, had tempted
me ) but I was afraid of spending the few pence I had, and
was even more afraid of the vicious looks of the trampers I
had met or overtaken. I sought no shelter, therefore, but
the sky ; and toiling into Chatham, â€” which, in that night's
aspect, is a mere dream of chalk, and drawbridges, and mast-
iess ships in a muddy river, roofed like Noah's arks, â€” crept, at
last, upon a sort of grass-grown battery overhanging a lane,
where a sentry was walking to and fro. Here I lay down,
near a cannon ; and, happy in the society of the sentry's foot-
steps, though he knew no more of my being above him than
the boys at Salem House had known of my lying by the walk
slept soundly until morning.

Very stiff and sore of foot I was in the morning, and quite
dazed by the beating of drums and marching of troops, which
seemed to hem me in on every side when I went down towards
the long narrow street. Feeling that I could go but a little way
that day, if I were to reserve my strength for getting to my
journey's end, I resolved to make the sale of my jacket its
piincipal business. Accordingly, I took the jacket off, that I
might learn to do without it ; and, carrying it under my arm,
began a tour of inspection of the various slop-shops.

It was a likely place to sell a jacket in ; for the dealers in
second-hand clothes were numerous, and were, generally
speaking, on the look-out for customers at their shop-doors.
But, as most of them had hanging up among their stock, an
officer's coat or two, epaulettes and all, I was rendered timid
by the costly nature of their dealings, and walked about for a
long time without offering my merchandise to any one.

This modesty of mine directed my attention to the marine-
store shops, and such shops as Mr. Dolloby's, in preference
to any regular dealers. At last I found one that I thought
boked promising, at the corner of a dirty lane, ending in
an inclosure full of stinging-nettles, against the palings of
which some second-hand sailors' clothes, that seemed to have
overflowed the shop, were fluttering among some cots, and
rusty guns, and oilskin hats, and certain trays full of so many
old rusty keys of so many sizes that they seemed various
enough to open all the doors in the world.

Into this shop, which was low and small, and which was
darkened rather than lighted by a little window, overhung with
clothes, and was descended into by some steps, I went with a

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

palpitating heart ; which was not relieved when an ugly old man
with the lower part of his face all covered with a stubbly gray
beard, rushed out of a dirty den behind it, and seized me by
the hair of my head. He was a dreadful old man to look at,
in a filthy flannel waistcoat, and smelling terribly of rum.
His bedstead, covered with a tumbled and ragged piece of
patchwork, was in the den he had come from, where another
little window showed a prospect of more stinging-nettles and
a lame donkey.

" Oh, what do you want ? " grinned this old man, in a fierce,
monotonous whine. " Oh, my eyes and limbs, what do you
want ? Oh, my lungs and liver, what do you want ? Oh, goroo,
goroo ! "

I was so much dismayed by these words, and particularly
by the repetition of the last unknown one, which was a kind of
rattle in his throat, that I could make no answer ; hereupon
the old man, still holding me by the hair, repeated :

" Oh, what do you want ? Oh, my eyes and limbs, what do
you want ? Oh, my lungs and liver, what do you want ? Oh,
goroo ! " â€” which he screwed out of himself, with an energy
that made his eyes start in his head.

" I wanted to know," I said, trembling, " if you would buy
a jacket.''

" Oh, let's see the jacket ! " cried the old man. " Oh,
my heart on fire, show the jacket to us ! Oh, my eyes and
limbs, bring the jacket out ! "

With that he took his trembling hands, which were like
the claws of a great bird, out of my hair, and put on a pair
of spectacles not at all ornamental to his inflamed eyes.

" Oh, how much for the jacket ? " cried the old man, after
examining it. " Oh â€” goroo ! â€” how much for the jacket ? "

" Half-a-crown," I answered, recovering myself.

" Oh, my lungs and liver," cried the old man, " no ! Oh,
my eyes, no ! Oh, my limbs, no ! Eighteenpence. Goroo ! "

Every time he uttered this ejaculation, his eyes seemed to
be in danger of starting out ; and every sentence he spoke he
delivered in a sort of tune, always exactly the same, and the
more like a gust of wind, which begins low, mounts up high,
and falls again, than any other comparison I can find for it.

""Well," said I, glad to have closed the bargain, "I'll take
eighteenpence."

" Oh, my liver ! " cried the old man, throwing the jacket
on a shelf. " Get out of the shop ! Oh, my lungs, get out of

THE SEQUEL OF MY RESOLUTION. 185

the shop ? Oh, my eyes and limbs â€” goroo ! â€” don't ask for
money ; maJ-e it an exchange."

I never was so frightened in my life, before or since ; but
I told him humbly that I wanted money, and that nothing
else was of any use to me, but that I would wait for it, as he
desired, outside, and had no wish to hurry him. So I went
outside, and sat down in the shade in a corner. And I sat there
so many hours, that the shade became sunlight, and the sun-
light became shade again, and still I sat there waiting for the
money.

There never was such another drunken madman in that
line of business, I hope. That he was well known in the
neighborhood, and enjoyed the reputation of having sold him-
self to the devil, I soon understood from the visits he received
from the boys, who continually came skirmishing about the
shop, shouting that legend, and calling to him to bring out
his gold. " You ain't poor, you know, Charley, as you pretend.
Bring out your gold. Bring out some of the gold you sold
yourself to the devil for. Come ! It's in the lining of
the mattress, Charley. Rip it open and let's have some ! "
This, and many offers to lend him a knife for the purpose,
exasperated him to such a degree, that the whole day was a
succession of rushes on his part, and of flights on the part of
the boys. Sometimes in his rage he would take me for one of
them and come at me, mouthing as if he were going to tear
me in pieces ; then, remembering me, just in time, would dive
into the shop and lie upon his bed, as I thought from the
sound of his voice, yelling in a frantic way, to his own windy
tune, the Death of Nelson ; with an Oh ! before every line,
and innumerable Goroos interspersed. As if this was not bad
enough for me, the boys, connecting me with the establish-
ment, on account of the patience and perseverance with which
I sat outside, half-dressed, pelted me, and used me very ill all
day.

He made many attempts to induce me to consent to an ex-
change ; at one time coming out with a fishing-rod, at another
with a fiddle, at another with a cocked hat, at another with a
flute. But I resisted all these overtures, and sat there in desper-
ation ; each time asking him, with tears in my eyes, for my
money or my jacket. At last he began to pay me in halfpence
at a time ; and was full two hours getting by easy stages to a
shilling.

" Oh, my eyes and limbs ! " he then cried, peeping hid-

i86

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

eously out of the shop, after a long pause, " will you go
for twopence more ? "

" I can't," I said ; " I shall be starved."

" Oh, my lungs and liver, will you go for threepence ? "

" I would go for nothing, if I could," I said, " but I want
the money badly."

" Oh, go â€” roo ! " (it is really impossible to express how he,
twisted this ejaculation out of himself, as he peeped round the*
doorpost at me, showing nothing but his crafty old head ;)
u will you go for fourpence ? "

I was so faint and weary that I closed with this offer ; and
taking the money out of his claw, not without trembling, went
away more hungry and thirsty than I had ever been, a little
before sunset. But at an expense of threepence I soon re-
freshed myself completely ; and, being in better spirits then,
limped seven miles upon my road.

My bed at night was under another haystack, where I
rested comfortably, after having washed my blistered feet in a
stream, and dressed them as well as I was able, with some
cool leaves. When I took the road again next morning, I
found that it lay through a succession of hop-grounds and
orchards. It was sufficiently late in the year for the orchards
to be ruddy with ripe apples ; and in a few places the hop-
pickers were already at work. I thought it all extremely
beautiful, and made up my mind to sleep among the hops that
night, imagining some cheerful companionship in the long
perspectives of poles, with the graceful leaves twining round
them.

The trampers were worse than ever that day, and inspired
me with a dread that is yet quite fresh in my mind. Some of
them were most ferocious-looking ruffians, who stared at me
as I went by ; and stopped, perhaps, and called after me to
come back and speak to them, and when I took to my heels,
stoned me. I recollect one young fellow â€” a tinker, I suppose
from his wallet and brazier â€” who had a woman with him, and
who faced about and stared at me thus ; and then roared to
me in such a tremendous voice to come back, that I halted
and looked round.

" Come here, when you're called," said the tinker, " or I'll
rip your young body open."

I thought it best to go back. I drew nearer to them,
trying to propitiate the tinker by my locks> I observed that
the woman had a black eye.

THE SEQUEL OF MY RESOLUTION. 187

" Where are you going ? " said the tinker, gripping the
bosom of my shirt with his blackened hand.
* I am going to Dover," I said.

" Where do you come from ? " asked the tinker, giving his
hand another turn in my shirt, to hold me more securely.
" I come from London," I said.

" What lay are you upon ? " asked the tinker. " Are you
a prig ? "

" Nâ€” no," I said.

" Ain't you, by G â€” ? If you make a brag of your honesty
to me," said the tinker, " I'll knock your brains out."

With . his disengaged hand he made a menace of striking
me, and then looked at me from head to foot.

" Have you got the price of a pint of beer about you ? "
said the tinker. " If you have, out with it, afore I take it
away ! "

I should certainly have produced it, but that I met the
woman's look, and saw her very slightly shake her head, and
form, " No ! " with her lips.

" I am very poor," I said, attempting to smile, " and have
got no money."

" Why, what do you mean ? " said the tinker, looking so
sternly at me, that I almost feared he saw the money in my
pocket.

" Sir ! " I stammered.

"What do you mean," said the tinker, "by wearing my
brother's silk handkercher ? Give it over here ! " And he had
mine off my neck in a moment, and tossed it to the woman.

The woman burst into a fit of laughter, as if she thought
this a joke, and tossed it back to me, nodded once, as slightly
as before, and made the word "Go ! " with her lips. Before I
could obey, however, the tinker seized the handkerchief out
of my hand with a roughness that threw me away like a
feather, and putting it loosely round his own neck, turned upon
the woman with an oath, and knocked her down. I never
shall forget seeing her fall backward on the hard road, and
lie there with her bonnet tumbled off, and her hair all whiten-
ed in the dust j nor, when I looked back from a distance, see-
ing her sitting on the pathway, which was a bank by the road-
side, wiping the blood from her face with a corner of her
shawl, while he went on ahead.

This adventure frightened me so, that, afterwards, when I
saw any of these people coming, I turned back until I could

i88

DAVW COPPERFIELD.

find a hiding-place, where I remained until they had gone out
of sight ; which happened so often, that I was very seriously
delayed. But under this difficulty, as under all the other dif-
ficulties of my journey, I seemed to be sustained and led on
by my fanciful picture of my mother in her youth, before I
Â«:ame into the world. It always kept me company. It was
there, among the hops, when I lay down to sleep ; it was with
me on my waking in the morning ; it went before me all day.
I have associated it, ever since, with the sunny street of Can-
terbury, dozing as it were in the hot light ; and with the sight
of its old houses and gateways, and the stately, gray Cathedra1,
with the rooks sailing round the towers. When I came, at
last, upon the bare, wide downs near Dover, it relieved the
solitary aspect of the scene with hope ; and not until I reached
that first great aim of my journey, and actually set foot in the
town itself, on the sixth day of my flight, did it desert me.
But then, strange to say, when I stood with my ragged shoes,
and my dusty, sunburnt, half-clothed figure, in the place so
long desired, it seemed to vanish like a dream, and to leave
me helpless and dispirited.

I inquired about my aunt among the boatmen first, and
received various answers. One said she lived in the South
Foreland Light, and had singed her whiskers by doing so;
another, that she was made fast to the great buoy outside the
harbor, and could only be visited at half-tide ; a third, that
she was locked up in Maidstone Jail for child-stealing ; a fourth,
that she was seen to mount a broom, in the last high wind,
and make direct for Calais. The fly-drivers, among whom I
inquired next, were equally jocose and equally disrespectful f
and the shopkeepers, not liking my appearance, generally re-
plied, without hearing what I had to say, that they had noth-
ing for me. I felt more miserable and destitute than I had
done at any period of my running away. My money was aL'
gone, I had nothing left to dispose of ; I was hungry, thirst} ,
and worn out ; and seemed as distant from my end as if I had
remained in London.

The morning had worn away in these inquiries, and 1 was
sitting on the step of an empty shop at a street corner, near
the market-place, deliberating upon wandering towards those
other places which had been mentioned, when a fly-driver,
coming by with his carriage, dropped a horsecloth. Some-
thing good-natured in the man's face, as I handed it up, en-
couraged me to ask him if he could tell me where Miss Trot

THE SEQ UEL OF M Y RESOL UTION". 1 89

wood lived ; though I had asked the question so often, that it
almost died upon my lips.

"Trotwood," said he. "Let me see. I know the name,
too. Old lady ? "

"Yes," I said, "rather."

" Pretty stiff in the back ? " said he, making himself ur>
right.

" Yes, I said. " I should think it very likely."

" Carries a bag ? " said he ; " bag with a good deal of room
m it ; is gruffish, and comes down upon you sharp ? "

My heart sank within me as I acknowledged the un-
doubted accuracy of this description.

"Why then, I tsll you what," said he. "If you go up
there," pointing with his whip towards the heights, "and keep
right on till you come to some houses facing the sea, I think
you'll hear of her. My opinion is she won't stand anything,
so here's a penny for you."

I accepted the gift thankfully, and bought a loaf with it.
Despatching this refreshment by the way, I went in the direc-
tion my friend had indicated, and walked on a good distance
without coming to the houses he had mentioned. At length
I saw some before me ; and approaching them, went into a
little shop (it was what we used to call a general shop, at
home), and inquired if they could have the goodness to tell
me where Miss Trotwood lived. I addressed myself to a man
behind the counter, who was weighing some rice for a young
woman â€¢ but the latter, taking the inquiry to herself, turned
round quickly.

" My mistress ? " she said. " What do you want with her,
boy ? "

"I want," I replied, " to speak to her, if you please."

" To beg of her you mean," retorted the damsel.

" No," I said, " indeed." But suddenly remembering that
in truth I came for no other purpose, I held my peace in con-
fusion, and felt my face burn.

My aunt's handmaid, as I supposed she was from what she
had said, put her rice in a little basket and walked out of the
shop ; telling me that I could follow her, if I wanted to know
where Miss Trotwood lived. I needed no second permis-
sion ; though I was by this time in such a state of consterna-
tion and agitation, that my legs shook under me. I followed
the young woman, and we soon came to a very neat little cot-
tage with cheerful bow-windows ; in front of it, a small square

190

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

gravelled court or garden full of flowers, carefully tended
and smelling deliciously.

" This is Miss Trotwood's," said the young woman. " Now
you know ; and that's all I have got to say." With which
words she hurried into the house, as if to shake off the re-
sponsibility of my appearance ; and left me standing at the
garden-gate, looking disconsolately over the top of it towards
the parlor-window, where a muslin curtain partly undrawn in
the middle, a large round green screen or fan fastened to the
window-sill, a small table, and a great chair, suggested to me
that my aunt might be at that moment seated in awful state.

My shoes were by this time in a woeful condition. The
soles had shed themselves bit by bit, and the upper leathers
had broken and burst until the very shape and form of shoes
had departed from them. My hat (which had served me for a
night-cap, too) was so crushed and bent, that no old battered
handleless saucepan on a dunghill need have been ashamed to
vie with it. My shirt and trousers, stained with heat, dew,
grass, and the Kentish soil on which I had slept â€” and torn
besides â€” might have frightened the birds from my aunt's gar-
den, as I stood at the gate. My hair had known no comb or
brush since I left London. My face, neck, and hands, from
unaccustomed exposure to the air and sun, were burnt to a
berry brown. From head to foot I was powdered almost as
white with chalk and dust, as if I had come out of a limekiln.
In this plight, and with a strong consciousness of it, I waited
to introduce myself to, and make my first impression .on, my
formidable aunt.

The unbroken stillness of the parlor window leading me to
infer, after a-while, that she was not there, I lifted up my eyes
to the window above it, where I saw a florid, pleasant-looking
gentleman, with a gray head, who shut up one eye in a gro-
tesque manner, nodded his head at me several times, shook
it at me as often, laughed, and went away.

I had been discomposed enough before ; but I was so
much the more discomposed by this unexpected behavior, that
I was on the point of slinking off, to think how I had best
proceed, when there came out of the house a lady with hei
handkerchief tied over her cap, and a pair of gardening
gloves on her hands, wearing a gardening pocket like a toll-
man's apron, and carrying a great knife. I knew her imme-
diately to be Miss Betsey, for she came stalking out of the
house exactly as my poor mother had so often described her
stalking up our garden at Blunderstone Rookery.

THE SEQUEL OF MY RESOLUTION.

IQI

" Go away ! 99 said Miss Betsey, shaking her head, and
making a distant chop in the air with her knife. " Go along 1
No boys here ! "

I watched her, with my heart at my lips, as she marched
to a corner of her garden, and stopped to dig up some little
root there. Then, without a scrap of courage, but with a
great deal of desperation, I went softly in and stood beside
her, touching her with my finger. V

" If you please, ma'am," I began.

She started and looked up.

" If you please, aunt."

" Eh ? " exclaimed Miss Betsey, in a tone of amazement I
have never heard approached.

" If you please, aunt, I am your nephew."

" Oh, Lord ! " said my aunt. And sat flat down in the
garden path.

" I am David Copperfield, of Blunderstone, in Suffolk â€”
where you came, on the night when I was born, and saw my
dear mama. I have been very unhappy since she died. I
have been slighted, and taught nothing, and thrown upon my-
self, and put to work not fit for me. It made me run away to
you. I was robbed at first setting out, and have walked all
the way, and have never slept in a bed since I began the jour-
ney." Here my self-support gave way all at once ; and with
a movement of my hands, intended to show her my ragged
state, and call it to witness that I had suffered something, I
broke into a passion of crying, which I suppose had been
pent up within me all the week.

My aunt, with every sort of expression but wonder dis-
charged from her countenance, sat on the gravel- staring at
me until I began to cry ; when she got up in a great hurry,
collared me, and took me into the parlor. Her first proceed-
^ag there was to unlock a tall press, bring out several bottles,
and pour some of the contents of each into my mouth. I
think they must have been taken out at random, for I am
sure I tasted aniseed water, anchovy sauce, and salad dressing.
When she had administered these restoratives, as I was still
quite hysterical, and unable to control my sobs, she put me
on the sofa, with a shawl under my head, and the handker-
chief from her own head under my feet, lest I should sully
the cover ; and then, sitting herself down behind the green
fan or screen I have already mentioned, so that i could not
see her face, ejaculated a*- intervals, " Merc}' on us 1 Jetting
those exclamations off like minute guns.

*92

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

After a time she rang the bell. " Janet," said my aunt
when her servant came in, " go up stairs, give my complv
ments to Mr. Dick, and say I wish to speak to him."

Janet looked a little surprised to see me lying stiffly on
the sofa (I was afraid to move lest it should be displeasing to
my aunt), but went on her errand. My aunt, with her hands
behind her, walked up and down the room, until the gentle-
man who had squinted at me from the upper window came in
laughing.

" Mr. Dick," said my aunt, " don't be a fool, because no-
body can be more discreet than you can, when you choose.
We all know that. So don't be a fool, whatever you are."

The gentleman was serious immediately, and looked at me,
I thought, as if he would entreat me to say nothing about the
window.

" Mr. Dick," said my aunt, "you have heard me mention
David Copperfield ? Now don't pretend not to have a mem-
ory, because you and I know better."

" David Copperfield ? " said Mr. Dick, who did not appear
to me to remember much about it. " David Copperfield ? Oh
yes, to be sure. David, certainly."

" Well," said my aunt, " this is his boy, his son. He would
be as like his father as it's possible to be, if he was not so
like his mother, too."

" His son ? " said Mr. Dick. " David's son ? Indeed ! "

"Yes," pursued my aunt, "and he has done a pretty piece
of business. He has run away. Ah ! His sister, Betsey
Trotwood, never would have run away." My aunt .shook hei
head firmly, confident in the character and behavior of the
girl who never was born.

" Oh ! you think she wouldn't have run away ? " said Mr,
Dick.

" Bless and save the man," exclaimed my aunt, sharply,
*' how he talks ! Don't I know she wouldn't ? She would
have lived with her god-mother, and we should have been
devoted to one another. Where, in the name of wonder,
should his sister, Betsey Trotwood, have run from, or to ? "

" Nowhere," said Mr. Dick.

"Well then," returned my aunt, softened by the reply,
" how can you pretend to be wool-gathering, Dick, when you
are as sharp as a surgeon's lancet ? Now, here you see young
David Copperfield, and the question I put to you is, what
shall I do with him ? "

THE SEQUEL OE MY RESOLUTION.

J93

"What shall you do with him?" said Mr. Dick, feebly
Scratching his head. " Oh ! do with him ? "

" Yes/' said my aunt, with a grave look, and her forefinget
held up. " Come ! I want some very sound advice."

" Why, if I was you," said Mr. Dick, considering, and
looking vacantly at me, " I should â€” " The contemplation of
me seemed to inspire him with a sudden idea, and he added,
briskly, " â€” I should wash him ! "

"Janet," said my aunt, turning round with a quiet triumph,
which I did not then understand, " Mr. Dick sets us all right.
Heat the bath ? "

Although I was deeply interested in this dialogue, I could
not help observing my aunt, Mr. Dick, and Janet, while it was
in progress, and completing a survey I had already been
engaged in making of the room.

My aunt was a tall, hard-featured lady, but by no means
ill-looking. There was an inflexibility in her face, in her
voice, in her gait and carriage, amply sufficient to account for
the effect she had made upon a gentle creature like my
mother ; but her features were rather handsome than other-
wise, though unbending and austere. I particularly noticed
that she had a very quick, bright eye. Her hair, which was
gray, was arranged in two plain divisions, under what I believe
would be called a mob-cap ; I mean a cap, much more com-
mon then than now, with side-pieces fastening under the chin.
Her dress was of a lavender color, and perfectly neat ; but
scantily made, as if she desired to be as little encumbered as
possible. I remember that I thought it, in form, more like a
riding-habit with the superfluous skirt cut off, than anything
else. She wore at her side a gentleman's gold watch, if I
might judge from its size and make, with an appropriate chain
and seals ; she had some linen at her throat not unlike a
shirt-collar, and things at her wrists like little shirt-wrist-
bands.

Mr. Dick, as I have already said, was gray-headed and
florid * I should have said all about him, in saying so, had
not his head been curiously bowed â€” not by age ; it reminded
me of one of Mr. Creakle's boys' heads after a beating â€” and
his gray eyes prominent and large, with a strange kind of
watery brightness in them that made me, in combination with
his vacant mannei, his submission to my aunt, and his childish
delight when she praised him, suspect him of being a little
mad ; though, if he were mad, how he came to be there, pus'

194

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

zled me extremely. He was dressed like any other ordinary
gentleman, in a loose gray morning coat and waistcoat, and
white trousers ; and had his watch in his fob, and his money
in his pockets ; which he rattled as if he were very proud of it.

Janet was a pretty blooming girl, of about nineteen or
twenty, and a perfect picture of neatness. Though I made no
.urther observation of her at the moment, I may mention here
what I did not discover until afterwards, namely, that she was
one of a series of protegees v/hom my aunt had taken into her
service expressly to educate in a renouncement of mankind,
and who had generally completed their abjuration by marry-
ing the baker.

The room was as neat as Janet or my aunt. As I laid
down my pen, a moment since, to think of it, the air from the
sea came blowing in again, mixed with the perfume of the
flowers ; and I saw the old-fashioned furniture brightly rubbed
and polished, my aunt's inviolable chair and table by the
round green fan in the bow-window, the drugget-covered carpet,
the cat, the kettle-holder, the two canaries, the old china, the
punch-bowl full of dried rose-leaves, the tall press guarding
all sorts of bottles and pots, and, wonderfully out of keeping
with the rest, my dusty self upon the sofa, taking note of
everything.

Janet had gone away to get the bath ready, when my aunt,
to my great alarm, became in one moment rigid with indigna-
tion, and had hardly voice to cry out, " Janet ! Donkeys ! "

Upon which, Janet came running up the stairs as if the
house were in flames, darted out on a little piece of green in
front, and warned off two saddle-donkeys, lady-ridden, that had
presumed to set hoof upon it ; while my aunt, rushing out of
the house, seized the bridle of a third animal laden with a
bestriding child, turned him, led him forth from those sacred
precincts, and boxed the ears of the unlucky urchin in attend-
ance who had dared to profane that hallowed ground.

To this hour I don't know whether my aunt had any law
ful right of way over that patch of green ; but she had settled
it in her own mind that she had, and it was all the same to
her. The one great outrage of her life, demanding to be con-
stantly avenged, was the passage of a donkey over that immac-
ulate spot. In whatever occupation she was engaged, how-
ever interesting to her the conversation in which she was
taking part, a donkey turned the current of her ideas in a
moment, and she was upon him straight. Jugs of water, and

THE SEQUEL OF MY RESOLUTION. 195

watering pots, were kept in secret places ready to be dis-
charged on the offending boys ; sticks were laid in ambush
behind the door ; sallies were made at all hours ; and inces-
sant war prevailed. Perhaps this was an agreeable excite-
ment to the donkey-boys ; or perhaps the more sagacious of
the donkeys, understanding how the case stood, delighted with
constitutional obstinacy in coming that way. I dnly know
that there were three alarms before the bath was ready ; and
that on the occasion of the last and most desperate of all, I
saw my aunt engage, single-handed, with a sandy-headed lad
of fifteen, and bump his sandy head against her own gate,
before he seemed to comprehend what was the matter. These
interruptions were the more ridiculous to me, because she was
giving me broth out of a table-spoon at the time (having
firmly persuaded herself that I was actually starving, and must
receive nourishment at first in very small quantities), and,
while my mouth was yet open to receive the spoon, she would
put it back into the basin, cry " Janet ! Donkeys ! " and go
out to +.he assault.

The bath was a great comfort. For I began to be sensi-
ble of acute pains in my limbs from lying out in the fields, and
was now so tired and low that I could hardly keep myself
awake for five minutes together. When I had bathed, they
(I mean my aunt and Janet) enrobed me in a shirt and a pair
of trousers belonging to Mr. Dick, and tied me up in two or
three great shawls. What sort of bundle I looked like, I
don't know, but I felt a very hot one. Feeling also very faint
and drowsy, I soon lay down on the sofa again and fell
asleep.

It might have been a dream, originating in the fancy which
had occupied my mind so long, but I awoke with the impres-
sion that my aunt had come and bent over me, and had put
my hair away from my face, and laid my head more comforta-
bly, and had then stood looking at me. The words, " Pretty
fellow," or " Poor fellow," seemed to be in my ears, too ; but
certainly there was nothing else, when I awoke, to lead me to
believe that they had been uttered by my aunt, who sat in the
bow-window gazing at the sea from behind the green fan,
which was mounted on a kind of swivel, and turned any way.

We dined soon after I awoke, off a roast fowl and a pud-
ding ; I sitting at table, not unlike a trussed bird myself, and
moving my arms with considerable difficulty. But as my aunt
had swathed me up, I made no complaint of being incon-

196

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

venienced. All this time, I was deeply anxious to knew what
she was going to do with me ; but she took her dinner in pro-
found silence, except when she occasionally fixed her eyes on
me sitting opposite, and said, " Mercy upon us ! " which did
not by any means relieve my anxiety.

The cloth being drawn, and some sherry put upon the table
(of which I had a glass), my aunt sent up for Mr. Dick again,
who joined us, and looked as wise as he could when she re-
quested him to attend to my story, which she elicited from
me, gradually, by a course of questions. During my recital,
she kept her eyes on Mr. Dick, who I thought would have
gone to sleep but for that, and who, whensoever he lapsed
into a smile, was checked by a frown from my aunt.

" Whatever possessed that poor unfortunate Baby, that
she must go and be married again," said my aunt, when I had
finished, "/can't conceive."

" Perhaps she fell in love with her second husband," Mr.
Dick suggested.

" Fell in love ! " repeated my aunt. " What do you mean ?
What business had she to do it ? "

"Perhaps," Mr. Dick simpered, after thinking a little,
"she did it for pleasure."

" Pleasure, indeed ! " replied my aunt. " A mighty pleas-
ure for the poor Baby to fix her simple faith upon any dog of
a fellow, certain to ill-use her in some way or other. What
did she propose to herself, I should like to know ! She had
had one husband. She had seen David Copperfield out of
the world, who was always running after wax dolls from his
cradle. She had got a baby â€” oh, there were a pair of babies
when she gave birth to this child sitting here, that Friday
night ! â€” and what more did she want ? "

Mr. Dick secretly shook his head at me, as if he thought
there was no getting over this.

" She couldn't even have a baby like anybody else," said
my aunt. " Where was this child's sister, Betsey Trotwood ?
Not forthcoming. Don't tell me ! "

Mr. Dick seemed quite frightened.

" That little man of a doctor, with his head on one side,"
said my aunt, " Jellips, or whatever his name was, what was
he about ? All he could do was to say to me, like a robin red-
breastâ€” as he is â€” ' It's a boy.' A boy ! Yah, the imbecility
of the whole set of 'em ! "

The heartiness of the ejaculation startled Mr. Dick exceed-
ingly; and me, too, if I am to tell the truth.

THE SEQUEL OF MY RESOLUTION.

197

"And then, as if this was not enough, and she had not
stood sufficiently in the light of this child's sistei. Betsey
Trotwood," said my aunt, "she marries a second time â€” goes
and marries a Murderer â€” or a man with a name like it â€” and
stands in this child's light ! And the natural consequence
is, as a aybody but a baby might have foreseen, that he prowls
and wanders. He's as like Cain before he was grown up,
as he can be."

Mr. Dick looked hard at me, as if to identify me in this
character. *

u And then there's that woman with the Pagan name,"
said my aunt, " that Peggotty, she goes and gets married next.
Because she has not seen enough of the evil attending such
things, she goes and gets married next, as the child relates. I
only hope," said my aunt, shaking her head, " that her hus-
band Is one of those Poker husbands who abound in the news-
papers, and will beat her well with one."

I could not bear to hear my old nurse so decried, and
made the subject of such a wish. I told my aunt that indeed
she was mistaken. That Peggotty was the best, the truest,
the most faithful, most devoted, and most self-denying friend
and servant in the world ; who had ever loved me dearly, who
had ever loved my mother dearly ; who had held my mother's
dying head upon her arm, on whose face my mother had im-
printed her last grateful kiss. And my remembrance of them
both, choking me, I broke clown as I was trying to say that
her home was my home, and that all she had was mine, and
that I would have gone to her for shelter, but for her humble
station, which made me fear that I might bring some trouble
on her â€” I broke down, I say, as I was trying to say so, and
laid my face in my hands upon the table.

" Well, well ! " said my aunt, " the child ii right to stand
by those who have stood by him. â€” Janet ! Donkeys ! "

I thoroughly believe that but for those unfortunate donkeys,
we should have come to a good understanding ; for my aunt
had laid her hand on my shoulder, and the impulse was upon
me, thus emboldened, to embrace her and beseech her pro-
tection. But the interruption, and the disorder she was thrown
into by the struggle outside, put an end to all softer ideas for
the present, and kept my aunt indignantly declaiming to Mr.
Dick about her determination to appeal for redress to the laws
of her country, and to bring actions for trespass against the
whole donkey proprietorship of Dover, until tea-time.

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

After tea, we sat at the window â€” on the look out, as 1
imagined, from my aunt's sharp expression of face, for more
invaders â€” until dusk, when Janet set candles, and a back-
gammon-board, on the table, and pulled down the blinds.

" Now, Mr. Dick," said my aunt, with her grave look, and
her forefinger up as before, " I am going to ask you another
question. Look at this child."

" David's son ?" said Mr. Dick, with an attentive, puzzled
face.

" Exactly so," returned my aunt. " What would you do
with him, now ? "

" Do with David's son ? " said Mr. Dick.

" Ay," replied my aunt, " with David's son.''

"Oh!" said Mr. Dick. "Yes. Do withâ€” I should put
him to bed."

" Janet ! " cried my aunt, with the same complacent triumph
that I had remarked before. " Mr. Dick sets us all right. If
the bed is ready, we'll take 'him up to it."

Janet reporting it to be quite ready, I was taken up to it ;
kindly, but in some sort like a prisoner ; my aunt going in
front, and Janet bringing up the rear. The only circumstance
which gave me any new hope, was my aunt's stopping on the
stairs to inquire about a smell of fire that was prevalent there \
and Janet's replying that she had been making tinder down
in the kitchen, of my old shirt. But there were no other
clothes in my room than the odd heap of things I wore ; and
when I was left there, with a little taper which my aunt fore-
warned me would burn exactly five minutes, I heard them
lock my door on the outside. Turning these things over in
my mind, I deemed it possible that my aunt, who could know
nothing of me, might suspect I had a habit of running away,
and took precautions, on that account, to have me in safe
keeping.

The room was a pleasant one, at the top of the house,
overlooking the sea, on which the moon was shining brilliantly.
After I had said my prayers, and the candle had burnt out, I
remember how I still sat looking at the moonlight on the
water, as if I could hope to read my fortune in it, as in a bright
book ; or to see my mother with her child, coming from Heaven,
along that shining path, to look upon me as she had looked
when I last saw her sweet face. I remember how the solemn
feeling with which at length I turned my eyes away, yielded to
the sensation of gratitude and rest which the sight of the white-

MY AUNT MAKES UP HER MIND ABOUT ME. ^

curtained bed â€” and how much more the lying softly down
upon it, nestling in the snow-white sheets ! â€” inspired. I re-
member how I thought of all the solitary places under the
night sky where I had slept, and how I prayed that I never
might be houseless any more, and never might forget the
houseless. I remember how I seemed to float, then, down the
melancholy glory of that track upon the sea, away into the
world of dreams.

CHAPTER XIV.

MY AUNT MAKES UP HER MIND ABOUT ME.

On going down in the morning, I found my aunt musing
so profoundly over the breakfast-table, with her elbow on the
tray, that the contents of the urn had overflowed the teapot
and were laying the whole table-cloth under water, when my
entrance put her meditations to flight. I felt sure that I had
been the subject of her reflections, and was more than ever
anxious to know her intentions towards me. Yet I dared not
express my anxiety, lest it should give her offence.

My eyes, however, not being so much under control as my
tongue, were attracted towards my aunt very often during
breakfast. I never could look at her for a few moments to-
gether but I found her looking at me â€” in an odd thoughtful
manner, as if I were an immense way off, instead of being on
the other side of the small round table. When she had finished
her breakfast, my aunt very deliberately leaned back in her
chair, knitted her brows, folded her arms, and contemplated
me at her leisure, with such a fixedness of attention that I
was quite overpowered by embarrassment. Not having as yet
finished my own breakfast, I attempted to hide my confusion
by proceeding with it ; but my knife tumbled over my fork,
my fork tripped up my knife, I chipped bits of bacon a surÂ«
prising height into the air instead of cutting them for my own
eating, and choked myself with my tea, which persisted in
going the wrong way instead of the right one, until I gave in
altogether, and sat blushing under my aunt's close scrutiny,

" Hallo ! " said my aunt, after a long time.

200

DAVID COPPER FIELD.

I looked up, and met her sharp bright glance respect*
fully.

" I have written to him," said my aunt.
"Toâ€”?"

" To your father-in-law," said my aunt. " I have sent him
a letter that I'll trouble him to attend to, or he and I will fall
out, I can tell him ! "

" Does he know where I am, aunt ? " I inquired, alarmed.

" I have told him," said my aunt, with a nod.

" Shall I â€” be â€” given up to him ? " I faltered.

" I don't know," said my aunt. "We shall see."

"Oh! I can't think what I shall do," I exclaimed, "if I
have to go back to Mr. Murdstone ! "

" I don't know anything about it," said my aunt, shaking
her head. " I can't say, I am sure. We shall see."

My spirit sank under these words, and I became very
downcast and heavy of heart. My aunt, without appearing to
take much heed of me, put on a coarse apron with a bib, which
she took out of the press ; washed up the teacups with her
own hands ; and, when everything was washed and set in the
tray again, and the cloth folded and put on the top of the
whole, rang for Janet to remove it. She next swept up the
crumbs with a little broom (putting on a pair of gloves first),
until there did not appear to be one microscopic speck left on
the carpet ; next dusted and arranged the room, which was
1 dusted and arranged to a hair's-breadth already. When all these
tasks were performed to her satisfaction, she took off the
â– gloves and apron, folded them up, put them in the particular
â€¢corner of the press from which they had been taken, brought
out her workbox to her own table in the open window, and sat
down, with the green fan between her and the light, to work.

"I wish you'd go up stairs," said my aunt, as she threaded
her needle, " and give my compliments to Mr. Dick, and I'll
be glad to know how he gets on with his Memorial."

I rose with all alacrity, to acquit myself of this commission.

" I suppose," said my aunt, eyeing me as narrowly as she
had eyed the needle in threading it, "you think Mr. Dick a
short name, eh ? "

" I thought it was rather a short name, yesterday," I con-
fessed.

" You are not to suppose that he hasn't got a longer name,
if he chose to use it," said my aunt, with a loftier air. " Bab-
ley â€” Mr. Richard Babley â€” that's the gentleman's true name."

MY AUNT MAKES UP HER MIND ABOUT ME. 2oi

I was going to suggest, with a modest sense of my youth
and the familiarity I had been already guilty of, that I had bet-
ter give him the full benefit of that name, when my aunt went
on to say :

" But don't you call him by it, whatever you do. He can't
bear his name. That's a peculiarity of his. Though I don't
know that it's much of a peculiarity, either ; for he has been
ill-used enough, by some that bear it, to have a mortal antipathy
for it, Heaven knows. Mr. Dick is his name here, and every- 1
where else, new â€” if he ever went anywhere else, which he
don't. So take care, child, you don't call him anything but
Mr. Dick."

I promised to obey, and went up-stairs with my message ;
thinking, as I went, that if Mr. Dick had been working at his
Memorial long, at the same rate as I had seen him working at
it, through the open door, when I came down, he was probably
getting on very well indeed. I found him still driving at it
with a long pen, and his head almost laid upon the paper.
He was so intent upon it, that I had ample leisure to observe
the large paper kite in a corner, the confusion of bundles of
manuscript, the number of pens, and, above all, the quantity
of ink (which he seemed to have in, in half-gallon jars by the
dozen) before he observed my being present.

" Ha ! Phcebus ! " said Mr. Dick, laying down his pen.
" How does the world go ? I'll tell you what," he added, in
a lower tone, " I shouldn't wish it to be mentioned, but it's
a â€” " here he beckoned to me, and put his lips close to my
ear â€” " it's a mad world. Mad as Bedlam, boy ! " said Mr.
Dick, taking snuff from a round box on the table, and laugh-
ing heartily.

Without presuming to give my opinion on this question, I
delivered my message.

"Well," said Mr. Dick, in answer, "my compliments to
her, and I â€” I believe I have made a start. I think I have
made a start," said Mr. Dick, passing his hand among his
gray hair, and casting anything but a confident look at his
manuscript. "You have been to school ? "

" Yes, sir," I answered ; " for a short time."

" Do you recollect the date," said Mr. Dick, looking ear-
nestly at me, and taking up his pen to note it down, " when
King Charles the First had his head cut off ? "

I said I believed it happened in the year sixteen hundred
and forty-nine.

Â»02

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Well," returned Mr. Dick, scratching his ear with his
pen, and looking dubiously at me. " So the books say ; but
I don't see how that can be. Because, if it was so long ago,
how could the people about him have made that mistake of
putting some of the trouble out of his head, after it was taken
off, into mine ? "

I was very much surprised by the inquiry ; but could give
ao information on this point.

" It's very strange," said Mr. Dick, with a despondent
iook upon his papers, and with his hand among his hair
again, " that I never can get that quite right. I never can
make that perfectly clear. But no matter, no matter ! " he
said cheerfully, and rousing himself, " there's time enough !
My compliments to Miss Trotwood, I am getting on very well
indeed ! "

I was going away, when he directed my attention to the
kite.

" What do you think of that for a kite ? " he said.

I answered that it was a beautiful one. I should think it
must have been as much as seven feet high.

" I made it. We'll go and fly it, you and I," said Mr.
Dick. " Do you see this ? "

He showed me that it was covered with manuscript, very
closely and laboriously written ; but so plainly, thai as I looked
along the lines, I thought I saw some allusion to King Charles
the First's head again, in one or two places.

" There's plenty of string," said Mr. Dick, " and when it
flies high, it takes the facts a long way. That's my manner
of diffusing 'em. I don't know where they may come down.
It's according to circumstances, and the wind, and so forth ;
but I take my chance of that."

His face was so very mild and pleasant, and had some-
thing so reverend in it, though it was hale and hearty, that I
was not sure but thy: he was having a good-humored jest with
me. So I laughed, and he laughed, and we parted the best
friends possible.

" Well, child," said my aunt, when I went down stairs,
M and what of Mr. Dick, this morning ? "

I informed her that he sent his compliments, and was geÂ£Â«
ting on very well indeed.

" What do you think of him ? " said my aunt.

I had some shadowy idea of endeavoring to evade th?
question by replying that I thought him a very nice gentleman ;

MY A UNT MAKES UP HER MIND ABOUT ME. 203

but my aunt was not to be so put off, for she laid her work
down in her lap, and said, folding her hands upon it :

" Come ! Your sister Betsey Trotwood would have told
me what she thought of any one, directly. Be as like your
sister as you can, and speak out ! "

" Is he â€” is Mr. Dick â€” I ask because I don't know, aunt â€”
is ne at all out of his mind, then { " 1 stammered ; for I felt I
was on dangerous ground.

" Not a morsel," said my aunt.

'* Oh, indeed ! " I observed faintly.

"If there is anything in the world," said my aunt, with
great decision and force of manner, " that Mr. Dick is not,
it's that."

I had nothing better to offer, than another timid " Oh, in-
deed ! "

" He has been called mad," said my aunt. " I have a
selfish pleasure in saying he has been called mad, or I should
not have had the benefit of his society and advice for these
^ast ten years and upwards â€” in fact, ever since your sister,
Betsey Trotwood, disappointed me."

" So long as that ? " I said.

" And nice people they were, who had the audacity to call
him mad," pursued my aunt. "Mr. Dick is a sort of distant
connection of mine ; it doesn't matter how ; I needn't enter
into that. If it hadn't been for me, his own brother would
have shut him up for life. That's all."

I am afraid it was hypocritical in me, but seeing that my
aunt felt strongly on the subject, I tried to look as if I felt
strongly too.

" A proud fool ! " said my aunt. " Because his brother
was a little eccentric â€” though he is not half so eccentric as a
good many people â€” he didn't like to have him visible about
his house, and sent him away to some private asylum-place,
though he had been left to his particular care by their de-
ceased father, who thought him almost a natural. And a wise
man he must have been to think so ! Mad himself, no doubt."

Again, as my aunt looked quite convinced, I endeavored
to look quite convinced also.

" So I stepped in," said my aunt, "and made him an offer.
I said, Your brother's sane â€” a great deal more sane than you
are, or ever will be, it is to be hoped. Let him have his little
income, and come and live with me. /am not afraid of him,
/ am not proud, /am ready to take care of him, and shall not

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

ill-treat him as some people (besides the asylum-folks) have
clone. After a good deal of squabbling," said my aunt, " I got
him ; and he has been here ever since. He is the most friendly
and amenable creature in existence ; and as for advice ! â€” But
nobody knows what that man's mind is, except myself."

My aunt smoothed her dress and shook her head, as if she
smoothed defiance of the whole world out of the one, and
shook it out of the other.

. " He had a favorite sister," said my aunt, "a good crea-
ture, and very kind to him. But she did what they all do â€” â–
took a husband. And he did what they all do â€” made her
wretched. It had such an effect upon the mind of Mr. Dick
(thafs not madness, I hope !) that, combined with his fear of
his brother, and his sense of his unkindness, it threw him into
a fever. That was before he came to me, but the recollection
of it is oppressive to him even now. Did he say anything to
you about King Charles the First, child ? "
"Yes, aunt."

"Ah ! " said my aunt, rubbing her nose as if she were a
little vexed. "That's his allegorical way of expressing it.
He connects his illness with great disturbance and agitation,
naturally, and that's the figure, or the simile, or whatever it's
called, which he chooses to use. And why shouldn't he, if he
thinks proper ? "

I said : " Certainly, aunt."

" It's not a business-like way of speaking," said my aunt,
" nor a worldly way. I am aware of that ; and that's the rea-
son why I insist upon it, that there shan't be a word about it
in his Memorial."

" Is it a Memorial about his own history that he is writing,
aunt ? "

" Yes, child," said my aunt, rubbing her nose again. " He
is memorializing the Lord Chancellor, or the Lord Somebody
or other â€” one of those people, at all events, who are paid ta
be memorialized â€” about his affairs. I suppose it will go in.
one of these days. He hasn't been able to draw it up yet,
without introducing that mode of expressing himself ; but it
don't signify ; it keeps him employed."

In fact, I found out afterwards that Mr. Dick had been for
Upwards of ten years endeavoring to keep King Charles the
First out of the Memorial ; but he had been constantly get-
ting into it, and was there now.

" I say again," said my aunt, " nobody knows what that

MY AUNT MAKES UP HER MIND ABOUT ME. 205

man's mind is except myself ; and he's the most amenable and
friendly creature in existence. If he likes to fly a kite some-
times, what of that ! Franklin used to fly a kite. He was
a Quaker, or something of that sort, if I am not mistaken.
And a Quaker flying a kite is a much more ridiculous object
than anybody else."

If I could have supposed that my aunt had recounted
these particulars for my especial behoof, and as a piece of con-
fidence in me, I should have felt \ery much distinguished,
and should have augured favorably from such a mark of her
good opinion. But I could hardly heln observing that she
had launched into them, chiefly because the question was raised
in her own mind, and with very little reference to me, though
she had addressed herself to me in the absence of anybody
else.

At the same time, I must say that the generosity of her
championship of poor harmless Mr. Dick, not only inspired my
young breast with some selfish hope for myself, but warmed it
unselfishly towards her. I believe that I began to know that
there was something about my aunt, notwithstanding her many
eccentricities and odd humors, to be honored and trusted in.
Though she was just as sharp that day, as on the day before,
and was in and out about the donkeys just as often, and was
thrown into a tremendous state of indignation, when a young
man, going by, ogled Janet at a window (which was one of the
greatest misdemeanors that could be committed against my
aunt's dignity), she seemed to me to command more of my
respect, if not less of my fear.

The anxiety I underwent, in the interval which necessa-
rily elapsed before a reply could be received to her letter to
Mr. Murdstone, was extreme ; but I made an endeavor to
suppress it, and to be as agreeable as I could in a quiet wa\T
both to my aunt and Mr. Dick. The latter and I would have
gone out to fly the great kite, but that I had still no other
clothes than the anything but ornamental garments with which)
I had been decorated on the first day, and which confined me
to the house, except for an hour after dark, when my aunt,
for my health's sake, paraded me up and down on the cliff out-
side before going to bed. At length the reply from Mr. Murd-
stone came, and my aunt informed me, to my infinite terror,
that he was coming to speak to her himself on the next day.
On the next day, still bundled up in my curious habiliments, I
sat counting the time, flushed and heated by the conflict of

200

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

sinking hopes and rising fears within me ; and waiting to be
startled by the sight of the gloomy face, whose non-arrival
startled me every minute.

My aunt was a little more imperious and stern than usual,
but I observed no other token of her preparing herself to re-
ceive the visitor so much dreaded by me. She sat at work
in the window, and I sat by, with my thoughts running astray
on all possible and impossible results of Mr. Murdstone's
visit, until pretty late in the afternoon. Our dinner had beer;
indefinitely postponed ; but it was growing so late, that my
aunt had ordered it to be got ready, when she gave a sudden
alarm of donkeys, and to my consternation and amazement,
I beheld Miss Murdstone, on a side-saddle, ride deliberately
over the sacred piece of green, and stop in front of the house,
looking about her.

" Go along with you ! " cried my aunt, shaking her head
and her fist at the window. " You have no business there.
How dare you trespass ? Go along ! Oh ! you bold-faced
thing ! "

My aunt was so exasperated by the coolness with which
Miss Murdstone looked about her, that I really believe she
was motionless, and unable for the moment to dart out accord-
ing to custom. I seized the opportunity to inform her who
it was : and that the gentleman now coming near the offendei
(for the way up was very steep, and he had dropped behind),
was Mr. Murdstone himself.

" I don't care who it is ! " cried my aunt, still shaking her
head, and gesticulating anything but welcome from the bow-
window. " I won't be trespassed upon. I won't allow it. Go
away ! Janet, turn him round. Lead him off ! " and I saw,
from behind my aunt, a sort of hurried battle-piece, in which
*he donkey stood resisting everybody, with all his four legs
planted different ways, while Janet tried to pull him round by
the bridle, Mr. Murdstone tried to lead him on, Miss Murd
stone struck at Janet with a parasol, and several boys, who
had come to see the engagement, shouted vigorously. But
my aunt, suddenly descrying among them the young malefac-
tor who was the donkey's guardian, and who was one of the
most inveterate offenders against her, though hardly in his
teens, rushed out to the scene of action, pounced upon him,
captured him, dragged him, with his jacket over his head and
his heels grinding the ground, into the garden, and, calling
upon Janet to fetch the constables and justices, that he might

MY AUNT MAKES UP HER MIND ABOUT ME. 207

be taken, tried, and executed on the spot, held him at bay
there. This part of the business, however, did not last long ;
for the young rascal, being expert at a variety of feints and
dodges, of which my aunt had no conception, soon went
whooping away, leaving some deep impressions of his nailed
boots in the flower-beds, and taking his donkey in triumph with
him.

Miss Murdstone, during the latter portion of the contest,
had dismounted, and was now waiting with her brother at the
bottom of the steps, until my aunt should be at leisure to re-
ceive them. My aunt, a little ruffled by the combat, marched
past them into the house, with great dignity, and took no no-
tice of their presence, until they were announced by Janet.

" Shall I go away, aunt ? " I asked, trembling.

" No, sir," said my aunt. " Certainly not ! " With which
she pushed me into a corner near her, and fenced me in with
a chair, as if it were a prison or a bar of justice. This posi-
tion I continued to occupy during the whole interview, and
from it I now saw Mr. and Miss Murdstone enter the room.

" Oh ! " said my aunt, " I was not aware at first to whom
I had the pleasure of objecting. But I don't allow anybody to
ride over that turf â€” I make no exceptions. I don't allow
anybody to do it."

"Your regulation is rather awkward to strangers," said
Miss Murdstone.

" Is it ! " said my aunt.

Mr. Murdstone seemed afraid of a renewal of hostilities,
End interposing began :
" Miss Trotwood ! "

" I beg your pardon," observed my aunt with a keen look.
" You are the Mr. Murdstone who married the widow of m}
late nephew, David Copperfleld, of Blunderstone Rookery ? â€”
' Though why Rookery, / don't know ! "

" I am," said Mr. Murdstone.

" You'll excuse my saying, sir," returned my aunt, " that I
think it would have been a much better and happier thing if
you had left that poor child alone."

" I so far agree with what Miss Trotwood has remarked,"
observed Miss Murdstone, bridling, " that I consider our la-
mented Clara to have been, in all essential respects, a mero
child."

" It is a comfort to you and me, ma'am," said my aunt,
u who are getting on in life, and are not likely to be made an*

2o8

DAVID COPPERFIELD

happy by our personal attractions, that nobody can say the
same of us."

" No doubt ! " returned Miss Murdstone, though, I thought,
not with a very ready or gracious assent. " And it certainly
might have been, as you say, a better and happier thing for
my brother if he had never entered into such a marriage. I
have always been of that opinion."

" I have no doubt you have," said my aunt. u Janet,"
ring the bell, " my compliments to Mr. Dick, and beg him to
come down."

Until he came, my aunt sat perfectly upright and stiff,
frowning at the wall. When he came, my aunt performed the
ceremony of introduction.

" Mr. Dick. An old and intimate friend. On whose judg-
ment," said my aunt, with emphasis, as an admonition to Mr.
Dick, who was biting his forefinger and looking rather foolish,
"I rely."

Mr. Dick took his finger out of his mouth, on this hint,
and stood among the group, with a grave and attentive ex-
pression of face. My aunt inclined her head to Mr. Murd-
stone, who went on :

" Miss Trotwood. On the receipt of your letter, I considered
it an act of greater justice to myself, and perhaps of more re-
spect to you â€” "

" Thank you," said my aunt, still eyeing him keenly. " You
needn't mind me."

" To answer it in person, however inconvenient the jour-
ney," pursued Mr. Murdstone, " rather than by letter. This
unhappy boy who has run away from his friends and his oc-
cupationâ€” "

" And whose appearance," interposed his sister, directing
general attention to me in my indefinable costume, " is per-
fectly scandalous and disgraceful."

" Jane Murdstone," said her brother, " have the goodness)
not to interrupt me. This unhappy boy, Miss Trotwood, has
been the occasion of much domestic trouble and uneasiness \
both during the lifetime of my late dear wife, and since. Ke
has a sullen, rebellious spirit ; a violent temper ; and an un-
toward, intractable disposition. Both my sister and myself
have endeavored to correct his vices, but ineffectually. And
I have felt â€” we both have felt, I may say, my sister being
fully in my confidence â€” that it is right you should receive this
grave and dispassionate assurance from our lips."

MY AUNT MAKES UP HER MIND ABOUT ME. 209

" It can hardly be necessary for me to confirm any thing,
stated by my brother," said Miss Murdstone ; " but I beg to
observe, that, of all the boys in the world, I believe this is the
woist boy."

" Strong ! " said my aunt shortly.

" But not at all too strong for the facts," returned Miss
Murdstone.

" Ha ! " said my aunt. " Well, sir ? "

" [ have my own opinions,'.' resumed Mr. Murdstone, whose
face darkened more and more, the more he and my aunt ob-
served each other, which they did very narrowly, " as to the
best mode of bringing him up ; they are founded, in part, on my
knowledge of him, and in part on ' my knowledge of my own
means and resources. I am responsible for them to myself,
I act upon them, and I say no more about them. It is enough
that I place this boy under the eye of a friend of my own, in
a respectable business ; that it does not please him ; that he
runs away from it ; makes himself a common vagabond about
the country ; and comes here, in rags, to appeal to you, Miss
Trotwood. I wish to set before you, honorably, the exact
consequences â€” so far as they are within my knowledge â€” of
your abetting him in this appeal."

" But about the respectable business first," said my aunt
" If he had been your own boy, you would have put him to it,
just the same, I suppose ? "

" If he had been my brother's own boy," returned Miss
Murdstone, striking in, " his character, I trust, would have
been altogether different."

" Or if the poor child, his mother, had been alive, he would
still have gone into the respectable business, would he ? " said
my aunt.

" I believe," said Mr. Murdstone, with an inclination of
his head, " that Clara would have disputed nothing which my-
self and my sister Jane Murdstone were agreed was for the
best." Miss Murdstone confirmed this with an audible mur-
mur.

" Humph ! " said my aunt. " Unfortunate baby."

Mr. Dick, who had been rattling his money all the time,
was rattling it so loudly now, that my aunt felt it necessary to
check him with a look, before saying :

"The poor child's annuity died with her? "

" Died with her," replied Mr. Murdstone.

" And there was no settlement of the little property â€” the

2IO

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

house and garden â€” the -what's-its-name Rookery without any
rooks in it â€” upon her boy ? "

" It had been left to her, unconditionlly, by her first hus-
band," Mr. Murdstone began, when my aunt caught him up
with the greatest irascibility and impatience.

" Good Lord, man, there's no occasion to say that. Left
to her unconditionally ! I think I see David Copperfield
looking forward to any condition of any sort or kind, though
Â°t stared him point-blank in the -face ! Of course it was left
to her unconditionally. But when she married again â€” when
she took that most disastrous step of marrying you, in short,"
said my aunt, " to be plain â€” did no one put in a word for the
boy at that time ? "

" My late wife loved her second husband, madam," said
Mr. Murdstone, " and trusted implicitly in him."

" Your late wife, sir, was a most unworldly, most unhappy,
most unfortunate baby," returned my aunt shaking her head
at him. " That's what she was. And now, what have you got
to say next ? "

" Merely this, Miss Trotwood," he returned. " I am here
to take David back ; to take him back unconditionally, to dis-
pose of him as I think proper, and to deal with him as I think
right. I am not here to make any promise, or give any pledge
to anybody. You may possibly have some idea, Miss Trot-
wood, of abetting him in his running away, and in his com-
plaints to you. Your manner, which I must say does not
seem intended to propitiate, induces me to think it possible.
Now I must caution you that if you abet him once, you abet
him for good and all ; if you step in between him and me,
now, you must step in, Miss Trotwood, for ever. I cannot
trifle, or be trifled with. I am here for the first and last time,
to take him away. Is he ready to go ? If he is not â€” and you
tell me he is not, on any pretence, it is indifferent to me what
â€” my doors are shut against him henceforth, and yours, I take
it for granted, are open to him."

To this address, my aunt had listened with the closest at-
tention, sitting perfectly upright, with her hands folded or*
one knee, and looking grimly on the speaker. When he hart
finished, she turned her eyes so as to command Miss Murd-
stone, without otherwise disturbing her attitude and said :

" Well, ma'am, have you got any thing to remark ? "

" Indeed, Miss Trotwood," said Miss Murdstone, " all that
I could say has been so well said by my brother, and all that

MY AUNT MAKES UP HER. MIND ABOUT ME. 2 1 1

I know to be the fact has been so plainly stated by him, that
I have nothing to add except my thanks for your politeness.
For your very great politeness, I am sure," said Miss Murd-
stone ; with an irony which no more affected my aunt than it
discomposed the cannon I had slept by at Chatham.

' ' And what does the boy say ? " said my aunt. '* Are you
ready to go, David? "

I answered no, and entreated her not to let me go. I said
that neither Mr. nor Miss Murdstone had ever liked me, or
had ever been kind to me. That they had made my mamma
who always loved me dearly, unhappy about me, and that I
knew it well, and that Peggotty knew it. I said that I had
been more miserable than I thought anybody could believe
who only knew how young I was. And I begged and prayed
my aunt â€” I forget in what terms now, but I know that they
affected me very much then â€” to befriend and protect me, for
my father's sake.

"Mr. Dick," said my aunt; "what shall I do with this
child?"

Mr. Dick considered, hesitated brightened, and rejoined,
" Have him measured for a suit of clothes directly."

"Mr. Dick," said my aunt triumphantly, "give me your
hand, for your common sense is invaluable." Having shaken
it with great cordiality, she pulled me towards her and said to
Mr. Murdstone :

"You can go when you like ; I'll take my chance with the
boy. If he's all you say he is, at least I can do as much for
him then as you have done. But I don't believe a word of
it."

"Miss Trotwood," rejoined Mr. Murdstone, shrugging his
shoulders, as he rose, "if you were a gentleman "

" Bah 1 Stuff and nonsense ! " said my aunt. "Don't talk
to me ! "

"How exquisitely polite!" exclaimed Miss Murdstone,
rising. "Overpowering, really!"

"Do you think I don't know," said my aunt turning a
deaf ear to the sister, and continuing to address the brother,
and to shake her head at him with infinite expression, " what
kind of life you must have led that poor, unhappy, misdi-
rected baby ? Do you think I don't know what a woeful day
it was for the soft little creature when _you first came in her
way â€” smirking and making great eyes at her, I'll be bound,
as if you couldn't say boh ! to a goose 1 "

JI2

DA VI D COI PK R FIELD.

" I never heard anything so elegant ! " said Miss Murd
stone.

" Do you think I can't understand you as well as if I had
seen you," pursued my aunt, " now that I do see and hear you
â– â€” which I tell you candidly, is anything but a pleasure to me ?
Oh yes, bless us ! who so smooth and silky as Mr. Murdstone
at first ! The poor, benighted innocent had never seen such a
man. He was made of sweetness. He worshipped her. He
doted on her boy â€” tenderly doted on him ! He was to be
another father to him, and they were all to live together in a
garden of roses, weren't they ? Ugh ! Get along with you,
do ! " said my aunt.

" I never heard anything like this person in my life ! " ex-
claimed Miss Murdstone.

"And when you had made sure of the poor little fool," said
my aunt â€” " God forgive me that I should call her so, and she
gone' where you won't go in a hurry â€” because you had not done
wrong enough to her and hers, you must begin to train her,
must you ? begin to break her, like a poor caged bird, and wear
her deluded life away, in teaching her to sing your notes ? "

"This is either insanity or intoxication," said Miss Murd-
stone, in a perfect agony at not being able to turn the current
of my aunt's address towards herself ; " and my suspicion is
that it's intoxication."

Miss Betsey, without taking the least notice of the inter-
ruption, continued to address herself to Mr. Murdstone as if
there had been no such thing.

" Mr. Murdstone," she said, shaking her finger at him, "you
were a tyrant to the simple baby, and you broke her heart.
She was a loving baby â€” I know that.; , I knew it years before
you ever saw her â€” and through the best pa.t of her weakness
/ou gave her the wounds she died of. There is the truth for
/our comfort, however you like it. And you and your instru>
ments may make the most of it."

" Allow me to inquire, Miss Trotwood," interposed Miss
Murdstone, " whom you are pleased to call, in a choice of
words, in which I am not experienced, my brother's instru-
ments ? "

Still stone-deaf to the voice, and utterly unmoved by it,
Miss Betsey pursued her discourse.

" It was clear enough, as I have told you, years before you
ever saw her â€” and why in the mysterious dispensations of
Providence, you ever did see her, is more than humanity can

MY AUNT MA ICES UP HER MIND ABOUT ME. 2 13

comprehend â€” it was clear enough that the poor soft little thing
would marry somebody, at some time or other ; but I did hope
it wouldn't have been as bad as it has turned out. That was
ihe time, Mr. Murdstone, when she gave birth to her boy here,"
said my aunt ; " to the poor child you sometimes tormented her
through afterwards, which is a disagreeable remembrance, and
makes the sight of him odious now. Ay, ay ' you needn't
wince ! " said my aunt. " I know it's true without that."

He had stood by the door, all this while, observant of her,
with a smile upon his face, though his black eyebrows were
heavily contracted. I remarked now, that, though the smile
was on his face still, his color had gone in a moment, and he
seemed to breathe as if he had been running.

"Good day, sir," said my aunt, "and good bye! Good
day to you, too, ma'am," said my aunt, turning suddenly upon
his sister. " Let me see you ride a donkey over my green
again, and as sure as you have a head upon your shoulders,
I'll knock your bonnet off, and tread upon it ! "

It would require a painter, and no common painter too, to
depict my aunt's face as she delivered herself of this very un-
expected sentiment, and Miss Murdstone's face as she heard
it. But the manner of the speech, no less than the matter, was
â– .so fiery, that Miss Murdstone, without a word in answer, dis-
creetly put her arm through her brother's, and walked haughtily
out of the cottage ; my aunt remaining in the window looking
after them ; prepared, I have no doubt, in case of the donkey's
reappearance, to carry her threat into instant execution.

No attempt at defiance being made, however, her face
gradually relaxed, and became so pleasant, that I was em-
boldened to kiss and thank her ; which I did with great heart-
iness, and with both my arms clasped around her neck. I then
shook hands with Mr. Dick, who shook hands with me a greax
many tiiv.es, and hailed this happy close of the proceedings
with repeated bursts of laughter.

" You'll consider yourself guardian, jointly with me, of this
.-child, Mr. Dick," said my aunt.

" I shall be delighted," said Mr. Dick, " to be the guar-
dian of David's son."

"Very good," returned my aunt, " that's settled. I have
been thinking, do you know, Mr. Dick, that I might call him
Trotwood ? "

" Certainly, certainly. Call him Trotwood, certainly," said
%lx. Dick. " David's son's Trotwood."

214

DAVID COPPERFIELD

"Trotwood Copperfield, you mean," returned my aunt.

" Yes, to be sure. Yes. Trotwood Copperfield," said Mt
Dick, a little abashed.

My aunt took so kindly to the notion, that some ready-made
clothes, which were purchased for me that afternoon, were
marked " Trotwood Copperfield," in her own handwriting, and
in indelible marking-ink, before I put them on ; and it was
settled that all the other clothes which were ordered to be
made for me (a complete outfit was bespoke that afternoon)
should be marked in the same way.

Thus I began my new life in a new name, and with every-
thing new about. Now that the state of doubt was over, I
felt, for many days, like one in a dream. I never thought that
I had a curious couple of guardians, in my aunt and Mr Dick.
I never thought of anything about myself, distinctly. The two
things clearest in my mind were, that a remoteness /iad come
upon the old Blunderstone life â€” which seemed to lie in the
haze of an immeasurable distance ; and that a curtain had for
ever fallen on my life at Murdstone and Grinby's. No one
has ever raised that curtain since. I have lifted it for a
moment, even in this narrative, with a reluctant hand, and
dropped it gladly. The remembrance of that life is fraught
with so much pain to me, with so much mental suffering and
want of hope, that I have never had the courage even to
examine how long I was doomed to lead it. Whether it lasted
for a year, or more, or less, I do not know. I only know
that it was, and ceased to be ; and that I have written, and
there I leave it.

CHAPTER XV.

I MAKE ANOTHER BEGINNING.

Mr. Dick and I soon became the best of friends, and very
often, when his day's work was done, went out together to fly
the great kite. Every day of his life he had a long sitting at
the Memorial, which never made the least progress, however
hard he labored, for King Charles the First always strayed into
it, sooner or later, and then it was thrown aside, and another
one begun. The patience and hope with which he bore these

I MAKE ANOTHER BEGINNING.

perpetual disappointments, the mild perception he had that
there was something wrong about King Charles the First, the
feeble efforts he made to keep him out, and the certainty with
which he came in, and tumbled the Memorial out of all shape,
made a deep impression on me. What Mr. Dick supposed
would come of the Memorial, if it were completed,; where
he thought it was to go, or what he thought it was to do ; he
knew no more than anybody else, I believe. Nor was it at all
necessary that he should trouble himself with such questions,
for if anything were certain under the sun, it was certain that
the Memorial never would be finished.

It was quite an affecting sight, I used to think, to see him
with the kite when it was up a great height in the air. What
he had told me, in his room, about his belief in its disseminat-
ing the statements pasted on it, which were nothing but old
leaves of abortive Memorials, might have been a fancy with
him sometimes ; but not when he was out, looking up at the
kite in the sky, and feeling it pull and tug at his hand. He
never looked so serene as he did then. I used to fancy, as I
sat by him of an evening, on a green slope, and saw him
watch the kite high in the quiet air, that it lifted his mind out
of its confusion, and bore it (such was my boyish thought)
into the skies. As he wound the string in, and it came lower
and lower down out of the beautiful light, until it fluttered to
the ground, and lay there like a dead thing, he seemed to wake
gradually out of a dream ; and I remember to have seen him
take it up, and look about him in a lost way, as if they had
both come down together, so that I pitied him with all my
heart.

While I advanced in friendship and intimacy with Mr.
Dick, I did not go backward in the favor of his staunch
friend, my aunt. She took so kindly to me, that, in the
course of a few weeks she shortened my adopted name of
Trotwood into Trot ; and even encouraged me to hope, that
if I went on as I had begun, I might take equal rank in her
affections with my sister Betsey Trotwood.

"Trot," said my aunt one evening, when the backgammon
board was placed as usual for herself and Mr. Dick, " we
must not forget your education."

This was my only subject of anxiety, and I felt quite de-
lighted by her referring to it.

" Should you like to go to school at Canterbury?^ said
my aunt. ..

2l6

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

I replied that I should like it very much, as it was so
near her.

"Good," said my aunt. "Should you like to go to-mor-
row ? "

Being already no stranger to the general rapidity of my
aunt's evolutions, I was not surprised by the suddenness of
the proposal, and said : " Yes."

"Good," said my aunt again. "Janet, hire the gray pony
and chaise to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, and pack up
Master Trotwood's clothes to-night."

I was greatly elated by these orders ; but my heart smote
me for my selfishness, when I witnessed their effect on Mr.
Dick, who was so low-spirited at the prospect of our separa-
tion, and played so ill in consequence, that my aunt, after
giving him several admonitory raps on the knuckles with her
dice-box, shut up the board and declined to play with him any
more. But, on hearing from my aunt that I should some-
times come over on a Saturday, and that he could sometimes
come and see me on a Wednesday, he revived ; and vowed to
make another kite for those occasions, of proportions greatly
surpassing the present one. In the morning he was down-
hearted again, and would have sustained himself by giving
me all the money he had in his possession, gold and silver,
too, if my aunt had not interposed, and limited the gift to five
shillings, which, at his earnest petition, were afterwards in-
creased to ten. We parted at the garden-gate m a most af-
fectionate manner, and Mr. Dick did not go into the house
until my aunt had driven me out of sight of it.

My aunt, who was perfectly indifferent to public opinion,
drove the gray pony through Dover in a masterly manner \
sitting high and stiff like a state coachman, keeping a steady
eye upon him wherever he went, and making a point of not let-
ting him have his own way in any respect. When we came
into the country road, she permitted him to relax a little, how- Â«.
'ever ; and looking at me down in a valley of cushion by her
side, asked me whether I was happy ?

" Very happy, indeed, thank you, aunt," I said.

She was much gratified ; and both her hands being occu-
pied, patted me on the head with her whip.

" Is it a large school, aunt ? " I asked.

"Why, I don't know," said my aunt. "We are going to
Mr. Wickfield's first."

" Does he keep a school ? 79 I asked.

/ MAKE ANOTHER BEGINNING.

2*7

" No, Trot," said my aunt. " He keeps an office."

I asked for no more information about Mr. Wickfield, as
she offered none, and we conversed on other subjects until
â€¢we came to Canterbury, where, as it was market day, my aunt
had a great opportunity of insinuating the gray pony among"
carts, baskets, vegetables, and hucksters' goods. The hair-
bieadth turns and twists we made, drew down upon us a variety
of speeches from the people standing about, which were not al-
ways complimentary ; but my aunt drove on with perfect in-
difference, and I dare say would have taken her own way with
as much coolness through an enemy's country.

At length we stopped before a very old house bulging out
over the road ; a house with long low lattice-windows bulging
out still further, and beams with carved heads on the ends
bulging out too, so that I fancied the whole house was lean-
ing forward, trying to see who was passing on the narrow
pavement below. It was quite spotless in its cleanliness.
The old-fashioned brass knocker on the low arched door, or-
namented with carved garlands of fruit and flowers, twinkled
like a star ; the two stone steps descending to the door were
as white as if they had been covered with fair linen ; and all
the angles and corners, and carvings and mouldings, and
quaint little panes of glass, and quainter little windows,
though as old as the hills, were as pure as any snow that ever
fell upon the hills.

When the pony chaise stopped at the door, and my eyes
were intent upon the house, I saw a cadaverous face appear
at a small window on the ground floor (in a little round tower
that formed one side of the house), and quickly disappear.
The low arched door then opened, and the face came out. It
was quite as cadaverous as it had looked in the window,
though in the grain of it there was that tinge of red which is
sometimes to be observed in the skins of red-haired people.
It belonged to a red-haired person â€” a youth of fifteen, as I
take it now, but looking much older â€” whose hair was cropped
as close as the closest stubble ; who had hardly any eye-
brows, and no eyelashes, and eyes of a red brown, so un-
sheltered and unshaded, that I remember wondering how he
went to sleep. He was high-shouldered and bony ; dressed in
decent black, with a white wisp of a neckcloth ; buttoned up
to the throat ; and had a long, lank, skeleton hand, which par-
ticularly attracted my attention, as he stood at the pony's headj
rubbing his chin with it, and looking up at us in the chaise.

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Is Mr. Wickfield at home, Uriah Heep ? ': said my aunt
u Mr. Wickfield's at home, ma'am," said Uriah Heep, "ii
you'll please to walk in there," pointing with his long hand to
the room he meant.

We got out, and leaving him to hold the pony, went into
a long low parlor looking towards the street, from the win-
dow of which I caught a glimpse, as I went in, of Uriah
Heep breathing into the pony's nostrils, and immediately cov
ering them with his hand, as if he were putting some spelj
upon him. Opposite to the tall old chimney-piece, were two
portraits, one of a gentleman with gray hair (though not by any
means an old man) and black eyebrows, who was looking over
some papers tied together with red tape ; the other, of a lady,
with a very placid and sweet expression of face, who was
looking at me.

I believe I was turning about in search of Uriah's picture,
when a door at the farther end of the room opening, a gentle-
man entered, at sight of whom I turned to the first-mentioned
portrait again, to make quite sure that it had not come out of
its frame. But it was stationary â– and as the gentleman ad-
vanced into the light, I saw that he was some years older than
when he had had his picture painted.

" Miss Betsey Trotwood," said the gentleman, "pray walk
in. I was engaged for a moment, but you'll excuse my being
busy. You know my motive. I have but one in life."

Miss Betsey thanked him, and we went into his room,
which was furnished as an office, with books, papers, tin
boxes, and so forth. It looked into a garden, and. had an
iron safe let into the wall ; so immediately over the mantel-
shelf, that I wondered, as I sat down, how the sweeps got
round it when they swept the chimney.

"Well, Miss Trotwood," said Mr. Wickfield ; for I soon
found that it was he, and that he was a lawyer, and steward
of the estates of a rich gentleman of the county ; " what wind
blows you here ? Not an ill wind, I hope ? "

*' No," replied my aunt, " I have not come for any law."

" That's right, ma'am," said Mr. Wickfield. " You had
better come for anything else."

His hair was quite white now, though his eyebrows were
still black. He had a very agreeable face, and, I thought,
was handsome. There was a certain richness in hrs complex-
ion, which I had been long accustomed, under Peggotty's
tuition, to connect with port wine : and I fancied it was in his

I MAKE ANOTHER BEGINNING.

219

Voice too, and referred his growing corpulency to the same
cause. He was very cleanly dressed, in a blue coat, striped
waistcoat, and nankeen trousers ; and his fine frilled shirt and
cambric neckcloth looked unusually soft and white, reminding
my strolling fancy (I call to mind) of the plumage on the
breast of a swan.

" This is my nephew," said my aunt.

" Wasn't aware you had one, Miss Trotwood," said Mr.
Wickfield.

" My grand-nephew, that is to say," observed my aunt.

" Wasn't aware you had a grand-nephew, I give you my
word," said Mr. Wickfield.

"I have adopted him," said my aunt, with a wave of her
hand, importing that his knowledge and his ignorance were
all one to her, " and I have brought him here, to put him to
a school where he may be thoroughly well taught, and well
treated. Now tell me where that school is, and what it is,
and all about it."

" Before I can advise you properly," said Mr. Wickfield,
â€” " the old question, you know, What's your motive in this ? "

" Deuce take the man ! " exclaimed my aunt. " Always
fishing for motives, when they're on the surface ! Why, to
make the child happy and useful."

" It must be a mixed motive, I think," said Mr. Wickfield,
shaking his head and smiling incredulously.

"A mixed fiddlestick ! " returned my aunt. "You claim
to have one plain motive in all you do yourself. You don't
suppose, I hope, that you are the only plain dealer in the
world ? "

" Ay, but I have only one motive in life, Miss Trotwood,"
he rejoined, smiling. "Other people have dozens, scores,
hundreds. I have only one. There's the difference. How-
ever, that's beside the question. The best school ? Whatever
the motive, you want the best ? "

My aunt nodded assent.

" At the best we have," said Mr. Wickfield, considering,
your nephew couldn't board just now."

" But he could board somewhere else, I suppose ? " sug-
gested my aunt.

Mr. Wickfield thought I could. After a little discussion,
he proposed to take my aunt to the school, that she might see
it and judge for herself ; also, to take her, with the same
object, to two or three houses where he thought I could be

220

DAVID COP PER FIELD.

boarded. My aunt embracing the proposal, we were all three
going out together, when he stopped and said :

" Our little friend here might have some motive, perhaps,
for objecting to the arrangements. I think we had better
leave him behind ? "

My aunt seemed disposed to contest the point ; but to-
facilitate matters I said I would gladly remain behind, if they
pleased ; and returned into Mr. Wickfield's office, where I sa*
down again, in the chair I had first occupied, to await thei;
return.

It so happened that this chair was opposite a narrow
passage, which ended in the little circular room where I had
seen Uriah Heep's pale face looking out of window. Uriah,
having taken the pony to a neighboring stable, was at work
at a desk in this room, which had a brass frame on the top to
hang papers upon, and on which the writing he was making a
copy of was then hanging. Though his face was towards me,
I thought, for some time, the writing being between us, that
he could not see me ; but looking that way more attentively,
it made me uncomfortable to observe that, every now and
then, his sleepless eyes would come below the writing, like two
red suns, and stealthily stare at me for I dare say a whole
minute at a time, during which his pen went, or pretended to
go, as cleverly as ever. I made several attempts to get out
of their way â€” such as standing on a chair to look at a map on
the other side of the room, and poring over the columns of a
Kentish newspaper â€” but they always attracted me back .again ;
and whenever I looked towards those two red suns, I was sure
to find them, either just rising or just setting.

At length, much to my relief, my aunt and Mr. Wickfield
came back, after a pretty long absence. They were not so
successful as I could have wished ; for though the advantages
of the school were undeniable, my aunt had not approved of
any of the boarding-houses proposed for me.

" It's very unfortunate," said my aunt. " I don't know
what to do, Trot."

" It does happen unfortunately," said Mr. Wickfield.
" But I'll tell you what you can do, Miss Trotwood."

"What's that ? " inquired my aunt.

" Leave your nephew here, for the present. He's a quiet
fellow. He won't disturb me at all. It's a capital house for
study. As quiet as a monastery, and almost as roomy. Leavtf
him here."

J MAKE ANOTHER BEGINNING. 22i

My aunt evidently liked the offer, though she was delicate
of accepting it. So did I.

' Come, Miss Trotwood," said Mr. Wickfield. "This is
the way out of the difficulty. It's only a temporary arrange-
ment, you know. If it don't act well, or don't quite accord
with our mutual convenience, he can easily go to the right-
about. There will be time to find some better place for him
in the meanwhile. You had better determine to leave him
here for the present ! "

" I am very much obliged to you," said my aunt ; " and so
is he, I see ; but â€” "

" Come ! I know what you mean," cried Mr. Wickfield.
" You shall not be oppressed by the receipt of favors. Miss
Trotwood. You may pay for him, if you like. We won't be
hard about terms, but you shall pay if you will."

" On that understanding," said my aunt, " though it doesn't
lessen the real Obligation, I shall be very glad to leave him."

" Then come and see my little housekeeper," said Mr.
Wickfield.

We accordingly went up a wonderful old staircase, with a
balustrade so broad that we might have gone up that, almost
as easily, and into a shady old drawing-room, lighted by
some three or four of the quaint windows I had looked up at
from the street, which had old oak seats in them, that seemed
to have come of the same trees as the shining oak floor, and the
great beams in the ceiling. It was a prettily furnished room,
with a piano and some lively furniture in red and green, and
some flowers. It seemed to be all old nooks and corners ; and
in every nook and corner there was some queer little table, or
cupboard, or bookcase, or seat, or something or other, that
made me think there was not such another good corner in the
room, until I looked at the next one, and found it equal to
it, if not better. On everything there was the same air of
retirement and cleanliness that marked the house outside.

Mr. Wickfield tapped at a door in a corner of the paneled
wall, and a girl of about my own age came quickly out and
kissed him. On her face, I saw immediately the placid and
sweet expression of the lady whose picture had looked at me
down stairs. It seemed to my imagination as if the portrait
had grown womanly, and the original remained a child. Al-
though her face was quite bright and happy, there was a tran-
quillity about it, and about her â€” a quiet, good, calm spirit-
that I never have forgotten ; that I never shall forget,

222

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

This was his little housekeeper, his daughter Agnes, Mr.
Wickfield said. When I heard how he said it, and saw hov?
he held her hand, I guessed what the one motive of his life
was.

She had a little basket-trifle hanging at her side, with keys
in it ; and she looked as staid and as discreet a housekeeper
as the old house could have. She listened to her father as
lie told her about me, with a pleasant face ; and when he had
concluded, proposed to my aunt that we should go up stairs
and see my room. We all went together, she before us. A
glorious old room it was, with more oak beams, and diamond
panes ; and the broad balustrade going all the way up to it.

I cannot call to mind where or when, in my childhood, I
had seen a stained glass window in a church. Nor do I rec-
ollect its subject. But I know that when I saw her turn
round, in the grave light of the old staircase, and wait for us,
above, I thought of that window ; and I associated something
of its tranquil brightness with Agnes Wickfield ever after-
wards.

My aunt was as happy as I was, in the arrangement made
for me, and we went down to the drawing-room again, well
pleased and gratified. As she would not hear of staying to
dinner, lest she should by any chance fail to arrive at home
with the gray pony before dark ; and as I apprehend Mr.
Wickfield knew her too well, to argue any point with her,
some lunch was provided for her there, and Agnes went back
to her governess, and Mr. Wickfield to his office. So we
were left to take leave of one another without any restraint.

She told me that everything would be arranged for me by
Mr. Wickfield, and that I should want for nothing, and gave
me the kindest words and the best advice.

"Trot," said my aunt in conclusion, "be a credit to your-
self, to me, and Mr. Dick, and Heaven be with you ! "

I was greatly overcome, and could only thank her, again
and again, and send my love to Mr. Dick.

"Never," said my aunt, "be mean in anything; never be
false ; never be cruel. Avoid those three vices, Trot, and I
can always be hopeful of you."

I promised, as well as I could, that I would not abuse her
kindness or forget her admonition.

"The pony's at the door," said my aunt, "and I am off?
Stay here."

With these words she embraced me hastily, and went out

7 MAKE ANOTHER BEGINNING

223

of the room, shutting the door after her. At first I was star-
tled by so abrupt a departure, and almost feared I had dis-
pleased her ; but when I looked into the street, and saw how
dejectedly she got into the chaise, and drove away without
looking up, I understood her better, and did not do^her that
injustice.

By five o'clock, which was Mr. Wickfield's dinner-hour, I
had mustered up my spirits again, and was ready for my knife
and fork. The cloth was only laid for us two ; but Agnes
was waiting in the drawing-room before dinner, went down
with her father and sat opposite to him at table. I doubted
whether he could have dined without ner.

We did not stay there, after dinner, but came upstairs into
the drawing-room again ; in one snug corner of which, Agnes
sat glasses for her father, and a decanter of port wine. I
thought he would have missed its usual flavor, if it had been
put there for him by any other hands.

There he sat, taking his wine, and taking a good deal of
it, for two hours ; while Agnes played on the piano, worked,
and talked to him and me. He was, for the most part, gay
and cheerful with us ; but sometimes his eyes rested on her,
and he fell into a brooding state, and was silent. She always
observed this quickly, I thought, and always roused him with
a question or caress. Then he came out of his meditation, and
drank more wine.

Agnes made the tea., and presided over it ; and the time
passed away after it, as after dinner, until she went to bed \
when her father took her in his arms and kissed her, and, she
being gone, ordered candles in his office. Then I went to
bed too.

But in the course of the evening I had rambled down to
the door, and a little way along the street, that I might havs
another peep at the old houses, and the gray Cathedral ; and
might think of my coming through that old city on my journey,
and of my passing the very house I li^ed in, without knowing
it. As I came back, I saw Uriah Heep shutting up the
office ; and, feeling friendly towards everybody, went in and
spoke to him, and at parting, gave him my hand. But oh,
what a clammy hand his was ! as ghostly to the touch as to-
the sight ! I rubbed mine afterwards, to warm it, and to rub
his off.

It was such an uncomfortable hand, that, when I went to
my room, it was still cold and wet upon my memory. Leaning

2 24

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

out of window, and seeing one of the faces on the beam-ends
looking at me sideways, I fanced it was Uriah Heep got up
there somehow, and shut him out in a hurry.

CHAPTER XVI.

I AM A NEW BOY IN MORE SENSES THAN ONE.

Next morning, after breakfast, I entered on school life
again. I went, accompanied by Mr. Wickfield, to the scene of
my future studies â€” a grave building in a courtyard with a
learned air about it that seemed very well suited to the stray
rooks and jackdaws who came down from the Cathedral
towers to walk with a clerkly bearing on the grass-plot â€” and
was introduced to my new master, Doctor Strong.

Doctor Strong looking almost as rusty, to my thinking, as
the tall iron rails and gates outside the house ; and almost as
stiff and heavy as the great stone urns that flanked them,
and were set up, cn the top of the red-brick wall, at regular
distances all round the court, like sublimated skittles, for
Time to play at. He was in his library (I mean Doctor
Strong was), with his clothes not particularly well brushed,
and his hair not particularly well combed ; his knee-smalls
unbraced ; his long black gaiters unbuttoned ; and his shoes
yawning like two caverns on the hearth-rug. Turning upon
me a lustreless eye, that reminded me of a long-forgotten blind
old horse who once used to crop the grass, and tumble over
the graves, in Blunderstone churchyard, he said he was glad
to see me ; and then he gave me his hand, which I didn't
know what to do with, as it did nothing for itself.

But sitting at work, not far off from Doctor Strong, was a
very pretty young lady â€” whom he called Annie, and who was
his daughter, I supposed â€” who got me out of my difficulty by
kneeling down to put Doctor Strong's shoes on, and button
his gaiters, which she did with great cheerfulness and quick-
ness. When she had finished, and we were going out to the
school-room, I was much surprised to hear Mr. Wickfield, in
bidding her good morning, address her as " Mrs. Strong ; "
and I was wondering could she be Doctor Strong's son's wife,

/ AM A NEW BOY IN MORE SENSES THAN ONE. 225

or could she be Mrs. Doctor Strong-, when Doctor Strong
himself unconsciously enlightened me.

" By-the-by, Wickrield," he said, stopping in a passage
with his hand on my shoulder, "you have not found any
suitable provision for my wife's cousin yet? "

"No," said Mr. Wickrield. " No. Not yet."

" I could wish it done as soon as it can be done, Wick-
rield," said Doctor Strong, "for Jack Maldon is needy, and
idle ; and of those two bad things, worse things sometimes
come. What does Doctor Watts say," he added, looking at
me, and moving his head to the time of his quotation, " 'Sa-
tan finds some mischief still, for idle hands to do.'"

"Egad, doctor," returned Mr. Wickfield, "if Doctor
Watts knew mankind, he might have written, with as much
truth, 'Satan finds some mischief still, for busy hands to do.'
The busy people achieve their full share of mischief in the
world, you may rely upon it. What have the people been
about, who have been the busiest in getting money, and in
getting power, this century or two ? No mischief?"

"Jack Maldon will never be very busy in getting either, I
expect," said Doctor Strong, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Perhaps not," said Mr. Wickfield ; "and you bring me
back to the question, with an apology for digressing. No, I
have not been able to dispose of Mr. Jack Maldon yet. I be-
lieve," he said this with some hesitation, u I penetrate youi
motive, and it makes the thing more difficult."

"My motive," returned Doctor Strong, " is to make sonÂ»v
suitable provision for a cousin, and an old playfellow, of
Annie's."

"Yes, I know," said Mr. Wickfield, "at home or abroad."

"Ay ! " replied the Doctor, apparently wondering why he
emphasized those words so much. "At home or abroad."

"Your own expression, you know," said Mr. Wickfield
"Or abroad."

"Surely" the Doctor answered. "Surely. One or
other. "

"One or other? Have you no choice?" asked Mr.

Wickfield.

"No," returned the Doctor.
"No ? " with astonishment
"Not the least."

"No motive," said Ivlr. Wickfield, "for meaning abroaa
and not at home? "

226

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" No," returned the Doctor.

" I am bound to believe you, and of course I do believe
you," said Mr. Wickfield. " It might have simplified my
office very much, if I had known it before. But I confess I
entertained another impression.

Doctor Strong regarded him with a puzzled and doubting
look, which almost immediately subsided into a smile that
gave me great encouragement ; for it was full of amiability
and sweetness, and there was a simplicity in it, and indeed in
his whole manner, when the studious, pondering frost upon it
was got through, very attractive and hopeful to a young
scholar like me. Repeating " no," and " not the least," and
other short assurances to the same purpose, Doctor Strong
jogged on before us, at a queer, uneven pace ; and we fol-
lowed : Mr. Wickfield looking grave, I observed, and shaking
his head to himself, without knowing that I saw him.

The school-room was a pretty large hall, on the quietest
side of the house, confronted by the stately stare of some
half-dozen of the great urns, and commanding a peep of an
old secluded garden belonging to the Doctor, where the
peaches were ripening on the sunny south wall. There were
two great aloes, in tubs, on the turf outside the windows ; the
broad hard leaves of which plant (looking as if they were
made of painted tin) have ever since, by association, been
symbolical to me of silence and retirement. About five-and-
twenty boys were studiously engaged at their books when we
went in, but they rose to give the Doctor good morning, and
remained standing when they saw Mr. Wickfield and me.

" A new boy, young gentlemen," said the Doctor ; " Trot-
wood Copperfield."

One Adams, who was the head boy, then stepped out of
his place and welcomed me. He looked like a young clergy-
man, in his white cravat, but he was very affable and good-
humored ; and he showed me my place, and presented me to
the masters, in a gentlemanly way that would have put me at
my ease, if anything could.

It seemed to me so long, however, since I had been among
such boys, or among any companions of my own age, except
Mick Walker and Mealey Potatoes, that I felt as strange as
ever I have done m all my life. I was so conscious of hav-
ing passed through scenes of which they could have no knowl-
edge, and of having acquired experiences foreign to my age,
appearance, and condition as one of them, that I half be-

2 AM A NEW BOY IN MORE SENSES THAN ONE. 227

lieved it was an imposture to come there as an ordinary little
school-boy. I had become, in the Murdstone and Grinby
time, however short or long it may have been, so unused to
the sports and games of boys, that I knew I was ^awkward
and inexperienced in the commonest things belonging to
them. Whatever I had learnt, had so slipped away from me
'in the sordid cares of my life from day to night, that now,
when I was examined about what I knew, I knew nothing,
and was put into the lowest form of the school. But, troubled
as I was, by my want of boyish skill, and book-learning too,
I was made infinitely more uncomfortable by the considera-
tion, that, in what I did know I was much farther removed
from my companions than in what I did not. My mind ran
upon what they would think, if they knew of my familiar ac-
quaintance with the King's Bench Prison ? Was there any-
thing about me which would reveal my proceedings, in con-
nection with the Micawber family â€” all those pawnings, and
sellings, and suppers â€” in spite of myself ? Suppose some of
the boys had seen me coming through Canterbuiy, wayworn
and ragged, and should find me out ? What would they say,
who made so light of money, if they could know how I scraped
my halfpence together, for the purchase of my daily saveloy
and beer, or my slices of pudding ? How would it affect
them, who were so innocent of London life and London
streets, to discover how knowing I was (and was ashamed to
be) in some of the meanest phases of both ? All this ran in
my head so much, on that first day at Doctor Strong's, that I
felt distrustful of my slightest look and gesture j shrunk with-
in myself whensoever I was approached by one of my new
schoolfellows ; and hurried off the minute school was over,
afraid of committing myself in my response to any friendly
notice or advance.

But there was such an influence in Mr. Wickfield's old
house, that when I knocked at it, with my new school-books
under my arm, I began to feel my uneasiness softening away.
As I went up to my airy old room, the grave shadow of the
staircase seemed to fall upon my doubts and fears, and to
make the past more indistinct. I sat there, sturdily conning
my books, until dinner-time (we were out of school for good
at three) ; and went down, hopeful of becoming a passable
sort of boy yet.

Agnes was in the drawing-room, waiting for her father,
who was detained by some one in his office. She met me

228

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

with her pleasant smile, and asked me how I liked the school
I told her I should like it very much, I hoped ; but I was a
little strange to it at first.

" You have never been to school," I said, " have you ? "

" Oh yes ! Every day."

" Ah, but you mean here, at your own home ? "

" Papa couldn't spare me to go anywhere else," she
answered, smiling and shaking her head. " His housekeeper
must be in his house, you know."

" He is very fond of you, I am sure," I said.

She nodded " Yes," and went to the door to listen for his
coming up, that she might meet him on the stairs. But, as he
was not there, she came back again.

" Mama has been dead ever since I was born," she said,
in her quiet way. " I only know her picture, downstairs. I
saw you looking at it yesterday. Did you think whose it
was ? "

I told her yes, because it was so like herself.
" Papa says so, too," said Agnes, pleased. " Hark ! That's
papa now ! "

Her bright calm face lighted up with pleasure as she went
to meet him, and as they came in, hand in hand. He greeted
me cordially : and told me I should certainly be happy under
Docter Strong, who was one of the gentlest of men.

" There may be some, perhaps â€” I don't know that there
are â€” who abuse his kindness," said Mr. Wickneld. " Never
be one of those, Trotwood, in anything. He is the least
suspicious of mankind ; and whether that's a merit, or whether
it's a blemish, it deserves consideration in all dealings with
the Doctor, great or small."

He spoke, I thought, as if he were weary, or dissatisfied
with something ; but I did not pursue the question in my mind,
for dinner was just then announced, and we went down and
took the same seats as before.

We had scarcely done so, when Uriah Heep put in his red
head and his lank hand at the door, and said :

" Here's Mr. Maldon begs the favor of a v/ord, sir."

" I am but this moment quit of Mr. Maldon," said his
master.

" Yes sir," returned Uriah ; " but Mr. Maldon has come
back, and he begs the favor of a word."

As he held the door open with his hand, Uriah looked at
me, and looked at Agnes, and looked at the dishes, and looked

1AM A NEW BOY IN MORE SENSES THAN ONE. 229

at the plates, and looked at every object in the room, I thought,
â€”yet seemed to look at nothing j he made such an appearance
all the while of keeping his red eyes dutifully on his master.

" I beg your pardon. It's only to say, on reflection," ob-
served a voice behind Uriah, as Uriah's head was pushed
away, and the speaker's substituted â€” "pray, excuse me for
this intrusion â€” that as it seems I have no choice in the matter,
the sooner I go abroad the better My cousin Annie did say,
when we talked of it, that she liked to have herfnends within
reach rather than to have them banished, and the old
Doctorâ€”"

" Doctor Strong, was that ? " Mr. Wickfield interposed,
gravely.

" Doctor Strong of course," returned the other ; " I call
him the old Doctor ; it's all the same, you know."

" I don't know," returned Mr. Wickfield.

"Well, Doctor Strong," said the other. "Doctor Strong
was of the same mind, I believed. But as it appears from the
course you take with me that he has changed his mind, why
there's no more to be said, except that the sooner I am off, the
better. Therefore, I thought I'd come back and say, that the
sooner I am off the batter. When a plunge is to be made into
the water, it's of no use lingering on the bank."

"There shall be as little lingering as possible, in your
case, Mr. Maldon, you may depend upon it," said Mr. Wick-
field.

" Thank'ee," said the other. " Much obliged. I don't
want to look a gift-horse in the mouth, which is not a gracious
thing to do ; otherwise, I dare say, my cousin Annie could
easily arrange it in her own way. I suppose Annie would
only have to say to the old Doctor â€” "

" Meaning that Mrs. Strong would only have to say to her
husband â€” do I follow you ? " said Mr. Wickfield.

"Quite so," returned the other, " â€” would only have to
say, that she wanted such and such a thing to be so and so ;
and it would be so and so, as a matter of course."

" And why as a matter of course, Mr. Maldon ? " asked
Mr. Wickfield, sedately eating his dinner,

" Why, because Annie's a charming young girl, and the
old Doctor â€” Doctor Strong, I mean â€” is not quite a charming
young boy," said Mr. Jack Maldon, laughing. " No offence
to anybody, Mr. Wickfield. I only mean that I suppose some
compensation is fair and reasonable in that sort of marriage."

23Â°

DAVID COPPERFIELD,

" Compensation to the lady, sir ? " asked Mi. Wickfield
gravely.

"To the lady, sir," Mr. Jack Maldon answered, laughing.
But appearing to remark that Mr. Wickfield went on with his
dinner in the same sedate, immovable manner, and that there
was no hope of making him relax a muscle of his face, he
added :

" However, I have said what I came back to say, and, with
another apology for this intrusion, I may take myself off. Of
course I shall observe your directions, in considering the
matter as one to be arranged between you and me solely, and
not to be referred to, up at the Doctor's."

" Have you dined ? " asked Mr. Wickfield, with a motion
of his hand towards the table.

" Thank'ee. I am going to dine," said Mr. Maldon, " with
my cousin Annie, Good-bye ! "

Mr. Wickfield, without rising, looked after him thoughtfully
as he went out. He was rather a shallow sort of young gentle-
man, I thought, with a handsome face, a rapid utterance, and
a confident bold air. And this was the first I ever saw of Mr.
Jack Maldon, whom I had not expected to see so soon, when
I heard the Doctor speak of him that morning,

When we had dined, we went up stairs again, where every-
thing went on exactly as on the previous day. Agnes set the
glasses and decanters in the same corner, and Mr. Wickfield
sat down to drink, and drank a good deal. Agnes played the
piano to him, sat by him, and worked and talked, and played
some games at dominoes with me. In good time she made
tea ; and afterwards, when I brought down my books, looked
into them, and showed me what she knew of them (which was
no slight matter, though she said it was), and what was the
best way to learn and understand them. I see her, with her
modest, orderly, placid manner, and I hear her beautiful calm
voice, as I write these words, The influence for all good,
which she came to exercise over me at a later time, begins al-
ready to descend upon my breast. I love little Em'ly, and I
don't love Agnes â€” no, not at all in that way â€” but I feel that
there are goodness, peace, and truth, wherever Agnes is ; and
that the soft light of the colored window in the church, seen
long ago, falls on her always, and on me when I am near her,
and on everything around.

The time having come for her withdrawal for the night, and
she having left is, I gave Mr. Wickfield my hand, preparatory

/ AM A NEW BOY IN MORE SENSES THAN ONE. 231

to going away myself. But he checked me and said : " Should
you like to stay with us, Trotwood, or to go elsewhere ? "

" To stay," I answered quickly.

" You are sure ? "

" If you please. If I may ! "

"Why, it's but a dull life that we lead here, boy, I'm
afraid," he said.

" Not more dull for me than Agnes, sir. Not dull at all ! "

" Than Agnes," he repeated, walking slowly to the great
chimney-piece, and leaning against it. " Than Agnes ! "

He had drank wine that evening (or I fancied it), until his
eyes were bloodshot. Not that I could see them now, for
they were cast down, and shaded by his hand ; but I had
noticed them a little while before.

" Now I wonder," he muttered, " whether my Agnes tires
of me. When should I ever tire of her ! But that's different,
that's quite different."

He was musing, not speaking to me ; so I remained quiet.

" A dull old house," he said, " and a monotonous life ;
but I must have her near me. I must keep her near me. If
the thought that I may die and leave my darling, or that my
darling may die and leave me, comes like a spectre, to dis-
tress my happiest hours, and is only to be drowned in "

He did not supply the word ; but pacing slowly to the
place where he had sat, and mechanically going through the
action of pouring wine from the empty decanter, set it down
and paced back again.

" If it is miserable to bear when she is here," he said,
" what would it be and she away ? No, no, no. I cannot try
that."

He leaned against the chimney-piece, brooding so long
that I could not decide whether to run the risk of disturbing
him by going, or to remain quietly where I was, until he should
come out of his reverie. At length he aroused himself, and
looked about the room until his eyes encountered mine.

" Stay with us, Trotwood, eh ? " he said in his usual man
ner, and as if he were answering something I had just said.
" I am glad of it. You are company to us both. It is whole-
some to have you here. Wholesome for me, wholesome for
Agnes, wholesome perhaps for all of us."

" I am sure it is for me, sir," I said. " I am so glad to be
here."

" That's a fine fellow ! " said Mr. Wickfield. " As long as

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

you are glad to be here, you shall stay here." He shoot
hands with me upon it, and clapped me on the back ; and
told me that when I had anything to do at night after Agnes
had left us, or when I wished to read for my own pleasure, I
was free to come down to his room, if he were there, and if I
desired it for company's sake, and to sit with him. I thanked
him for his consideration ; and as he went down soon after-
wards, and I was not tired, went down too, with a book in ray
hand, to avail myself, for half-an-hour, of his permission.

But, seeing a light in the little round office, and immedi
ately feeling myself attracted towards Uriah Heep, who had a
sort of fascination for me, I went in there instead. I found
Uriah reading a great fat book, with such demonstrative atten-
tion, that his lank forefinger followed up every line as he read,
.and made clammy tracks along the page (or so I fully believed)
like a snail.

" You are working late to-night, Uriah," says I. " Yes,
Master Copperfield," says Uriah.

As I was getting on the stool opposite, to talk to him more
conveniently, I observed that he had not such a thing as a
smile about him, and that he could only widen his mouth and
make two hard creases down his cheeks, one on each side, to
stand for one.

" I am not doing office-work, Master Copperfield," said
Uriah.

" What work, then ? " 1 asked.

" I am improving my legal knowledge, Master Copper-
field," said Uriah. " I am going through Tidd's Practice.
Oh, what a writer Mr. Tidd is, Master Copperfield ! "

My stool was such a tower of observation, that as I watched
him reading on again, after this rapturous exclamation, and
following up the lines with his forefinger, I observed that his
nostrils, which were thin and pointed, with sharp dints in
them, had a singulai and most uncomfortable way of expand-
ing and contracting memselves ; that they seemed to twinkle
instead of his eyes, which hardly ever twinkled at all.

" I suppose you are quite a great lawyer ? tK I said, after
looking at him for some time.

"Me, Master Copperfield?" said Uriah. "Oh, no!
I'm a very umble person."

It was no fancy of mine about his hands, I observed ; for
he frequently ground the palms against each other as if to
squeeze them dry and warm, besides often wiping them, in ?
â– stealthy way, on his pocket-handkerchief.

I AM A NEW BOY IN MORE SENSES THAN ONE. 233

M I am well aware that I am the umblest person going,'*
said Uriah Heep, modestly ; " let the other be where he may.
My mother is likewise a very umble person. We live in a
numble abode, Master Copperfield, but have much to be
thankful for. My father's former calling was umble. He was
a sexton."

" What is he now ? " I asked.

" He is a partaker of glory at present, Master Copperfield,"
said Uriah Heep. " But we have much to be thankful for.
How much have I to be thankful for in living with Mr. Wick-
field ! "

I asked Uriah if he had been with Mr. Wickfield long ?

" I have been with him going on four year, Master Cop-
perfield," said Uriah, shutting up his book, after carefully
marking the place where he had left off. " Since a year after
my father's death. How much have I to be thankful for, ii>
that ! How much have I to be thankful for, in Mr. Wickfield's
kind intention to give me my articles, which would otherwise
not lay within the umble means of mother and self ! "

" Then, when your articled time is over, you'll be a regulav
lawyer, I suppose ? " said I.

" With the blessing of Providence, Master Copperfield," re<
turned Uriah.

" Perhaps you'll be a partner in Mr. Wickfield's business,
one of these days," I said, to make myself agreeable ; "and
it will be Wickfield and Heep, or Heep late Wickfield."

" Oh no, Master Copperfield," returned Uriah, shaking his
head, " I am much too umble for that ! "

He certainly did look uncommonly like the carved face on
the beam outside my window, as he sat, in his humility, eye-
ing me sideways, with his mouth widened, and the creases in
his cheeks.

" Mr. Wickfield is a most excellent man, Master Copper-
field," said Uriah. " If you have known him long, you know
it, I am sure, much better than I can inform you."

I replied that I was certain he was ; but that I had not
known him long myself, though he was a friend of my aunt's.

Oh, indeed, Master Copperfield," said Uriah. " Your
aunt is a sweet lady, Master Copperfield ! "

He had a way of writhing when he wanted to express en-
thusiasm, which was very ugly ; and which diverted my atten-
tion from the compliment he had paid my relation, to the
snaky twistings of his throat and body.

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" A sweet lady, Master Copperfield ! " said Uriah Heep.
il She has a great admiration for Miss Agnes, Master Copper-
field, I believe ? "

I said, " Yes," boldly ; not that I knew anything about it,
Heaven forgive me !

" I hope you have, too, Master Copperfield," said Uriah.
1 '' But I am sure you must have."

" Everybody must have," I returned.

" Oh, thank you, Master Copperfield," said Uriah Heep,
tÂ£ for that remark ! It is so true ! Umble as I am, I know it
is so true ! Oh, thank you, Master Copperfield ! "

He writhed himself quite off his stool in the excitement of
his feelings, and, being off, began to make arrangements for
going home.

" Mother will be expecting me," he said, referring to a pale,
inexpressive-faced watch in his pocket, " and getting uneasy ;
for though we are very umble, Master Copperfield, we are
much attached to one another. If you would come and see
us, any afternoon, and take a cup of tea at our lowly dwelling,
mother would be as proud of your company as I should be."

I said I should be glad to come.

"Thank you, Master Copperfield," returned Uriah, putting
his book away upon the shelf. â€” " I suppose you stop here,
some time, Master Copperfield ? "

I said I was going to be brought up there, I believed, as
long as I remained at school.

" Oh, indeed ! " exclaimed Uriah. " I should think you
would come into the business at last, Master Copperfield ! "

I protested that I had no views of that sort, and ihat no
such scheme was entertained in my behalf by anybody ; but
Uriah insisted on blandly replying to all my assurances, " Oh,
yes, Master Copperfield, I should think you would, indeed ! "
and, " Oh, indeed, Master Copperfield, I should think you
would, certainly ! " over and over again. Being, at last, ready
to leave the office for the night, he asked me if it would suit
my convenience to have the light put out ; and on my answer-
ing " Yes," instantly extinguished it. After shaking hands
with me â€” his hand felt like a fish, in the dark â€” he opened the
door into the street a very little, and crept out, and shut it,
leaving me to group my way back into the house, which cost
me some trouble, and a fall over his stool. This was the prox-
imate cause, I suppose, of my dreaming about him, for what
appeared to me to be half the night ; and dreaming, among

I AM A NEW BOY IN MORE SENSES THAN ONE. 235

other things, that he had launched Mr. Peggotty's house on a
piratical expedition, with a black flag at the mast-head, bear-
ing the inscription " Tidd's Practice," under which diabolical
ensign he was carrying me and little Em'ly to the Spanish
Main, to be drowned.

I got a little the better of my uneasiness when I went to
school next day, and a good deal the better next day, and
so shook it off by degrees, that in less than a fortnight I was
quite at home, and happy, among my new companions. I was
awkward enough in their games, and backward enough in their
studies ; but custom would improve me in the first respect, I
hoped, and hard work in the second. Accordingly, I went to
work very hard, both in play and in earnest, and gained great
commendation. And, in a very little while, the Murdstone
and Grinby life became so strange to me that I hardly believed
in it, while my present life grew so familiar, that I seemed to
have been leading it a long time.

Doctor Strong's was an excellent school ; as different from
Mr. Creakle's as good is from evil. It was very gravely and
decorously ordered, and on a sound system ; with an appeal,
in everything, to the honor and good faith of the boys, and an
avowed intention to raly on their possession of those qualities
unless they proved themselves unworthy of it, which worked
wonders. We all felt that we had a part in the management
of the place, and in sustaining its character and dignity.
Hence, we soon became warmly attached to it â€” I am sure I
did for one; and I never knew, in all my time, of any other boy
being otherwise â€” and learnt with a good will, desiring to do it
credit. We had noble games out of hours, and plenty of lib-
erty ; but even then, as I remember, we were well spoken o*
in the town, and rarely did any disgrace, by our appearance
or manner, to the reputation of Doctor Strong and Doctor
Strong's boys.

Some of the higher scholars boarded in the Doctor's house,
and through them I learned, at second hand, some particulars
of the Doctor's history. As, how he had not yet been married
twelve months to the beautiful young lady I had seen in the
study, whom he had married for love ; for she had not a six-
pence, and had a world of poor relations (so our fellows said)
ready to swarm the Doctor out of house and home. Also, how
the Doctor's cogitating manner was attributable to his being
always engaged in looking out for Greek roots ; which, in my
innocence and ignorance, I supposed to be a botanical furoi

236

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

on the Doctor's part, especially as he always looked at the

ground when he walked about, until I understood that they
were roots of words, with a view" to a new Dictionary which
he had in contemplation. Adams, our head-boy, who had a
turn for mathematics, had made a calculation, I was informed,
of the time this Dictionary would take in completing, on the
Doctor's plan, and at the Doctor's rate of going. He consid-
ered that it might be done in one thousand six hundred and
forty-nine years, counting from the Docter's last, or sixty*1
second birthday.

But the Doctor himself was the idol of the whole school ;
and it must have been a badly-composed school if he had been
anything else, for he was the kindest of men ; with a simple
faith in him that might have touched the stone hearts of the
very urns upon the wall. As he walked up and down that
part of the courtyard which was at the side of the house,
with the stray rooks and jackdaws looking after him with their
heads cocked slyly, as if they knew how much more knowing
they were in worldly affairs than he, if any sort of vagabond
could only get near enough to his creaking shoes to attract
his attention to one sentence of a tale of distress, that vaga-
bond was made for the next two days. It was so notorious
in the house, that the masters and head-boys took pains
to cut these marauders off at angles, and to get out of
windows, and turn them out of the courtyard, before they
could make the Doctor aware of their presence ; which was
sometimes happily effected within a few yards of him, without
his knowing anything of the matter, as he jogged to and fro.
Outside his own domain, and unprotected, he was a very
sheep for the shearers. He would have taken his gaiters off
his legs, to give away.. In fact, there was a story current
among us- (I have no idea, and never had, on what authority
but I have believed it for so many years that I feel quite'cer-
tain it is true), that on a frosty day, one winter-time, he actu<-
ally did bestow his gaiters on a beggar-woman, who occasioned
some scandal in the neighborhood by exhibiting a fine infant
from door to door, wrapped in those garments, which were
universally recognized, being as well known in the vicinity as
the Cathedral. The legend added that the only person who
did not identify them was the Doctor himself, who, when
they were shortly afterwards displayed at the door of a little
second-hand shop of no very good repute, where such things
were taken in exchange for gin, was more than once observed

/ AM A NEW BOY IN MORE SENSES THAN ONE. 237

to handle them approvingly, as if admiring some curious
novelty in the pattern, and considering them an improvement
on his own.

It was very pleasant to see the Doctor with his pretty wife.
He had a fatherly, benignant way of showing his fondness for
her, which seemed in itself to. express a good man. I often
saw them walking in the garden where the peaches were, and
I sometimes had a nearer observation of them in the study or
the parlor. She appeared to me to take great care of the
Doctor, and to like him very much, though I never thought
her vitally interested in the Dictionary, some cumbrous frag-
ments of which work the Doctor always carried in his pockets,
and in the lining of his hat, and generally seemed to be ex-
pounding to her as they walked about.

I saw a good deal of Mrs. Strong, both because she had
taken a liking for me on the morning of my introduction to
the Doctor, and was always afterwards kind to me, and inter-
ested in me ; and because she was very fond of Agnes, and
was often backwards and forwards at our house. There was
a curious constraint between her and Mr. Wickfield, I thought
(of whom she seemed to be afraid), that never wore off. When
she came there of an evening, she always shrunk from accept-
ing his escort home, and ran away with me instead. And
sometimes, as we were running gayly across the Cathedral yard
together, expecting to meet nobody, we would meet Mr. Jack
Maldon, who was always surprised to see us.

Mrs. Strong's mama was a lady I took great delight in.
Her name was Mrs. Markleham ; but our boys used to call
her the Old Soldier, on account of her generalship, and the
skill with which she marshalled great forces of relations
against the Doctor. She was a little, sharp-eyed woman, who
used to wear, when she was dressed, one unchangeable cap,
ornamented with some artificial flowers, and two artificial but-
terflies supposed to be hovering above the flowers. There
was a superstition among us that this cap had come from
France, and cculd only originate in the workmanship of that
ingenious nation ; but all I certainly know about it is, that it
always made its appearance of an evening, wheresoever Mrs.
Markleham made her appearance ; that it was carried about
to friendly meetings in a Hindoo basket ; that the butterflies
had the gift of trembling constantly ; and that they improved
the shining hours at Dr. Strong's expense, like busy bees.

I observed the Old Soldier â€” not to adopt the name dis-

238

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

respectfully â€” to pretty good advantage, on a night which is
made memorable to me by something else I shall relate. It
was the night of a little party at the Doctor's, which was given
on the occasion of Mr. Jack Maldon's departure for India,
whither he was going as a cadet, or something of that kind ;
Mr. Wickfleld having at length arranged the business. It
â– "happened to be the Doctor's birthday, too. We had had a
holiday, had made presents to him in the morning, had made
a speech to him through the head-boy, and had cheered him
until we were hoarse, and until he had shed tears. And now,
in the evening, Mr, Wickfleld, Agnes, and I, went to have tea
with him in his private capacity.

Mr. Jack Maldon was there, before us. Mrs. Strong,
dressed in white, with cherry-colored ribbons, was playing the
piano, when we went in ; and he was leaning over her to turn
the leaves. The clear red and white of her complexion was
not so blooming and flower-like as usual, I thought, when she
turned round ; but she looked very pretty, wonderfully pretty.

" I have forgotten, Doctor," said Mrs. Strong's mama,
when we were sealed, "to pay you the compliments of the
day j though they are, as you may suppose, very far from
being mere compliments in my case. Allow me to wish you
many happy returns."

" I thank you, ma'am," replied the Doctor.

" Many, many, many, happy returns," said the Old. Soldier.
" Not only for your own sake, but for Annie's and John Mal-
don's, and many other people's. It seems but yesterday to
me, John, when you were a little creature, a head shorter than
Master Copperfield, making baby love to Annie behind the
gooseberry bushes in the back-garden."

" My dear mama," said Mrs. Strong, " never mind that
now."

" Annie, don't be absurd," returned her mother. " If you
are to blush to hear of such things, now you are an old mai
ried woman, when are you not to blush to hear of them ? "

" Old ? " exclaimed Mr. Jack Maldon. " Annie ? Come ? "

" Yes, John," returned the Soldier. " Virtually, an old
married woman. Although not old by years â€” for when did
you ever hear me say, or who has ever heard me say, that a
girl of twenty was old by years ? â€” your cousin is the wife of
the Doctor, and, as such, what I have described her. It is
well for you, John, that your cousin is the wife of the Doctor.
You have found in him an influential and kind friend, who

7 AM A NEW BO Y IN MORE SENSES THAN ONE. 239

will be kinder yet, I venture to predict, if you deserve it. I
have no false pride. I never hesitate to admit, frankly, that
there are some members of our family who want a friend
You were one yourself, before your cousin's influence raised
up one for you."

The Doctor, in the goodness of his heart, waved his hand
as if to make light of it, and save Mr. Jack Maldon from any
further reminder. But Mrs. Markleham changed her chair
for one next the Doctor's, and putting her fan on his coat-
sleeve, said :

"No, really, my dear Doctor, you must excuse me if I
appear to dwell on this rather, because I feel so very strongly.
I call it quite my monomania, it is such a subject of mine.
You are a blessing to us. You really are a Boon, you know."

" Nonsense, nonsense," said the Doctor.

" No, no, I beg your pardon," retorted the Old Soldier.
" With nobody present, but our dear and confidential friend
Mr. Wickfleld, I cannot consent to be put down. I shall
begin to assert the privileges of a mother-in-law, if you go on
like that, and scold you. I am perfectly honest and outspoken.
What I am saying, is what I said when you first overpowered
me with surprise â€” you remember how surprised I was ? â€” by
proposing for Annie. Not that there was anything so very
much out of the way, in the mere fact of the proposal â€” it
would be ridiculous to say that ! â€” but because, you having
known her poor father and having known her from a baby six
months old, I hadn't thought of you in such a light at all, or
indeed as a marrying man in any way, â€” simply that, you
know."

"Ay, ay," returned the Doctor, good-humoredly. "Never
mind."

" But I do mind," said the Old Soldier, laying her fan upon
his lips. " I mind very much. I recall these things that I
may be contradicted if I am wrong. Well ! Then I spoke
to Annie, and I told her what had happened. I said, ' My
dear, here's Doctor Strong has positively been and made you
the subject of a handsome declaration and an offer/ Did I
press it in the least ? No. I said, 1 Now, Annie, tell me the
truth this moment ; is your heart free ? ' ' Mama/ she said
crying, ' I am extremely young/ â€” which was perfectly true â€”
4 and I feardly know if I have a heart at all/ ' Then, my
dear/ I said, 'you may rely upon it, it's free. At all events,
my love,' said I, * Doctor Strong is in an agitated state of

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

mind, and must be answered. He cannot be kept in his
present state of suspense.' ' Mama,' said Annie, still crying,
' would he be happy without me ? If he would, I honor and
respect him so much, that I think I will have him.' So it was
settled. And then, and not till then, I said to Annie, ' Annie,
Doctor Strong will not only be your husband, but he whT
represent your late father ; he will represent the head of our
family, he will represent the wisdom and station, and I may'
say the means, of our family ; and will be, in short, a Boon to
it.' I used the word at the time, and I have used it again,
to-day. If I have any merit it is consistency."

The daughter had sat quite silent and still during this
speech, with her eyes fixed on the ground ; her cousin stand-
ing near her, and looking on the ground too. She now said
very softly, in a trembling voice :

" Mama, I hope you have finished ? "

" No, my dear Annie," returned the Soldier, "I have not
quite finished. Since you asked me, my love, I reply that I
have not. I complain that you really are a little unnatural
towards your own family ; and, as it is of no use complaining
to you, I mean to complain to your husband. Now, my dear
Doctor, do look at that silly wife of yours."

As the Doctor turned his kind face, with its smile of sim-
plicity and gentleness, towards her, she dropped her head
more. I noticed that Mr. Wickfield looked at her steadily.

" When I happened to say to that naughty thing, the other
day," pursued her mother, shaking her head and her fan at
her, playfully, " that there was a family circumstance she might
mention to you â€” indeed, I think, was bound to mention â€” she
said, that to mention it was to ask a favor ; and that, as you
were too generous, and as for her to ask was always to have,
she wouldn't."

"Annie, my dear," said the Doctor. "That was wrong.
It robbed me of a pleasure."

" Almost the very words I said to her ! " exclaimed hei
mother. " Now really, another time, when I know what she
would tell you but for this reason, and won't, I have a great
mind, my dear Doctor, to tell you myself."

" I shall be glad if you will," returned the Doctor.

" Shall I ? "

" Certainly."

" Well, then, I will ! " said the Old Soldier. " That's a
bargain." And having, I suppose, carried her point, she

/ AM A NEW BOY IN MORE SENSES THAN ONE, 24?

tapped the Doctor's hand several times with her fan (which
she kissed first), and returned triumphantly to her former
station.

Some more company coming in, among whom were the two
masters and Adams, the talk became general ; and it natural-
ly turned on Mr. Jack Maldon, and his voyage, and the coun-
try he was going to, and his various plans and prospects. He
was to leave that night, after supper, in a postchaise, for
Gravesend, where the ship, in which he was to make his voy-
age, lay, and was to be gone â€” unless he came home on leave,
or for his health â€” I don't know how many years. I recollect
it was settled by general consent that India was quite a mis-
represented country, and had nothing objectionable in it, but
a tiger or two, and a little heat in the warm part of the day.
For my own part, I looked on Mr. Jack Maldon as a modern
Sindbad, and pictured him the bosom friend of all the Rajahs
in the East, sitting under canopies, smoking curly golden pipes
a mile long, if they could be straightened out.

Mrs. Strong was a very pretty singer, as I knew, who
often heard her singing by herself. But, whether she was-
afraid of singing before people, or was out of voice that even-
ing, it was certain that she couldn't sing at all. She tried a
duet once, with her cousin Maldon, but could not so much as.
begin ; and afterwards, when she tried to sing by herself, and
although she began sweetly, her voice died away on a
sudden, and left her quite distressed, with her head hanging
down over the keys. The good Doctor said she was nervous,
and, to relieve her, proposed a round game at cards, of which
he knew as much as of the art of playing the trombone. But
I remarked that the Old Soldier took him into custody directly,
for her partner ; and instructed him as the first preliminary of
initiation, to give her all the silver he had in his pocket.

We had a merry game, not made the less merry by the
Doctor's mistakes, of which he committed an innumerable
quantity, in spite of the watchfulness of the butterflies, and to
their great aggravation. Mrs. Strong had declined to play,
on the ground of not feeling very well ; and her cousin Mal-
don had excused himself because he had some packing to do.
When he had done it, however, he returned, and they sat to-
gether, talking, on the sofa. From time to time she came
and looked over the Doctor's hand, and told him what to*
play. She was very pale, as she bent over him, and I thought
her finger trembled as she pointed out the cards ; but the

2^2

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Doctor was quite happy in her attention, and took no notice
of this, if it were so.

At supper, we were hardly so gay. Every one appeared to
feel that a parting of that sort was an awkward thing, and that
the nearer it approached, the more awkward it was. Mr.
fack Maldon tried to be very talkative, but was not at his
i sase, and made matters worse. And they were not improved,
as it appeared to me, by the Old Soldier, who continually re-
called passages of Mr. Jack Maldon's youth.

The Doctor, however, who felt, I am sure, that he was
making everybody happy, felt well pleased, and had no sus-
picion but that we were all at the utmost height of enjoyment.

" Annie, my dear," said he, looking at his watch, and fill-
ing his glass, " it is past your cousin Jack's time, and we must
not detain him, since time and tide â€” both concerned in this
case â€” wait for no man. Mr. Jack Maldon, you have a long
voyage, and a strange country before you ; but many men
have had both, and many men will have both, to the end of
time. The winds you are going to tempt, have wafted thou-
sands and thousands to fortune, and brought thousands upon
thousands happily back."

"It's an affecting thing," said Mrs. Markleham, "how-
ever it's viewed, it's- affecting, to see a fine young man one
has known from an infant, going away to the other end of the
world, leaving all he knows behind, and not knowing what's
before him. A young man really well deserves constant sup-
port and patronage," looking at the Doctor, " who makes such
sacrifices."

"Time will go fast with you, Mr. Jack Maldon," pursued
the Doctor, " and fast with all of us. Some of us can hardly
expect, perhaps, in the natural course of things, to greet you
on your return. The next best thing is to hope to do it, and
that's my case. I shall not weary you with good advice.
You have long had a good model before you, in your cousin
Annie. Imitate her virtues as nearly as you can."

Mrs. Markleham fanned herself, and shook her head.

" Farewell, Mr. Jack," said the Doctor, standing up ; on
which we all stood up. " A prosperous voyage out, a thriving
career abroad, and a happy return home ! "

We all drank the toast, and all shook hands with Mr. Jack
Maldon ; after which he hastily took leave of the ladies who
were there, and hurried to the door, where he was received, as
<he got into the chaise, with a tremendous broadside of cheers

/ AM A NEW BOY IN MORE SENSES THAN ONE. 243

discharged by our boys, who had assembled on the lawn for
the purpose. Running in among them to swell the ranks, I
was very near the chaise when it rolled away ; and I had a
lively impression made upon me, in the midst of thcnoise and
dust, of having seen Mr. Jack Maldon rattle past with an
agitated face, and something cherry-colored in his hand.

After another broadside for the Doctor, and another for the
Doctor's wife, the boys dispersed, and I went back into the
house, where I found the guests all standing in a group about
the Doctor, discussing how Mr. Jack Maldon had gone away,
and how he had borne it, and how he had felt it, and all the
rest of it. In the midst of these remarks, Mrs. Markleham
cried : " Where's Annie ? "

No Annie was there ; and when they called to her, no
Annie replied. But all pressing out of the room, in a crowd,
to see what was the matter, we found her lying on the hall
floor. There was great alarm at first, until it was found that
she was in a swoon, and that the swoon was yielding to the
usual means of recovery ; when the Doctor, who had lifted
her head upon his knee, put her curls aside with his hand, and
said, looking around :

" Poor Annie ! She's so faithful and tender-hearted ! It's
the parting from her old playfellow and friend, her favorite
cousin, that has done this. Ah ! it's a pity ! I am very
sorry ! "

When she opened her eyes, and saw where she was, and
that we were all standing about her, she' arose with assistance,
turning her head, as she did so, to lay it on the Doctor's
shoulder â€” or to hide it, I don't know which. We went into
the drawing-room, to leave her with the Doctor and her
mother ; but she said, it seemed, that she was better than she
had been since morning, and that she would rather be brought
among us ; so they brought her in, looking very white and
weak, I thought, and sat her on a sofa.

" Annie, my dear," said her mother, doing something to
her dress. " See here ! You have lost a bow. Will anybody
be so good as find a ribbon ; a cherry-colored ribbon ? "

It was the one she had worn at her bosom. We all looked
for it ; I myself looked everywhere, I am certain ; but nobody
could find it.

" Do you recollect where you had it last, Annie ? " said hei
mother.

I wondered how I could have thought she looked white,

*44

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

or anything but burning red, when she answered that she had
had it safe, a little while ago, she thought, but it was not worth
booking for.

Nevertheless, it was looked for again, and still not found.
She entreated that there might be no more searching ; but it
was still sought for in a desultory way, until she was quite well,
and the company took their departure.

We wa.ked very slowly home, Mr. Wickfield, Agnes, and
I ; Agnes and I admiring the moonlight, and Mr. Wickfield
scarcely raising his eyes from the ground. When we, at last,
reached our own door, Agnes discovered that she had left her
little reticule behind. Delighted to be of any service to her,
I ran back to fetch it.

I went into the supper-room, where it had been left, which
was deserted and dark, but a door of communication between
that and the Doctor's study, where there was a light, being
open, I passed on there, to say what I wanted, and to get a
candle.

The Doctor was sitting in his easy-chair by the fireside,
and his young wife was on a stool at his feet. The Doctor,
with a complacent smile, was reading aloud some manuscript
explanation or statement of a theory out of that interminable
Dictionary, and she was looking up at him. But, with such a
face as I never saw. It was so beautiful in its form, it was so
ashy pale, it was so fixed in its abstraction, it was so full of a
wild, sleep-walking, dreamy horror of I don't know what. The
eyes were wide open, and her brown hair fell in two rich clus-
ters on her shoulders, and on her white dress, disordered by
the want of the lost ribbon. Distinctly as I recollect her look,
I cannot say of what it was expressive. I cannot even say of
what it is expressive to me now, rising again before my older
judgment. Penitence, humiliation, shame, pride, love, and
trustfulness, I see them all ; and in them all, I see that hor-
ror of I don't know what.

My entrance, and my saying what I wanted, roused her.
It disturbed the Doctor too, for when I went back to replace
the candle I had taken from the table, he was patting her
head, in his fatherly way, and saying he was a merciless drone
to let her tempt him into reading on ; and he would have her
go to bed.

But she asked him, in a rapid, urgent manner, to let her
stay. To let her feel assured (I heard her murmur some
broken words to this effect) that she was in his confidence

SOMEBODY TURNS UP.

24S

that night. And, as she turned again towards him, after glanc-
ing at me as I left the room and went out at the door, I saw
her cross her hands upon his knee, and look up at him with
the same face, something quieted, as he resumed his, reading.

It made a great impression on me, and I remembered it a
long time afterwards, as I shall have occasion to narrate when
the time comes.

CHAPTER XVII.

SOMEBODY TURNS UP.

It has not occurred to me to mention Peggotty since I ran
away j but, of course, I wrote her a letter almost as soon as I
was housed at Dover, and another and a longer letter, con-
taining all particulars fully related, when my aunt took me for-
mally under her protection. On my being settled at Doctor
Strong's I wrote to her again, detailing my happy condition
and prospects. I never could have derived anything like the
pleasure from spending the money Mr. Dick had given me,
that I felt in sending a gold half-guinea to Peggotty, per post,
inclosed in this last letter, to discharge the sum I had bor-
rowed of her ; in which epistle, not before, I mentioned about
the young man with the donkey-cart.

To these communications Peggotty replied as promptly, if
not as concisely, as a merchant's clerk. Her utmost powers
of expression (which were certainly not great in ink) were ex-
hausted in the attempt to write what she felt on the subject of
,my journey. Four sides of incoherent and interjectional be
â€¢ginnings of sentences, that had no end except blots, were in-
adequate to afford her any relief. But the blots were more
expressive to me than the best composition ; for they showed
me that Peggotty had been crying all over the paper, and what
could I have desired more ?

I made out, without much difficulty, that she could not
take quite kindly to my aunt yet. The notice was too short
after so long a prepossession the other way. We never knew
a person, she wrote ; but to think that Miss Betsey should
seem to be so different from what she had been thought to be,

DAVID COPPERFIELD,

was a Moral ! That was her word. She was evidently still
afraid of Miss Betsey, for she sent her grateful duty to her but
timidly ; and she was evidently afraid of me, too, and enter-
tained the probability of my running away again soon, if I
might judge from the repeated hints she threw out, that the
coach-fare to Yarmouth was always to be had of hei foi the
asking.

She gave me one piece of intelligence that affected me ,
very much, namely, that there had been a sale of the furniture
at our old home, and that Mr. and Miss Murdstone were gone
away, and the house was shut up, to be let or sold. God
knows I had no part in it while they remained there, but it
pained me to think of the dear old place as altogether aban-
doned ; of the weeds growing tall in the garden, and the fall-
en leaves lying thick and wet upon the paths. I imagined
how the winds of winter would howl round it, how the cold
rain would beat upon the window-glass, how the moon would
make ghosts on the walls of the empty rooms, watching their
solitude all night. I thought afresh of the grave in the church-
yard, underneath the tree ; and it seemed as if the house were
dead too, now, and all connected with my father and mother
were faded away.

There was no other news in Peggotty's letters. Mr. Bar-
kis was an excellent husband, she said, though still a little
near ; but we all had our faults, and she had plenty (though I
am sure I don't know what they were) ; and he sent his dutyv
and my little bedroom was always ready for me. Mr. Peg'
gotty was well, and Ham was well, and Mrs. Gummidge was
but poorly, and little Em'ly wouldn't send her love, but said
that Peggotty might send it, if she liked.

All this intelligence I dutifully imparted to my aunt, only
reserving to myself the mention of little Em'ly, to whom I in-
stinctively felt that she would not very tenderly incline. While
I was yet new at Doctor Strong's, she made several excursions
over to Canterbury to see me, and always at unseasonable
hours, with the view, I suppose, of taking me by surprise.
But, finding me well employed, and bearing a good character
and hearing on all hands that I rose fast in the school, she
soon discontinued these visits. I saw her on a Saturday,
every third or fourth week, when I went over to Dover for a
treat ; and I saw Mr. Dick every alternate Wednesday, when
he arrived by stage-coach at noon, to stay until next morning.

On these occasions Mr. Dick never travelled without a

SOMEBODY TURNS UP.

247

rfeathern writing-desk, containing a supply of stationery and
(he Memorial, in relation to which document he had a notion
that time was beginning to press now, and that it really must
be got out of hand.

Mr. Dick was very partial to gingerbread. To render his
visits the more agreeable, my aunt had instructed me to open
a credit for him at a cake-shop, which was hampered with the
stipulation that he should not be served with more than one
shilling's-worth in the course of any one day. This, and the
reference of all his little bills at the county inn where he slept,
to my aunt, before they were paid, induced me to suspect that
he was only allowed to rattle his money, and not to spend it.
I found, on further investigation, that this was so, or at least
there was an agreement between him and my aunt that he
should account to her for all his disbursements. As he had
no idea of deceiving her, and always desired to please her, he
was thus made chary of launching into expense. On this
point, as well as on all other possible points, Mr. Dick was
convinced that my aunt was the wisest and most wonderful of
women ; as he repeatedly told me with infinite secresy, and
always in a whisper.

" Trotwood," said Mr. Dick, with an air of mystery, after
imparting this confidence to me, one Wednesday, " who's the
man that hides near our house and frightens her ? "

" Frightens my aunt, sir ? "

Mr. Dick nodded. " I thought nothing would have fright

ened her," he said, " for she's " here he whispered softly,

" don't mention it â€” the wisest and most wonderful of women."
Having said which, he drew back, to observe the effect whicfc
this description of her made upon me.

" The first time he came," said Mr. Dick, " was â€” let m<
see â€” sixteen hundred and forty-nine was the date of King
Charles's execution. I think you said sixteen hundred ana
forty-nine ? "

" Yes, sir."

" I don't know how it can be," said Mr. Dick, sorely puz-
zled, and shaking his head. " I don't think I am as old as
that."

" Was it in that year that the man appeared, sir ? " 1
asked.

" Why, really," said Mr. Dick, " I don't see how it can
have been in that year, Trotwood. Did you get that date out
of history ? "

248

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Yes, sir."

" I suppose history never lies, does it ? " said Mr. Dic'i^
with a gleam of hope.

"Oh dear, no, sir ! " I replied, most decisively. I was in-
genuous and young, and I thought so.

" I can't make it out," said Mr. Dick, shaking his head
" There's something wrong, somewhere. However, it was
very soon after the mistake was made of putting some of the
trouble out of King Charles's head into my head, that the
man first came. I was walking out with Miss Trotwood after
tea, just at dark, and there he was, close to our house."

" Walking about ? " I inquired.

" Walking about ? " repeated Mr. Dick. " Let me see. I
must recollect a bit. N â€” no, no ; he was not walking about."

I asked, as the shortest way to get at it, what he was
doing.

" Well, he wasn't there at all," said Mr. Dick, " until he
came up behind her, and whispered. Then she turned round
and fainted, and I stood still and looked at him, and he
walked away ; but that he should have been hiding ever since
(in the ground or somewhere), is the most extraordinary
thing ! "

" Has he been hiding ever since ? " I asked.

" To be sure he has," retorted Mr. Dick, nodding his head
gravely. " Never came out till last night ! We were walking
last night, and he came up behind her again, and I knew him
again."

" All of a shiver," said Mr. Dick, counterfeiting that affec-
tion and making his teeth chatter. " Held by the palings.
Cried. But Trotwood, come here," getting me close to him,
that he might whisper very softly ; " why did she give him
money, boy, in the moonlight ? "

" He was a beggar, perhaps."

Mr. Dick shook his head, as utterly renouncing the sug-
gestion ; and having replied a great many times, and with
great confidence, " No beggar, no beggar, no beggar, sir ! "
went on to say, that from his window he had afterwards, and
late at night, seen my aunt give this person money outside
the garden rails in the moonlight, who then slunk away â€” into
the ground again, as he thought probable â€” and was seen no
more, while my aunt came hurriedly and secretly back into
the house, and had, even that morning, been quite different
from her usual self ; which preyed on Mr. Dick's mind,

SOMEBODY TURNS UP.

249

I had not the least belief, in the outset of this story, that
the unknown was anything but a delusion of Mr. Dick's, and
one of the line of that ill-fated Prince who occasioned him so
much difficulty ; but after some reflection I began to entertain
the question whether an attempt, or threat of an attempt, '
might have been twice made to take poor Mr. Dick himself
from under my aunt's protection, and whether my aunt, the
strength of whose kind feeling towards him I knew from her-
self, might have been induced to pay a price for his peace and
quiet. As I was already much attached to Mr. Dick, and
very solicitous for his welfare, my fears favored this supposi-
tion ; and for a long time his Wednesday hardly ever came
round, without my entertaining a misgiving that he would not
be on the coach-box as usual. There he always appeared,
however, gray-headed, laughing, and happy ; and he never
had anything more to tell of the man who could frighten my
aunt.

These Wednesdays were the happiest days of Mr. Dick's
]ife ; they were far from being the least happy of mine. He
soon became known to every boy in the school ; and though
he never took an active part in any game but kite-flying, was
as deeply interested in all our sports as any one among us.
How often have I seen him, intent upon a match at marbles
or pegtop, looking on with a face of unutterable interest, and
hardly breathing at the critical times ! How often, at hare
and hounds, have I seen him mounted on a little knoll, cheer
ing the whole field on to action, and waving his hat above his
gray head, oblivious of King Charles the Martyr's head, and
all belonging to it ! How many a summer-hour have I known. â–
to be but blissful minutes to him in the cricket-field ! How
many winter days have I seen him, standing blue-nosed in the
snow and east wind, looking at the boys going down the long
slide, and clapping his worsted gloves in rapture !

He was an universal favorite, and his ingenuity in little
:hings was transcendent. He could cut oranges into such de-
rices as none of us had an idea of. He could make a boat
out of any thing, from a skewer upwards. He could turn
crampbones into chessmen ; fashion Roman chariots from old
court cards ; make spoke wheels out of cotton reels, and bird-
cages of old wire. But he was greatest of all, perhaps, in the
articles of string and straw ; with which we were all persuaded
he could do any thing that could be done by hands.

Mr. Dick's renown was not long confined to us. After a

250

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

few Wednesdays, Doctor Strong himself made some inquiries
of me about him, and I told him all my aunt had told me,
which interested the Doctor so much that he requested, on
the occasion of his next visit, to be presented to him. This
ceremony I performed ; and the Doctor begging Mr. Dick,
whensoever he should not find me at the coach-office, to come
on there, and rest himself until our morning's work was over,
it soon passed into a custom for Mr. Dick to come cn as a
matter of course, and, if we were a little late, as often hap-
pened on a Wednesday, to walk about the courtyard, waiting
for me. Here he made the acquaintance of the Doctor's
beautiful young wife (paler than formerly, all this time ; more
rarely seen by me or any one, I think ; and not so gay, but
not less beautiful), and so became more and more familiar by
degrees, until, at last, he would come into the school and wait.
He always sat in a particular corner, on a particular stool,
which was called " Dick," after him ; here he would sit, with
his gray head bent forward, attentively listening to whatever
might be going on, with a profound veneration for the learn-
ing he had never been able to acquire.

This veneration Mr. Dick extended to the Doctor, whom
he thought the most subtle and accomplished philosopher of
any age. It was long before Mr. Dick ever spoke to him
otherwise than bareheaded; and even when he and the Doc-
tor had struck up quite a friendship, and would walk together
by the hour, on that side of the courtyard which was known
among us as The Doctor's Walk, Mr. Dick would pull off his
hat at intervals to show his respect for wisdom and knowledge.
How it ever came about, that the Doctor began to read out
scraps of the famous Dictionary, in these walks, I never
knew ; perhaps he felt it all the same, at first, as reading to
himself. However, it passed into a custom too ; and Mr.
Dick, listening with a face shining with pride and pleasure,
in his heart of hearts, believed the Dictionary to be the most
delightful book in the world.

As I think of them going up and down before those school-
room windows â€” the Doctor reading with his complacent smile,
an occasional flourish of the manuscript, or grave motion of
his head ; and Mr. Dick listening, enchained by interest, with
his poor wits calmly wandering God knows where, upon the
wings of hard words â€” I think of it as one of the pleasantest
things, in a quiet way, that I have ever seen. I feel as if
they might go walking to and fro for ever, and the world might

SOMEBODY TURNS UP.

somehow be the better for it. As if a thousand things it makes
a noise about, were not one-half so good for it, or me.

Agnes was one of Mr. Dick's friends, very soon j and in
often coming to the house, he made acquaintance with Uriah.
The friendship between himself and me increased continually,
and it was maintained on this odd footing, that, while Mr
Dick came professedly to look after me as my guardian, he
always consulted me in any little matter of doubt that arose,
and invariably guided himself by my advice ; not only having
a high respect for my native sagacity, but considering that I
inherited a good deal from my aunt.

One Thursday morning, when I was about to walk with
Mr. Dick from the hotel to the coach-office before going back
to school (for we had an hour's school before breakfast), I
met Uriah in the street, who reminded me of the promise I
had made to take tea with himself and his mother, adding,
with a writhe, ** But I didn't expect you to keep it, Master
Copperfield, we are so very umble."

I really had not yet been able to make up my mind whether
I liked Uriah or detested him ; and I was very doubtful about
it still, as I stood looking him in the face in the street. But
I felt it quite an affront to be supposed proud, and said I only
wanted to be asked.

" Oh, if that's all, Master Copperfield," said Uriah, " and
it really isn't our umbleness that prevents you, will you
come this evening ? But if it is our umbleness, I hope you
won't mind owning to it, Master Copperfield ; for we are all
well aware of our condition."

I said I would mention it to Mr. Wickfield, and if he ap-
proved, as I had no doubt he would, I would come with pleas-
ure. So, at six o'clock that evening, which was one of the
early office evenings, I announced myself as ready, to Uriah.

" Mother will be proud, indeed," he said, as we walked
away together. " Or she would be proud, if it wasn't sinful,
Master Copperfield."

" Yet you didn't mind supposing / was proud this morn-
ing," I returned.

" Oh dear, no, Master Copperfield ! " returned Uriah.
â„¢ Oh, believe me, no ! Such a thought never came into my
head ! I shouldn't have deemed it at all proud if you had
thought us too umble for you. Because we are so very umble."

" Have you been studying much law lately ? " I asked, to
change the subject.

2 $2 DAVID COPPERFIELD.

"Oh, Master Copperfield," he said, with an air of self-
denial, "my reading is hardly to be called study. I have
passed an hour or two in the evening, sometimes, with Mr.
Tidd."

" Rather hard, I suppose ? " said I.

"He is hard to me sometimes," returned Uriah. " But I
don't know what he might be, to a gifted person."

After beating a little tune on his chin as he walked on?
with the two forefingers of his skeleton right hand, he added :

"There are expressions, you see, Master Copperfield â€” â€¢
Latin words and terms â€” in Mr. Tidd, that are trying to a
reader of my umble attainments."

" Would you like to be taught Latin ? " I said, briskly.
" I will teach it you with pleasure, as I learn it."

" Oh, thank you, Master Copperfield," he answered, shak-
ing his head. " I am sure it's very kind of you to make the
offer, but I am much too umble to accept it "

" What nonsense, Uriah ! "

" Oh, indeed you must excuse me, Master Copperfield \ I
am greatly obliged, and I should like it of all things, I assure
you ; but I am far too umble. There are people enough to
tread upon me in my lowly state, without my doing outrage to
their feelings by possessing learning. Learning ain't for me.
\ person like myself had better not aspire. If he is to get on
in life, he must get on umbly, Master Copperfield."

I never saw his mouth so wide, or the creases in his cheeks
so deep, as when he delivered himself of these sentiments ;
shaking his head all the time, and writhing modestly.

" I think you are wrong, Uriah," I said. " I dare say
there are several things that I could teach you, if you would
like to learn them."

" Oh, I don't doubt that, Master Copperfield," he an
swered ; "not in the least. But not being umble yourself,
you don't judge well, perhaps, for them that are. I won't pro-
voke my betters with knowledge, thank you. I'm much too
umble. Here is my umble dwelling, Master Copperfield ! "

We entered a low, old-fashioned room, walked straight
into from the street, and found there Mrs. Heep, who was the
dead image of Uriah, only short. She received me with the
utmost humility, and apologized to me for giving her son a
kiss, observing that, lowly as they were, they had their natural
affections, which they hoped would give no offence to any
one. It was a perfectly decent room, half parlor and half

SOMEBODY TURNS UP.

*53

kitchen, but not at all a snug room. The tea-things were set
upon the table, and the kettle was boiling on the hob. There
was a chest of drawers with an escritoir top, for Uriah to read
or write at of an evening ; there was Uriah's blue bag lying
down and vomiting papers ; there was a company of Uriah's
books commanded by Mr. Tidd ; there was a corner cup
board ; and there were the usual articles or furniture. I don't
remember that any individual object had a bare, pinched, spare V
look ; but I do remember that the whole place had.

It was perhaps a part of Mrs. Heep's humility, that she
still wore weeds. Notwithstanding the lapse of time that had
occurred since Mr. Heep's decease, she still wore weeds. I
think there was some compromise in the cap; but otherwise
she was as weedy as in the early days of her mourning.

This is a day to be remembered, my Uriah, I am sure,"
said Mrs. Heep, making the tea, "when Master Copperfield
pays us a visit."

" I said you'd think so, mother," said Uriah.

" If I could have wished father to remain among us for
any reason," said Mrs. Heep, "it would have been, that he
might have known his company this afternoon."

I felt embarrassed by these compliments ; but I was sen-
sible, too, of being entertained as an honored guest, and I
thought Mrs. Heep an agreeable woman.

" My Uriah," said Mrs. Heep, " has looked forward to
this, sir, a long while. He had his fears that our umbleness
stood in the way, and I joined in them myself. Umble we
are, umble we have been, umble we shall ever be," said Mrs.
Heep.

" I am sure you have no occasion to be so, ma'am," I said,
" unless you like."

" Thank you, sir," retorted Mrs. Heep. " We know our
station and are thankful in it."

I found that Mrs. Heep gradually got nearer to me, and
that Uriah gradually got opposite to me, and that they re-
spectfully plied me with the choicest of the eatables on the
table. There was nothing particularly choice there, to be
sure ; but I took the will for the deed, and felt that they were
very attentive. Presently they began to talk about aunts, and
then I told them about mine ; and about fathers and mothers,
and then I told them about mine ; and then Mrs. Heep began
to talk about fathers-in-law, and then I began to tell her about
mine \ but stopped, because my aunt had advised me to

*54

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

observe a silence on that subject. A tender young cork,
however, would have had no more chance against a pair of
corkscrews, or a tender young tooth against a pair of dentists,
or a little shuttlecock against two battledores, than I had
against Uriah and Mrs. Heep. They did just what they liked
with me ; and wormed things out of me that I had no desire
to tell, with a certainty I blush to think of, the more espe-
cially as, in my juvenile frankness, I took some credit to myself
:or being so confidential, and felt that I was quite the patron
of my two respectful entertainers.

They were very fond of one another, that was certain. I
take it, that had its effect upon me, as a touch of nature ; but
the skill with which the one followed up whatever the other
said, was a touch of art which I was still less proof against.
When there was nothing more to be got out of me about my-
self (tor on the Murdstone and Grinby life, and on my journey,
I was dumb), they began about Mr. Wickfield and Agnes.
Uriah threw the ball to Mrs. Heep, Mrs. Heep caught it and
threw it back to Uriah, Uriah kept it up a little while, then
sent it back to Mrs. Heep, and so they went on tossing it
about until I had no idea who had got it, and was quite be-
wildered. The ball itself was always changing too. Now it
was Mr. Wickfield,- now Agnes, now the excellence of Mr.
Wickfield, now my admiration of Agnes ; now the extent of
Mr. Wickfield's business and resources, now our domestic life
after dinner ; now, the wine that Mr. Wickfield took, the
reason why he took it, and the pity that it was he took so
much ; now one thing, now another, then everything at once ;
and all the time, without appearing to speak very often, or to
do anything but sometimes encourage them a little, for fear
they should be overcome by their humility and the honor of
my company, I found myself perpetually letting out some-
thing or other that I had no business to let out, and seeing
the effect of it in the twinkling of Uriah's dinted nostrils.

I had begun to be a little uncomfortable, and to wish
myself well out of the visit, when a figure coming down the
street passed the door â€” it stood open to air the room, which
was warm, the weather being close for the time of year â€” came
back again, looked in, and walked in, exclaiming loudly,
" Copperfield ! Is it possible ? "

It was Mr. Micawber ! It was Mr. Micawber, with his eye-
glass, and his walking stick, and his shirt-collar, and his genÂ«
<ed air, and the condescending roll in his voice, all complete!

SOMEBODY TURNS UP.

255

" My dear Copperfield," said Mr. Micawber, putting out
his hand, " this is indeed a meeting which is calculated to
impress the mind with a sense of the instability and uncer-
tainty of all human â€” in short, it is a most extraordinary meet-
ing. Walking along the street, reflecting upon the probability
of something turning up (of which I am at present rather san-
guine), I find a young but valued friend turn up, who is con-
nected with the most eventful period of my life ; I may say,
with the turning-point of my existence. Copperfield, my dear
fellow, how do you do ? "

I cannot say â€” I really cannot say â€” that I was glad to see
Mr. Micawber there ; but I was glad to see him too, and
shook hands with him heartily, inquiring how Mrs. Micawber
was.

" Thank you," said Mr. Micawber, waving his hand as of
old, and settling his chin in his shirt-collar. " She is toler-
ably convalescent. The twins no longer derive their suste-
nance from Nature's founts â€” in short," said Mr. Micawber, in
one of his bursts of confidence, " they are weaned â€” and Mrs.
Micawber is, at present, my travelling companion. She will
be rejoiced, Copperfield, to renew her acquaintance with one
who has proved himself in all respects a worthy minister at
the sacred altar of friendship."

I said I should be delighted to see her.

" You are very good," said Mr. Micawber.

Mr. Micawber then smiled, settled his chin again, and
looked about him.

" I have discovered my friend Copperfield," said Mr,
Micawber genteelly, and without addressing himself particu-
larly to any one, " not in solitude, but partaking of a social
meal in company with a widow lady, and one who is appar-
ently her offspring â€” in short," said Mr. Micawber, in another
of his bursts of confidence, " her son. I shall esteem it an
honor to be presented."

I could do no less, under these circumstances, than make
Mr. Micawber known to Uriah Heep and his mother ; which
I accordingly did. As they abased themselves before him,
Mr. Micawber took a seat, and waved his hand in his most
courtly manner.

"Any friend of my friend Copperfield's," said Mr. Micaw-
ber, " has a personal claim upon myself."

"We are too umble, sir," said Mrs. Heep, "my son and
me, to be the friends of Master Copperfield. He has beeff

DAVID COPPERFTELD.

so good as take his tea with us, and we are thankful to him
for his company ; also to you, sir, for your notice."

"Ma'am," returned Mr. Micawber, with a bow, "you are
very obliging : and what are you doing, Copperfield ? Still
in the wine trade ? "

I was excessively anxious to get Mr. Micawber away, and
replied, with my hat in my hand, and a very red face, I have
clo doubt, that I was a pupil at Doctor Strong's.

" A pupil ? " said Mr. Micawber, raising his eyebrows.
i4 1 am extremely happy to hear it. Although a mind like my
friend Copperfield's " â€” to Uriah and Mrs. Heep â€” "does not
require that cultivation which, without his knowledge of men
and things, it would require, still it is a rich soil teeming with
latent vegetation â€” in short," said Mr. Micawber, smiling, in
another burst of confidence, " it is an intellect capable of get-
ting up the classics to any extent."

Uriah, with his long hands slowly twining over one
another, made a ghastly writhe from the waist upwards, to
express his concurrence in this estimation of me.

" Shall we go and see Mrs. Micawber, sir ? " I said, to get
Mr. Micawber away.

" If you will clo her that favor, Copperfield," replied Mr.
Micawber, rising. " I have no scruple in saying, in the pres-
ence of our friends here, that I am a man who has, for some
years, contended against the pressure of pecuniary difficulties."
I knew he was certain to say something of this kind ; he
always would be so boastful about his difficulties. " Some-
times I have risen superior to my difficulties. Sometimes my
difficulties have â€” in short, have floored me. There have been
times when I have administered a succession of facers to
them ; there have been times when they have been too many
for me, and I have given in, and said to Mrs. Micawber, in
the words of Â£ato, ' Plato, thou reasonest well. It's all up
now. I can show fight no more.' But at no time of my life,'
said Mr. Micawber, " have I enjoyed a higher degree of satis-
faction than in pouring my griefs (if I may describe difncul
ties, chiefly arising out of warrants of attorney and promis-
sory notes at two and four months, by that word) into the
bosom of my friend Copperfield."

Mr. Micawber closed this handsome tribute by saying,
" Mr. Heep ! Good evening. Mrs. Heep ! Your servant,"
and then walking out with me in his most fashionable manner,
making a good deal of noise on the pavement with his shoes,
and humming a tune as we went.

SOMEBODY TURNS UP.

257

It was a little inn where Mr. Micawber put up, and he
occupied a little room in it, partitioned off from the commer-
cial room, and strongly flavored with tobacco smoke-. I think
it was over the kitchen, because a warm greasy smell appeared
to come up through the chinks in the floor, and there was a
flabby perspiration on the walls. I know it was near the bar,
on account of the smell of spirits and jingling of glasses.
Here, recumbent on a small sofa, underneath a picture of a
race-horse, with her head close to the fire, and her feet push-
ing the mustard off the dumb-waiter at the other end of the
room, was Mrs. Micawber, to whom Mr. Micawber entered
first, saying, i( My clear, allow me to introduce to you a pupil
of Doctor Strong's."

I noticed, by-the-bye, that although Mr. Micawber was
just as much confused as ever about my age and standing, he
always remembered, as a genteel thing, that I was a pupil of
Doctor Strong's.

Mrs. Micawber was amazed, but very glad to see me. I
was very glad to see her too, and, after an affectionate greet-
ing on both sides, sat down on the small sofa near her.

" My dear," said Mr. Micawber, " if you will mention to
Copperfield what our present position is, which I have no
doubt he will like to know, I will go and look at the paper
the while, and see whether anything turns up among the adver-
tisements."

" I thought you were at Plymouth, ma'am,'x I said to Mrs.
Micawber, as he went out.

" My dear Master Copperfield," she replied, " we went to
Plymouth."

" To be on the spot," I hinted.

" Just so," said Mrs. Micawber. " To be on the spot. But,
the truth is, talent is not wanted in the Custom House. The
local influence of my family was quite unavailing to obtain
any employment in that department, for a man of Mr. Micaw-
ber's abilities. They would rather not have a man of Mr.
Micawber's abilities. He would only show the deficiency of
the others. Apart from which," said Mrs. Micawber, " I will
not disguise from you, my dear Master Copperfield, that when
that branch of my family which is settled in Plymouth became
aware that Mr. Micawber was accompanied by myself, and by
little Wilkins and his sister, and by the twins, they did not
receive him with that ardor which he might have expected,
Heing so newly released from captivity. In fact," said Mrs.

258

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Micawber, lowering her voice, â€” " this is between ourselves-*

our reception was cool."
" Dear me ! " I said.

" Yes," said Mrs. Micawber. " It is truly painful to con-
template mankind in such an aspect, Master Copperfield, but
our reception was, decidedly, cool. There is no doubt about
it. In fact, that branch of my family which is settled in Ply-
mouth became quite personal to Mr. Micawber, before we had
been there a week."

I said, and thought, that they ought to be ashamed of
themselves.

"Still, so it was," continued Mrs. Micawber. "Under
such circumstances, what could a man of Mr. Micawber's spirit
do ? But one obvious course was left. To borrow of that
branch of my family the money to return to London, and to
return at any sacrifice."

" Then you all came back again, ma'am ? " I said.

"We all came back again," replied Mrs. Micawber.
" Since then, I have consulted other branches of my family on
the course which it is most expedient for Mr. Micawber to
take â€” for I maintain that he must take some course, Master
Copperfield," said Mrs. Micawber, argumentatively. "It is
clear that a family of six, not including a domestic, cannot
live upon air."

" Certainly, ma'am," said I.

" The opinion of those other branches of my family," pur-
sued Mrs. Micawber, " is, that Mr. Micawber should immedi-
ately turn his attention to coals."

" To what, ma'am ? "

" To coals," said Mrs. Micawber. " To the coal trade.
Mr. Micawber was induced to think, on inquiry, that there
might be an opening for a man of his talent in the Medway
Coal Trade. Then, as Mr. Micawber very properly said, the
first step to be taken clearly was, to come and see the Med
way. Which we came and saw. I say ' we,' Master Coppev
field ; for I never will," said Mrs. Micawber with emotion
" I never will desert Mr. Micawber."

I murmured my admiration and approbation.

"We came," repeated Mrs. Micawber, " and saw the Med-
way. My opinion of the coal trade on that river, is, that it
may require talent, but that it certainly requires capital. Tal-
ent, Mr. Micawber has ; capital, Mr. Micawber has not. We
saw, I think, the greater part of the Medway ; and that is my

SOMEBODY TURNS UP,

259

Individual conclusion. Being so near here, Mr. Micawber was
of opinion that it would be rash not to come on, and see the
Cathedral. Firstly, on account of its being so well worth see-
ing, and our never having seen it ; and secondly, on account
of the great probability of something turning up in a cathedral
town. We have been here," said Mrs. Micawber, " three days.
Nothing has, as yet, turned up ; and it may not surprise you,
my dear Master Copperfield, so much as it would a stranger,
to know that we are at present waiting for a remittance from
London, to discharge our pecuniary obligations at this hotel.
Until the arrival of that remittance," said Mrs. Micawber with
much feeling, " I am cut off from my home (I allude to lodg-
ings in Pentonville), from my boy and girl, and from my
twins."

I felt the utmost sympathy for Mr. and Mrs. Micawber in
this anxious extremity, and said as much to Mr. Micawber,
who now returned ; adding that I only wished I had money
enough, to lend them the amount they needed. Mr. Micaw-
ber's answer expressed the disturbance of his mind. He said,
shaking hands with me, " Copperfield, you are a true friend ;
but when the worst comes to the worst, no man is without a
friend who is possessed of shaving materials." At this dread-
ful hint Mrs. Micawber threw her arms round Mr. Micawber's
neck and entreated him to be calm. He wept ; but so far
recovered, almost immediately, as to ring the bell for the
waiter, and bespeak a hot kidney pudding and a plate of
shrimps for breakfast in the morning.

When I took my leave of them, they both pressed me so
much to come and dine before they went away, that I could
not refuse. But, as I knew I could not come next day, when
I should have a good deal to prepare in the evening, Mr.
Micawber arranged that he would call at Doctor Strong's in
the course of the morning (having a presentiment that the
remittance would arrive by that post), and propose the daj
after, if it would suit me better. Accordingly I was called out
of school next forenoon, and found Mr. Micawber in the par-
lor; who had called to say that the dinner would take place
as proposed. When I asked him if the remittance had come,
he pressed my hand and departed.

As I was looking out of window that same evening, it sur-
prised me, and made me rather uneasy, to see Mr. Micawber
and Uriah Heep walk past, arm in arm â€” Uriah humbly sensible
ot the honor that was clone him, and Mr. Micawber taking a

DAVID COPPERFIELD ,

bland delight in extending his patronage to Uriah. But I was
still more surprised, when I went to the little hotel next day at
the appointed dinner-hour, which was four o'clock, to find,
from what Mr. Micawber said, that he had gone home with
Uriah, and had drunk brandy-and-water at Mrs. Heep's.

"And I'll tell you what, my dear Copperfield," said Mr.
Micawber, " your friend Heep is a young fellow who might be
attorney-general. If I had known that young man, at the
period when my difficulties came to a crisis, all I can say is
that I believe my creditors would have been a great deal
better managed than they were."

I hardly understood how this could have been, seeing that
Mr. Micawber had paid them nothing at all as it was ; but I
did not like to ask. Neither did I like to say, that I hoped
he had not been too communicative to Uriah, or to inquire if
they had talked much about me. I was afraid of hurting Mr.
Micawber' s feelings, or, at all events, Mrs. Micawber's, she
being very sensitive ; but I was uncomfortable about it, too,
and often thought about it afterwards.

We had a beautiful little dinner. Quite an elegant dish of
fish ; the kidney-end of a loin of veal, roasted ; fried sausage-
meat ; a partridge, and a pudding. There was wine, and there
was strong ale ; and after dinner Mrs. Micawber made us a
bowl of hot punch with her own hands.

Mr. Micawber was uncommonly convivial. I never saw
him such good company. He made his face shine with the
punch, so that it looked as if it had been varnished all over.
He got cheerfully sentimental about the town, and proposed
success to it ; observing that Mrs. Micawber and himself had
been made extremely snug and comfortable there, and that he
never should forget the agreeable hours they had passed in
Canterbury. He proposed me afterwards ; and he, and Mrsc
Micawber, and I, took a review of our past acquaintance, in
the course of which, we sold the property all over again. Then
I proposed Mrs. Micawber ; or, at least, said, modestly, " If
you'll allow me, Mrs. Micawber, I shall now have the
pleasure of drinking your health, ma'am." On which Mr.
Micawber delivered an eulogium on Mrs. Micawber's character,
and said she had ever been his guide, philosopher, and friend,
and that he would recommend me, when I came to a marry-
ing-time of life, to marry such another woman, if such anothel
woman could be found.

As the punch disappeared, Mr. Lllcawber became still more

r SOMEBODY TURNS UP. 261

friendly and convivial. Mrs. Micawber's spirits becoming
elevated, too, we sang " Auld Lang Syne." When we came to
u Here's a hand, my trusty frere," we all joined hands round
the table ; and when we declared we would " take a right
gude Willie Waught," and hadn't the least idea what it meant,
we were really affected.

In a word, I never saw anything so thoroughly jovial as
Mr. Micawber was, down to the very last moment of the even-
ing, when I took a heariy farewell of himself and his amiable
wife. Consequently, I was not prepared, at seven o'clock next
morning, to receive the following communication, dated half-
past nine in the evening ; a quarter of an hour after I had left
him : â€”

" My Dear Young Friend,

" The die is cast â€” all is over. Hiding the ravages of
care with a sickly mask of mirth, I have not informed you, this
evening, that there is no hope of the remittance ! Under these
circumstances, alike humiliating to endure, humiliating to con-
template, and humiliating to relate, I have discharged the
pecuniary liability contracted at this establishment, by giving
a note of hand, made payable fourteen days after date, at my
residence, Pentonville, London. When it becomes due, it will
not be taken up. The result is destruction. The bolt is im-
pending, and the tree must fall.

" Let the wretched man who now addresses you, my dear
Copperfield, be a beacon to you through life. He writes with
that intention, and in that hope. If he could think himself of
so much use, one gleam of day might, by possibility, penetrate
into the cheerless dungeon of his remaining existence â€” though
his longevity is, at present (to say the least of it), extremely
problematical.

" This is the last communication, my dear Copperfield, you
will ever receive 1
r( From
" The

" Beggared Outcast,

"Wilkins Micawber."

I was so shocked by the contents of this heart rending letter,
that I ran off directly towards the little hotel with the intention
of taking it on my way to Dr. Strong's, and trying to soothe
Mr. Micawber with a word of comfort. But half way there, I

962

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

met the London coach with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber up bfc
hind ; Mr. Micawber, the very picture of tranquil enjoyment,
smiling at Mrs. Micawber's conversation, eating walnuts out
of a paper bag, with a bottle sticking out of his breast pocket.
As they did not see me, I thought it best, all things considered,
not to see them. So, with a great weight taken off my mind,
I turned into a by-street that was the nearest way to school,
and felt, upon the whole, relieved that they were gone, though
I still liked them very much, nevertheless.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A RETROSPECT.

My school-days ! The silent gliding on of my existence â€”
the unseen, unfelt progress of my life â€” from childhood up to
youth ! Let me think, as I look back upon that flowing water,
now a dry channel overgrown with leaves, whether there are
any marks along its course by which I can remember how it
ran.

A moment, and I occupy my place in the Cathedral, where
we all went together, every Sunday morning, assembling first
at school for that purpose. The earthy smell, the sunless air,
the sensation of the world being shut out, the resounding of the
organ through the black and white arched galleries and aisles,
are wings that take me back, and hold me hovering above
those days, in a half-sleeping and half-waking dream.

I am not the last boy in the school. I have risen, in a few
months, over several heads. But the first boy seems to me a
mighty creature, dwelling afar off, whose giddy height is un-
attainable. Agnes says "No," but I say "Yes," and tell her
that she little thinks what stores of knowledge have been
mastered by the wonderful Being, at whose place she thinks I,
even I, weak aspirant, may arrive in time. He is not my
private friend and public patron, as Steerforth was ; but I hold
him in a rererential respect. I chiefly wonder what he'll be,
when he leaves Dr. Strong's, and what mankind will do to
maintain any place against him.

A RETROSPECT.

263

But who is this that breaks upon me ? This is Miss Shep-
herd, whom I love.

Miss Shepherd is a boarder at the Misses Nettingalls'
establishment. I adore Miss Shepherd. She is a little girl,
in a spencer, with a round face and curly flaxen hair. The
Misses Nettingalls' young ladies come to the Cathedral too
I cannot look upon my book, for I must look upon Miss
Shepherd. When the choristers chaunt, I hear Miss Shepherd*
In the service I mentally insert Miss Shepherd's name ; I
put her in among the Royal Family. At home, in my own
room, I am sometimes moved to cry out, " Oh, Miss Shep-
herd ! " in a transport of love.

For some time, I am doubtful of Miss Shepherd's feelings,
but, at length, Fate being propitious, we met at the dancing-
school. I have Miss Shepherd for my partner. I touch Miss
Shepherd's glove, and feel a thrill go up the right arm of my
jacket, and come out at my hair. I say nothing tender to
Miss Shepherd, but we understand each other. Miss Shep-
herd and myself live but to be united.

Why do I secretly give Miss Snepherd twelve Brazil nuts
for a present, I wonder ? They are not expressive of affec-
tion, they are difficult to pack into a parcel of any regular
shape, they are hard to crack, even in room doors, and they
are oily when cracked ; yet I feel that they are appropriate
to Miss Shepherd. Soft, seedy biscuits, also, I bestow upon
Miss Shepherd ; and oranges innumerable. Once, I kiss
Miss Shepherd in the cloak room. Ecstasy ! What are my
agony and indignation next clay, when I hear a flying rumor
that the Misses Nettingall have stood Miss Shepherd in the
stocks for turning in her toes !

Miss Shepherd being the one pervading theme and vision
of my life, how do I ever come to break with her ? I can't
conceive. And yet a coolness grows between Miss Shepherd;
and myself. Whispers reach me of Miss Shepherd having
said she wished I wouldn't stare so, and having avowed a
preference for Master Jones â€” for Jones ! a boy of no merit
whatever ! The gulf between me and Miss Shepherd widens*
At last, one day, I meet the Misses Nettingalls' establishment
out walking. Miss Shepherd makes a face as she goes byÂ»
and laughs to her companion. All is over. The devotion of
a life â€” it seems a life, it is all the same â€” is at an end ; Miss
Shepherd comes out of the morning service, and the Royal
Family know her no more.

264 DAVID COPPERFIELD*

I am higher in the school, and no one breaks my peace.
I am not at all polite, now, to the Misses Nettingalls' young
ladies, and shouldn't dote on any of them, if they were twice
as many and twenty times as beautiful. I think the dancing-
school a tiresome affair, and wonder why the girls can't dance
jy themselves and leave us alone. I am growing great ir?
Latin verses, and neglect the laces of my boots. Doctoi
Strong refers to me in public as a promising young scholar.
Mr. Dick is wild with joy, and my aunt remits me a guinea by
the next post.

The shade of a young butcher rises, like the apparition of
an armed head in Macbeth. Who is this young butcher?
He is the terror of the youth of Canterbury. There is a
vague belief abroad, that the beef suet with which he anoints
his hair gives him unnatural strength, and that he is a match
for a man. He is a broad-faced, bull-necked young butcher,
with rough red cheeks, an ill-conditioned mind, and an in-
jurious tongue. His main use of this tongue, is, to disparage
Dr. Strong's young gentlemen. He says, publicly, that if
they want anything he'll give it 'em, He names individuals
among them (myself included), whom he could undertake to
settle with one hand, and the other tied behind him. He
waylays the smaller boys to punch their unprotected heads,
and calls challenges after me in the open streets. For these
sufficient reasons I resolve to fight the butcher.

It is a summer evening, down in a green hollow, at the
corner of a wall. I meet the butcher by appointment. I am
attended by a select body of our boys \ the butcher, by two
other butchers, a young publican, and a sweep. The prelimi-
naries are adjusted, and the butcher and myself stand face to
face. In a moment the butcher lights ten thousand candles
out of my left eyebrow. In another moment, I don't know
where the wall is, or where I am, or where anybody is. I
hardly know which is myself and which the butcher, we are
always in such a tangle and tustle, knocking about upon the
trodden grass. Sometimes I see the butcher, bloody but
confident ; sometimes I see nothing, and sit gasping on my
second's knee ; sometimes I go in at the butcher madly, and
cut my knuckles open against his face, without appearing to
discompose him at all. At last I awake, very queer about
the head, as from a giddy sleep, and see the butcher walking
off, congratulated by the two other butchers and the sweep
and publican, and putting on his coat as he goes; from which
I augur, justly, that the victory is his.

A RETROSPECT.

265

I am taken home in a sacl plight, and 1 have beef-steaks
put to my eyes, and am rubbed with vinegar and brandy, and
find a great white puffy place bursting out on my upper lip,
which swells immoderately. For three or four days I remain
at home, a very ill-looking subject, with a green shade over
my eyes ; and I should be very dull, but that Agnes is a sister
to me, and condoles with me, and reads to me, and makes the
time light and happy. Agnes has my confidence completely,
always ; I tell her all about the butcher, and the wrongs he
has heaped upon me ; she thinks I couldn't have done other-
wise than fight the butcher, while she shrinks and trembles at
my having fought him.

Time has stolen on unobserved, for Adams is not the
head-boy in the days that are come now, nor has he been
this many and many a day. Adams has left the school so
long, that when he comes back, on a visit to Doctor Strong,
there are not many there, besides myself, who know him.
Adams is going to be called to the bar almost directly, and is
to be an advocate, and wear a wig. I am surprised to find
him a meeker man than I had thought, and less imposing in
appearance. He has not staggered the world yet, either ; tor
it goes on (as well as I can make out) pretty much the same
as if he had never joined it.

A blank, through which the warriors of poetry and history
march on in stately hosts that seem to have no end â€” and
what comes next ! / am the head boy, now ! I look down
on the line of boys below me, with a condescending interest
in such of them as bring to my mind the boy I was myself,
when I first came there. That little fellow seems to be no
part of me ; I remember him as something left behind upon
the road of life â€” as something I have passed, rather than
have actually been â€” and almost think of him as of some one
else.

And the little girl I saw on that first, day at Mr. Wickfield's,
where is she ? Gone also. In her stead, the perfect likeness
of the picture, a child's likeness no more, moves about the
house ; and Agnes, my sweet' sister, as I call her in my
thoughts, my counsellor and friend, the better angel of the
lives of all who come within her calm, good, self-denying in-
fluence, is quite a woman.

What other changes have come upon me, besides the
changes in my growth and looks, and in the knowledge I have
garnered all this while ? I wear a gold watch and chain, a ring

266

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

upon my little finger, and a long-tailed coat ; and I use a
great deal of bear's grease â€” which, taken in conjunction with
the ring, looks bad. Am I in love again ? I am. I worship
the eldest Miss Larkins.

The eldest Miss Larkins is not a little girl. She is a tall,
dark, black-eyed, fine figure of a woman. The eldest Miss
(Larkins is not a chicken ; for the youngest Miss Larkins is
not that, and the eldest must be three or four years older.
Perhaps the eldest Miss Larkins may be about thirty. My
passion for her is beyond all bounds.

The eldest Miss Larkins knows officers. It is an awful
thing to bear. I see them speaking to her in the street. I
see them cross the way to meet her, when her bonnet (she has
a bright taste in bonnets) is seen coming down the pavement,
accompanied by her sister's bonnet. She laughs and talks,
and seems to like it. I spend a good deal of my own spare
time in walking up and down to meet her. If I can bow to
her once in the day (I know her to bow to, knowing Mr.
Larkins), I am happier. I deserve a bow now and then. The
raging agonies I suffer on the night of the Race Ball, where I
know the eldest Miss Larkins will be dancing with the military,
ought to have some compensation, if there be even-handed
justice in the world.

My passion takes away my appetite, and makes me wear
my newest silk neckerchief continually. I have no relief but in
putting on my best clothes, and having my boots cleaned over
and over again. I seem, then, to be worthier of the eldest
Miss Larkins. Everything that belongs to her, or is connected
with her, is precious to me. Mr. Larkins (a gruff old gentle*
man with a double chin, and one of his eyes immovable in
his head) is fraught with interest to me. When I can't meet
his daughter, I go where I am likely to meet him. To say
" How do you do, Mr, Larkins ? Are the young ladies and
all the family quite well ? " seems so pointed, that I blush.

I think continually about my age. Say I am seventeen,
and say that seventeen is young for the eldest Miss Larkins,
what of that ? Besides, I shall be one-and-twenty in no timo
almost. I regularly take walks outside Mr. Larkins's house m
the evening, though it cuts me to the heart to see the officers
go in, or to hear them up in the drawing-room, where the
eldest Miss Larkins plays the harp. I even walk, on two or
three occasions, in a sickly, spoony wanner, round and round
the house after the family are gone to bed, wondering which

A RETROSPECT.

267

is the eldest Miss Larkins's chamber (and pitching, I dare s'uy
now, on Mr. Larkins's instead) ; wishing that a fire would
burst out ; that the assembled crowd would stand appalled ;
that I, dashing through them with a ladder, might rear it
against her window, save her in my arms, go back for some-
thing she had left behind, and perish in the flames. For I am
generally disinterested in my love, and I think I could be content
to make a figure before Miss Larkins, and expire. Generally,
but not always. Sometimes brighter visions rise before me.
When I dress (the occupation of two hcurs), for a great ball
given at the Larkins's (the anticipation of three weeks), 1 in-
dulge my fancy with pleasing images. I picture myself taking
courage to make a declaration to Miss Larkins. I picture
Miss Larkins sinking her head upon my shoulder, and saying,
" Oh, Mr. Copperfield, can I believe my ears ! " I picture Mr.
Larkins waiting on me next morning, and saying, " My dear
Copperfield, my daughter has told me all. Youth is no objec-
tion. Here are twenty thousand pounds. Be happy ! " I
picture my aunt relenting, and blessing us ; and Mr. Dick and
Doctor Strong being present at the marriage ceremony. I am
a sensible fellow, I believeâ€” -I believe, on looking back, I mean
â€” and modest I am sure ; but all this goes on notwithstand-
ing.

I repair to the enchanted house, where there are lights,
chattering, music, flowers, officers (I am sorry to see), and the
eldest Miss Larkins, a blaze of beauty. She is dressed in
blue, with blue flowers in her hair â€” forget-me-nots. As if she
had any need to wear forget-me-nots ! It is the first really
grown-up party that I have ever been invited to, and I am a
little uncomfortable ; for I appear not to belong to anybody,
and nobody appears to have anything to say to me, except Mr.
Larkins, who asks me how my school-fellows are, which he
needn't do, as I have not come there to be insulted.

But after I have stood in the doorway for some time, and!
feasted my eyes upon the goddess of my heart, she approaches
me â€” she, the eldest Miss Larkins ! â€” and asks me pleasantly,
if I dance ?

I stammer, with a bow, " With you, Miss Larkins."
"With no one else ? " inquires Miss Larkins.
" I should have no pleasure in dancing with any one else."
Miss l arkins laughs and blushes (or I think she blushes),
jmd says, " Next time but one, I shall be very glad."

The time arrives. " It is a waltz, I think," Miss LarHr^s

26S

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

doubtfully observes when I present myself. " Do you waltz ?
If not, Captain Bailey â€” "

But I do waltz (pretty well, too, as it happens), and I take
Miss Larkins out. I take her sternly from the side of Captain
Bailey. He is wretched, I have no doubt ; but he is nothing
to me. I have been wretched, too. I waltz with the eldest
Miss Larkins ! I don't know where, among whom, or how
long. I only know that I swim about in space, with a blue
angel, in a state of blissful delirium, until I find myself alone
with her in a little room, resting on a sofa. She admires a
flower (pink camellia japonica, price half-a-crown), in my
button-hole. I give it her, and say :

" I ask an inestimable price for it, Miss Larkins."

" Indeed ! What is that ? " returns Miss Larkins.

" A flower of yours, that I may treasure it as a miser does
gold."

" You're a bold boy," says Miss Larkins. " There."

She gives it me, not displeased ; and I put it to my lips,
and then into my breast. Miss Larkins, laughing, draws her
hand through my arm, and says, " Now take me back to Captain
Bailey."

I am lost in the recollection of this delicious interview, and
the waltz, when she comes to me again, with a plain elderly
gentleman, who has been playing whist all night, upon her
arm, and says :

" Oh ! here is my bold friend ! Mr. Chestle wants to
know you, Mr. Copperfield."

I feel at once that he is a friend of the family, and am much
gratified.

" I admire your taste, sir," says Mr. Chestle. " It does
you credit. I suppose you don't take much interest in hops;
but I am a pretty large grower myself ; and if you ever like to
come over to our neighborhood â€” neighborhood of Ashford â€”
and take a run about our place, we shall be glad for you to
stop as long as you like."

I thank Mr. Chestle warmly, and shake hands. I think I
am in a happy dream. I waltz with the eldest Miss Larkins
once again. She says I waltz so well ! I go home in a state
of unspeakable bliss, and waltz in imagination, all night long,
with my arm round the blue waist of my dear divinity. For
some days afterwards, I am lost in rapturous reflections ; but
I neither see her in the street, nor when I call. I am imper-
fectly consoled for this disappointment by the sacred pledge,
the perished flower.

7 LOOK ABOUT ME AND MAKE A DISCOVERY. 269

" Trotwood," says Agnes, one day after dinner, "who
do you think is going to be married to-morrow ? Some one
you admire."

" Not you, I suppose, Agnes ? "

" Not me ! " raising her cheerful face from the music she
is copying. " Do you hear him, Papa ? â€” The eldest Miss
Larkins."

" To â€” to Captain Bailey?" I have just enough power to
ask.

" No ; to no Captain. To Mr. Chestle, a hop-grower."

I am terribly dejected for about a week or two. I take
off my ring, I wear my worst clothes, I use no bear's grease,
and I frequently lament over the late Miss Larkins's faded
flower. Being, by that time, rather tired of this kind of life,
and having received new provocation from the butcher, I throw
the flower away, go out with the butcher, and gloriously defeat
him.

This, and the resumption of my ring, as well as of the
bear's grease in moderation, are the last marks I can discen*,
now, in my progress to seventeen.

CHAPTER XIX.

I LOOK ABOUT ME AND MAKE A DISCOVERY.

I am doubtful whether I was at heart glad or sorry, when
my school-days drew to Â«m end, and the time came for my
leaving Doctor Strong's. I had been very happy there, I had
a great attachment for the Doctor, and I was eminent and
distinguished in that little world. For these reasons I was
sorry to go ; but for other reasons, unsubstantial enough, I
was glad. Misty ideas of being a young man at my own dis-
posal, of the importance attaching to a young man at his own
disposal, of the wonderful things to be seen and done by that
magnificent animal, and the wonderful effects he could not
fail to make upon society, lured me away. So powerful were
these visionary considerations in my boyish mind, that I seem,
according to my present way of thinking, to have left school with-
out natural regret. The separation has not made the impresr

270

DAVID COPPERFIELD,

sion on me, that other separations have. I try in vain to re
call how I felt about it, and what its circumstances were ; but
it is not momentous in my recollection. I suppose the open-
ing prospect confused me. I know that my juvenile experi-
ences went for little or nothing then ; and that life was more
like a great fairy story, which I was just about to begin to
read, than anything else.

My aunt and I had held many grave deliberations on the>
calling to which I should be devoted. For a year or more I
had endeavored to find a satisfactory answer to her often-
repeated question, " What I would like to be ? " But I had no
particular liking, that I could discover, for anything. If I
could have been inspired with a knowledge of the science of
navigation, taken the command of a fast sailing expedition, and
gone round the world on a triumphant voyage of discovery, I
think I might have considered myself completely suited
But in the absence of any such miraculous provision, my de-
sire was to apply myself to some pursuit that would not lie too
heavily upon her purse ; and to do my duty in it, whatever it
might be.

Mr. Dick had regularly assisted at our councils, with a
meditative and sage demeanor. He never made a suggestion
but once ; and on that occasion (I don't know what put it in
his head), he suddenly proposed that I should be " a Brazier."
My aunt received this proposal so very ungraciously, that he
never ventured on a second ; but ever afterwards confined
himself to looking watchfully at her for her suggestions, and
rattling his money.

" Trot, I tell you what, my dear," said my aunt, one morn-
ing in the Christmas season when I left school ; " as this
knotty point is still unsettled, and as we must not make a mis-
take in our decision if we can help it, I think we had better
take a little breathing-time. In the meanwhile, you must try
to look at it from a new point of view and not as a school*
boy."

" I will, aunt."

" It has occurred to me," pursued my aunt, " that a little
change, and a glimpse of life out of doors, may be useful in
helping you to know your own mind, and form a cooler judg-
ment. Suppose you were to take a little journey now.
Suppose you were to go down into the old part of the country
again, for instance, and see that â€” that out-of-the-way woman
with the savagest of names," said my aunt, rubbing her nose,

/ LOOK ABOUT ME AND MAKE A DISCOVERY, 2Ji

for she could never thoroughly forgive Peggotty for being so
called

" Of all things in the world, aunt, I should like it best ! M
"Well," said my aunt, "that's lucky, for I should like it

too. But it's natural and rational that you should like it.

And I am very well persuaded that whatever you do, Trot, will

always be natural and rational."
" I hope so, aunt."

"Your sister, Betsey Trotwood," said my aunt, "would
nave been as natural and rational a girl as ever breathed.
You'll be worthy of her, wont you ? "

" I hope I shall be worthy of you, aunt. That will be
enough for me."

" It's a mercy that poor dear baby of a mother of yours
didn't live," said my aunt, looking at me approvingly, "or
she'd have been so vain of her boy by this time, that her soft
little head would have been completely turned, if there was
anything of it left to turn." (My aunt always excused any
weakness of her own in my behalf, by transferring it in this
way to my poor mother.) " Bless me, Trotwood, how you do
remind me of her ! "

" Pleasantly, I hope, aunt ? " said I.

" He's as like her, Dick," said my aunt, emphatically,
u he's as like her, as she was that afternoon, before she began
to fret. Bless my heart, he's as like her as he can look at me
out of his two eyes ! "

" Is he indeed ? " said Mr. Dick.

" And he's like David, too," said my aunt, decisively.

" He is very like David ! " said Mr. Dick.

" But what I want you to be, Trot," resumed my aunt,
* â€” I don't mean physically, but morally ; you are very well
physically â€” is, a firm fellow. A fine firm fellow, with a will
of your own. With resolution/' said my aunt, shaking her
cap at me, and clenching her hand. " With determination.
With character, Trot. With strength of character that is not
to be influenced, except on good reason, by anybody or by any-
thing. That's what I want you to be. That's what your
father and mother might both have been, Heaven knÂ«ws,
and been the better for it."

I intimated that I hoped I should be what she described.

" That you may begin, in a small way, to have a reliance
upon yourself, and to act for yourself," said my aunt, " I shall
send you upon your trip, alone. I did think, once, of Mr,

272

DAVID COPPERFIELD

Dick's going with you ; but, on second thoughts, I shall keep
him to take care of me."

Mr. Dick, for a moment, looked a little disappointed ; until
the honor and dignity of having to take care of the most won-
derful woman in the world, restored the sunshine to his face.

" Besides," said my aunt, " there's the Memorial "

" Oh, certainly," said Mr. Dick, in a hurry, " I intend, Trot,
wood, to get that done immediately â€” it really must be done
immediately ! And then it will go in, you know â€” and then â€” ,'â€¢
said Mr. Dick, after checking himself, and pausing a long
time, " there'll be a pretty kettle of fish ! "

In pursuance of my aunt's kind scheme, I was shortly
afterwards fitted out with a handsome purse of money, and a
portmanteau, and tenderly dismissed upon my expedition. At
parting, my aunt gave me some good advice, and a good many
kisses ; and said that as her object was that I should look
about me, and should think a little, she would recommend me
to stay a few days in London, if I liked it, either on my way
down into Suffolk, or in coming back. In a word, I was at
liberty to do what I would, for three weeks or a month ; and
no other conditions were imposed upon my freedom than the
before-rrtentioned thinking and looking about me, and a
pledge to write three times a week and faithfully report my-
self.

I went to Canterbury first, that I might take leave of Agnes
and Mr. Wickfield (my old room in whose house I had not yet
relinquished), and also of the good Doctor. Agnes was very
glad to see me, and told me that the house had not been like
itself since I had left it.

" I am sure I am not like myself when I am away," said I.
" I seem to want my right hand, when I miss you. Though
that's not saying much ; for there's no head in my right hand,
and no heart. Every one who knows you, consults with you,
and is guided by you, Agnes."

" Every one who knows me spoils me, I believe," she
answered, smiling.

" No. It's because you are like no one else. You are so
good, and so sweet-tempered. You have such a gentle nature,
and you are always right."

" You talk," said Agnec, breaking into a pleasant laugh, as
she sat at work, " as if I were the late Miss Larkins."

" Come ! It's not fair to abuse my confidence," I answered,
reddening at the recollection of my blue enslaver. " But I

/ LOOK ABOUT ME AND MAKE A DISCOVERY. 273

shall confide in you, just the same, Agnes. I can never grow
out of that. Whenever I fall into trouble, or fallln love, I
shall always tell you, if you'll let me â€” even when I come to
fall in love in earnest."

"Why, you have always been in earnest!" said Agnes,
laughing again.

" Oh ! that was as a child, or a schoolboy," said I, laugh-
ing in my turn, not without being a little shame-faced. " Times
arc altering now, and I suppose I shall be in a terrible state
of earnestness one clay or other. My wonder is, that you are
not in earnest yourself, by this time, Agnes."

Agnes laughed again, and shook her head.

" Oh ! J know you are not ! " said I, " because if you had
been, you would have told me. Or at least," for I saw a faint
blush in her face, " you would have let me find it out for
myself. But there is no one that I know of, who deserves to
love you, Agnes. Some one of a nobler character, and more
worthy altogether than any one I have ever seen here, mast
rise up, before I give my consent. In the time to come, I
shall have a wary eye on all admirers ; and shall exact a great
deal from the successful one, I assure you."

. We had gone on, so far, in a mixture of confidential jest
and earnest, that had long grown naturally out of our familiar
relations, begun as mere children. But Agnes, now suddenly
lifting up her eyes to mine, and speaking in a different manner,
said :

" Trotwood, there is something that I want to ask you, and
that I may not have another opportunity of asking for a long
time, perhaps. Something I would ask, I think, of no one
else. Have you observed any gradual alteration in Papa? "

I had observed it, and had often wondered whether she
had too. I must have shown as much, now, in my face ; for
her eyes were in a moment cast down, and I saw tears in
them.

" Tell me what it is," she said, in a low voice.
" I think â€” shall I be quite plain, Agnes, liking him so
much ? "

" Yes," she said.

>k I think he does himself no good by the habit that has
increased upon him since I first came here. He is often very
nervous, or I fancy so."

"It is not fancy," said Agnes, shaking her head.

H His hand trembles, his speech is not plain, and his eyes

274

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

look wild. I have remarked that at those times, and when he
is least like himself, he is most certain to be wanted on some
business."

" By Uriah," said Agnes.

" Yes ; and the sense of being unfit for it, or of not having
understood it, or of having shown his condition in spite of
himself, seems to make him so uneasy, that next day he is
worse, and next day worse, and so he becomes jaded and
haggard. Do not be alarmed by what I say, Agnes, but in
this state I saw him, only the other evening, lay down his head
upon his desk, and shed tears like a child."

Her hand passed softly before my lips while I was yet
speaking, and in a moment she had met her father at the door
of the room, and was hanging on his shoulder. The expression
of her face, as they both looked towards me, I felt to be very
touching. There was such deep fondness for him, and grati-
tude to him for all his love and care, in her beautiful look ;
and there was such a fervent appeal to me to deal tenderly by
him, even in my inmost thoughts, and to let no harsh construc-
tion find any place against him ; she was, at once, so proud
of him and devoted to him, yet so compassionate and sorry,
and so reliant upon me to be so, too, that nothing she could
have said would have expressed more to me, or moved me
more.

We were to drink tea at the Doctor's. We went there at
the usual hour ; and round the study-fireside found the Doctor,
and his young wife, and her mother. The Doctor, who made
as much of my going away as if I were going to China, received
me as an honored guest ; and called for a log of wood to be
thrown on the fire, that he might see the face of his old pupil
reddening in the blaze.

" I shall not see many more new faces in Trotwood's
stead, Wickfield," said the Doctor, warming his hands; "I
am getting lazy, and want ease. I shall relinquish all my
young people in another six months, and lead a quieter life."

" You have said so, any time these ten years, Doctor," Mr.
Wickfield answered.

" But now I mean to do it," returned the Doctor. "My
first master will succeed me â€” I am in earnest at last â€” so you'll
soon have to arrange our contracts, and to bind us firmly to
them, like a couple of knaves."

"And to take care," said Mr. Wickfield, " that you're not
imposed on, eh ? As you certainly would be, in any contract

/ LOOK ABOUT ME AND MAKE A DISCOVER Y. 275

you should make for yourself. Well ! I am ready. There are
worse tasks than that, in my calling."

" I shall have nothing to think of, then," said the Doctor,
with a smile, " but my Dictionary ; and this other contract-
bargain â€” Annie."

As Mr. Wickfield glanced towards her, sitting at the tea-
table by Agnes, she seemed to me to avoid his look with such
unwonted hesitation and timidity, that his attention became
fixed upon her, as if something were suggested to his thoughts*

"There is a post come in from India, I observe," he said,
after a short silence.

" By-the-bye ! and letters from Mr. Jack Maldon ! " said
the Doctor.

" Indeed ! "

"Poor dear Jack!" said Mrs. Markleham, shaking net
head. " That trying climate ! Like living, they tell me, on a
sand-heap, underneath a burning-glass ! He looked strong, but
he wasn't. My dear Doctor, it was his spirit, not his constitu-
tion, that he ventured on so boldly. Annie, my dear, I am
sure you must perfectly recollect that your cousin never was
strong; not what can be called robust, you know," said Mrs.
Markleham, with emphasis, and looking round upon us gen-
erally ; "from the time when my daughter and himself were
children, together, and walking about, arm-in-arm, the live-
long day."

Annie, thus addressed, made no reply.

" Do I gather from what you say, ma'am, that Mr. Maldon
is ill ? " asked Mr. Wickfield.

" 111 ! " replied the Old Soldier. " My dear sir, he's all
sorts of things."

" Except well ? " said Mr. Wickfield.

" Except well, indeed ! " said the Old Soldier. " He has
had dreadful strokes of the sun, no doubt, and jungle feven
and agues, and every kind of thing you can mention. As to
his liver," said the Old Soldier resignedly, "that, of course,
he gave up altogether, when he first went out ! "

" Does he say all this ? " asked Mr. Wickfield.

" Say ! My dear sir," returned Mrs. Markleham, shaking
her head and her fan, " you little know my poor Jack Maldon
when you ask that question. Say ? Not he. You might
drag him at the heels of four wild horses first."

" Mama ! " said Mrs. Strong.

" Annie, my dear," returned her mother, "once for all, I

276

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

must really beg that you will not interfere with me, unless it is
to confirm what I say. You know as well as I do, that your
cousin Maldon would be dragged at the heels of any number
of wild horses â€” why should I confine myself to four ! I won't
confine myself to four â€” eight, sixteen, two-and-thirty, rather
than say anything calculated to overturn the Doctor's plans."

" Wickfield's plans," said the Doctor, stroking his face,
and looking penitently at his adviser. " That is to say, our
joint plans for him. I said myself, abroad or at home."

" And I said," added Mr. Wickfield, gravely, " abroad. I
was the means of sending him abroad. It's my responsibility."

" Oh ! Responsibility ! " said the Old Soldier. " Every-
thing was done for the best, my dear Mr. Wickfield ; every-
thing was done for the kindest and best, we know. But if the
dear fellow can't live there, he can't live there. And if he
can't live there, he'll die there, sooner than he'll overturn the
Doctor's plans. I know him," said the Old Soldier, fanning
herself, in a sort of calm prophetic agony, " and I know he'll
die there, sooner than he'll overturn the Doctor's plans."

"Well, well, ma'am," said the Doctor, cheerfully, "I am
not bigoted to my plans, and I can overturn them myself. I
can substitute some other plans. If Mr. Jack Maldon comes
home on account of ill health, he must not be allowed to
go back, and we must endeavor to make some more suitable
and fortunate provision for him in this country."

Mrs. Marklehamwas so overcome by this generous speech
(which, I need not say, she had not at all expected or led up
to) that she could only tell the Doctor it was like himself, and
go several times through that operation of kissing the sticks
of her fan, and then tapping his hand with it. After which
she gently chid her daughter Annie, for not being more de-
monstrative when such kindnesses were showered, for her
sake, on her old playfellow ; and entertained us with some
particulars concerning other deserving members of her family,
whom it was desirable to set on their deserving legs.

All this time, her daughter Annie never once spoke, or
lifted up her eyes. All this time, Mr. Wickfield had his
glance upon her as she sat by his own daughter's side. It ap-
peared to me that he never thought of being observed by any
one ; but was so intent upon her, and upon his own thoughts in
connection with her, as to be quite absorbed. He now asked
what Mr. Jack Maldon had actually written in reference to
himself, and to whom he had written it ?

I LOOK ABOUT ME AND MAKE A DISCOVERY. 277

u Why, here," said Mrs. Markleham, taking a letter from
the chimney-piece above the Doctor's head, " the dear fellow
says to the Doctor himself â€” where is it ? Oh ! â€” ' I am sorry
to inform you that my health is suffering severely, and that I
fear I may be reduced to the necessity of returning home for
a time, as the only hope of restoration.' That's pretty plain,
poor fellow ! His only hope of restoration ! But Annie's
letter is plainer still. Annie, show me that letter again."

" Not now, mama," she pleaded in a low tone.

" My dear, you absolutely are, on some subjects, one of
the most ridiculous persons in the world," returned her
mother, " and perhaps the most unnatural to the claims of
your own family. We never should have heard of the letter
at all, I believe, unless I had asked for it myself. Do you
call that confidence, my love, towards Doctor Strong ? I am
surprised. You ought to know better."

The letter was reluctantly produced ; and as I handed it
to the old lady, I saw how the unwilling hand from which I
took it, trembled.

Now let us see," said Mrs. Markleham, putting her glass
to her eye, " where the passage is ' The remembrance of old
times, my dearest Annie ' â€” and so forth â€” it's not there. ' The
amiable old Proctor ' â€” who's he ? Dear me, Annie, how illeg
ibly your cousin Maldon writes, and how stupid I am ! ' Doc-
tor,' of course. Ah ! amiable indeed ! " Here she left off, to
kiss her fan again, and shake it at the Doctor, who was look-
ing at us in a state of placid satisfaction. "Now I have
found it. 4 You may not be surprised to hear, Annie,' â€” no, to
be sure, knowing that he never was really strong ; what did I
say just now ? â€” ' that I have undergone so much in this dis-
tant place, as to have decided to leave it at all hazards ; on
sick leave, if I can ; on total resignation, if that is not to be ob-
tained. What I have endured, and do endure here, is insup-
portable.' And but for the promptitude of that best of crea-
tures," said Mrs. Markleham, telegraphing the Doctor as be
fore, and refolding the letter, " it would be insupportable to
me to think of."

Mr. Wickfield said not one word, though the old lady
looked to him as if for his commentary on this intelligence ;
but sat severely silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground.
Long after the subject was dismissed, and other topics occu-
pied us, he remained so ; seldom raising his eyes, unless to
rest them for a moment, with a thoughtful frown, upon the
Doctor, or his wife, or both.

278

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

The Doctor was very fond of music. Agnes sang with
great sweetness and expression, and so did Mrs. Strong.
They sang together, and played duets together, and we had
quite a little concert. But I remarked two things : first, that
though Annie soon recovered her composure, and was quite
herself, there was a blank between her and Mr. Wickfield
which separated them wholly from each other ; secondly,
that Mr. Wickfield seemed to dislike the intimacy between her
and Agnes, and to watch it with uneasiness. And now, I
must confess, the recollection of what I had seen on that night
when Mr. Maldonwent away, first began to return upon me
with a meaning it had never had, and to trouble me. The
innocent beauty of her face was not as innocent to me as it had
been ; I mistrusted the natural grace and charm of her man-
ner ; and when I looked at Agnes by her side, and thought
how good and true Agnes was, suspicions arose within me
that it was an ill-assorted friendship.

She was so happy in it herself, however, and the other
so happy too, that they made the evening fly away as if it
were but an hour. It closed in an incident which I well re-
member. They were taking leave of each other, and Agnes
was going to embrace her and kiss her, when Mr. Wickfield
stepped between them, as if by accident, and drew Agnes
quickly away. Then I saw, as though all the intervening
time had been cancelled, and I were still standing in the door-
way on the night of the departure, the expression of that
night in the face of Mrs. Strong, as it confronted his.

I cannot say what an impression this made upon me, or
how impossible I found it, when I thought of her afterwards,
to separate her from this look, and remember her face in its
innocent loveliness again. It haunted me when I got home.
I seemed to have left the Doctor's roof with a dark cloud
lowering on it. The reverence that I had for his gray head,,
was mingled with commiseration for his faith in those who â€¢
were treacherous to him, and with resentment against those
who injured him. The impending shadow of a great affliction,
and a great disgrace that had no distinct form in it yet, felf
like a stain upon the quiet place where I had worked and
played as a boy, and did it a cruel wrong. I had no pleasure
in thinking, any more, of the grave old broad-leaved aloe-
trees which remained shut up in themselves a hundred years
together, and of the trim smooth grass-plot, and the stone
urns, and the Doctor's walk, and the congenial sound of the

/ LOOK ABOUT ME AND MAKE A DISCOVERY. 279

Cathedral bell hovering above them all. It was as if the
tranquil sanctuary of my boyhood had been sacked before my
face, and its peace and honor given to the winds.

But morning brought with it my parting from the old house
which Agnes had filled with her influence ; and that occupied
my mind sufficiently. I should be there again soon, no doubt ;
I might sleep again â€” perhaps often â€” in my old room ; but the
.days of my inhabiting there were gone, and the old time was
past. I was heavier at heart when I packed up such of my
books and clothes as still remained there to be sent to Dover,
than I cared to show to Uriah Heep, who was so officious tc
help me, that I uncharitably thought him mighty glad that I
was going.

I got away from Agnes and her father, somehow, with
an indifferent show of being very manly, and took my seat
upon the box of the London coach. I was so softened and
forgiving, going through the town, that I had half a mind to
nod to my old enemy the butcher, and throw him five shillings
to drink. But he looked such a very obdurate butcher as he
stood scraping the great block in the shop, and moreover, his
appearance was so little improved by the loss of a front tooth
which I had knocked out, that I thought it best to make no
advances.

The main object on my mind, I remember, when we got
fairly on the road, was to appear as old as possible to the
coachman, and to speak extremely gruff. The latter point I
achieved at great personal inconvenience ; but I stuck to it,
because I felt it was a grown-up sort of thing.

" You are going through, sir?" said the coachman.

"Yes, William," I said, condescendingly (I knew him) ; "I
am going to London. I shall go down into Suffolk after-
wards."

" Shooting, sir ? " said the coachman.

He knew as well as I did that it was just as likely, at that
time of year, I was going down there whaling \ but I felt com-
plimented, too.

" I don't know," I said, pretending to be undecided,
*' whether I shall take a shot or not."

"Birds is got wery shy, I'm told," said William.

" So I understand," said I.

" Is Suffolk your county, sir ? " asked William.

" Yes," I said, with some importance. " Suffolk's my
county."

28o

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

a I'm told the dumplings is uncommon fine down there/2
said William.

I was not aware of it myself, but I felt it necessary to upÂ«
hold the institutions of my county, and to evince a familiarity
with them ; so I shook my head, as much as to say, " I believe
you ! "

44 And the Punches," said William. " There's cattle ! A
Suffolk Punch, when he's a good un, is worth his weight in
gold. Did you ever breed any Suffolk Punches yourself, sir ? "

"N â€” no," I said, "not exactly."

" Here's a gen'lm'n behind me, I'll pound it," said Wil-
liam, " as has bred 'em by wholesale."

The gentleman spoken of was a gentleman with a very un-
promising squint, and a prominent chin, who had a tall white
hat on with a narrow flat brim, and whose close-fitting drab
trousers seemed to button all the way up outside his legs from
his boots to his hips. His chin was cocked over the coachman's
shoulder, so near to me, that his breath quite tickled the back
of my head ; and as I looked round at him, he leered at the
leaders with the eye with which he didn't squint, in a very
knowing manner.

"Ain't you? " asked William.

" Ain't I what ? " said the gentleman behind.

" Bred them Suffolk Punches by wholesale ? "

"I should think so," said the gentleman. "There ain't
no sort of orse that I ain't bred, and no sort of dorg. Orses
and dorgs is some men's fancy. They're wittles and drink to
me â€” lodging, wife, and children â€” reading, writing and 'rith-
metic â€” snuff, tobacker, and sleep."

" That.ain't a sort of man to see sitting behind a coach-
box, is it though ? " said William in my ear, as he handled the
reins.

I construed this remark into an indication of a wish that he
should have my place, so I blushingly offered to resign it.

" Well, if you don't mind, sir," said William, " I tk^ik it
would be more correct."

I have always considered this as the first fall I had ir* my
life. When I booked my place at the coach-office, I had had
" Box Seat " written against the entry, and had given the
book-keeper half-a-crown. I was got up in a special great
coat and shawl, expressly to do honor to that distinguished
eminence ; had glorified myself upon it a good deal ; and had
felt that I was a credit to the coach. And here, in the very

S LOOK ABOUT ME AND MAKE A DISCOVERY. 28 1

first stage, 1 was supplanted by a shabby man with a squint,
who had no other merit than smelling like livery-stables, and
being able to walk across me, more like a fly than a human
being, while the horses were at a canter !

A distrust of myself, which has often beset me in life on
small occasions, when it would have been better away, was
assuredly not stopped in its growth by this little incident out-
side the Canterbury coach. It was in vain to take refuge in
gruffness of speech. I spoke from the pit of my stomach for
the rest of the journey, but I felt completely extinguished,
and dreadfully young.

It was curious and interesting, nevertheless, to be sitting
up there, behind four horses â– well educated, well dressed, and
with plenty of money in my pocket ; and to look out for the
places where I had slept on my weary journey. I had abun-
dant occupation for my thoughts, in every conspicuous land-
mark on the road. When I looked clown at the tramps whom
we passed, and saw that well-remembered style of face turned
up, I felt as if the tinker's blackened hand were in the bosom
of my shirt again. When we clattered through the narrow
street of Chatham, and I caught a glimpse, in passing, of the
lane where the old monster lived who had bought my jacket,
I stretched my neck eagerly to look for the place where I had
sat, in the sun and in the shade, waiting for my money.
When we came at last, within a stage of London, and passed
the veritable Salem House where Mr. Creakle had laid about
him with a heavy hand, I would have given all I had, for law-
ful permission to get down and thrash him, and let all the
boys out like so many caged sparrows.

We went to the Golden Cross, at Charing Cross, then a
mouldy sort of establishment in a close neighborhood. A
waiter showed me into the coffee-room ; and a chambermaid
introduced me to my small bedchamber, which smelt like a
hackney-coach, and was shut up like a family vault. I was
still painfully conscious of my youth, for nobody stood in any
awe of me at all, the chambermaid being utterly indifferent
to my opinions on any subject, and the waiter being familiar
with me, and offering advice to my inexperience.

"Well now," said the waiter, in a tone of confidence,
"what would you like for dinner? Young gentlemen likes
poultry in general : have a fowl ! "

I told him, as majestically as I could, that I wasn't in the
humor for a fowl.

282

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Ain't you ? " said the waiter. " Young gentlemen is gen
erally tired of beef and mutton : have a weal cutlet ! "

I assented to this proposal, in default of being able ta
suggest anything else.

" Do you care for taters ? " said the waiter, with an insin-
uating smile, and his head on one side. " Young gentlemen
generally has been overdosed with taters."

I commanded him, in my deepest voice, to order a veal
cutlet and potatoes, and all things fitting ; and to inquire at
the bar if there were any letters for Trotwood Copperfield,
Esquire â€” which I knew there were not, and couldn't be, but
thought it manly to appear to expect.

He soon came back to say that there were none (at which
I was much surprised), and began to lay the cloth for my
dinner in a box by the fire. While he was so engaged, he
asked me what I would take with it ; and on my replying
" Half a pint of sherry," thought it a favorable opportunity, 1
am afraid, to extract that measure of wine from the stale leav-
ings at the bottoms of several small decanters. I am of this
opinion, because, while I was reading the newspaper, I
observed him behind a low wooden partition, which was his
private apartment, very busy pouring out of a number of those
vessels into one, like a chemist and druggist making up a pre-
scription. When the wine came, too, I thought it flat ; and
it certainly had more English crumbs in it, than were to be
expected in a foreign wine in anything like a pure state ; but
I was bashful enough to drink it, and say nothing.

Being then in a pleasant frame of mind (from which I
infer that poisoning is not always disagreeable in some stages
of the process), I resolved to go to the play. It was Covent
Garden Theatre that I chose ; and there, from the back of a
centre box, I saw Julius Caesar and the new Pantomime. To
have all those noble Romans alive before me, and walking in
and out for my entertainment, instead of being the stern task-
masters they had been at school, was a most novel and
delightful effect. But the mingled reality and mystery of the
whole show, the influence upon me of the poetry, the lights,
the music, the company, the smooth stupendous changes of
glittering and brilliant scenery, were so dazzling, and opened
up such illimitable regions of delight, that when I came out
into the rainy street, at twelve o'clock at night, I felt as if I
had come from the clouds, where I had been leading a
romantic life for ages, to a bawling, splashing, link-lighted,

/LOOK ABOUT ME AND MAKE A DISCOVERY. 283

umbrella-struggling, hackney-coach-jostling, patten-clinking,
muddy, miserable world.

I had emerged by another door, and stood in the street
for a little while, as if I really were a stranger upon earth j
but the unceremonious pushing and hustling that I received,
soon recalled me to myself, and put me in the road back to
the hotel, whither I went, revolving the glorious vision all the
way, and where, after some porter and oysters, I sat revolving it
Still, at past one o'clock, with my eyes on the coffee-room fire.

I was so filled with the play, and with the past â€” for it was,
in a manner, like a shining transparency, through which 1 saw
my earlier life moving along â€” that I don't know when the
figure of a handsome well-formed young man, dressed with a
tasteful easy negligence which I have reason to remember
very well, became a real presence to me. But I recollect be-
ing conscious of his company without having noticed his com-
ing in â€” and my still sitting, musing, over the coffee-room fire.

At last I rose to go to bed, much to the relief of the sleepy
waiter, who had got the fidgets in his legs, and was twisting
them, and hitting them, and putting them through all kinds of
contortions in his small pantry. In going towards the door,
I passed the person who had come in, and saw him plainly.
I turned directly, came back, and looked again. He did not
know me, but I knew him in a moment.

At another time I might have wanted the confidence or
the decision to speak to him, and might have put it off until
next day, and might have lost him. But, in the then condition
of my mind, where the play was still running high, his former
protection of me appeared so deserving of my gratitude, and
my old love for him overflowed my breast so freshly and spon-
taneously, that I went up to him at once, with a fast-beating
heart, and said :

" Steerforth ! won't you speak to me ? "

He looked at me â€” just as he used to look, sometimesâ€” Â«
but I saw no recognition in his face.

" You don't remember me, I am afraid," said I.

" My God ! " he suddenly exclaimed. " It's little Copper-
field ! "

I grasped him by both hands, and could not let them go.
But for very shame, and the fear that it might displease him,
I could have held him round the neck and cried.

" I never, never, never was so glad ! My dear Steerforth,
I am so overjoyed to see you ! "

284

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" And I am rejoiced to see you, too ! " he said, shaking
my hands heartily. " Why, Copperfield, old boy, don't be
overpowered ! " And yet he was glad, too, I thought, to see
how the delight I had in meeting him affected me.

I brushed away the tears that my utmost resolution had
not been able to keep back, and I made a clumsy laugh of it,
and we sat down together, side by side.

" Why, how do you come to be here ? " said Steerfortrr
clapping me on the shoulder.

" I came here by the Canterbury coach, to-day. I have
been adopted by an aunt down in that part of the country,
and have just finished my education there. How do you
come to be here, Steerforth ? "

" Well, I am what they call an Oxford man," he returned ;
" that is to say, I get bored to death down there, periodically
â€” and I am on my way now to my mother's. You're a devilish
amiable-looking fellow, Copperfield. Just what you used to
be, now I look at you ! Not altered in the least ! "

" I knew you immediately," I said ; " but you are more
easily remembered."

He laughed as he ran his hand through the clustering curls
of his hair, and said gayly :

" Yes, I am on an expedition of duty. My mother lives a
little way out of town ; and the roads being in a beastly con-
dition, and our house tedious enough, I remained here to-night
instead of going on. I have not been in town half-a-dozen
hours, and those I have been dozing and grumbling away at
the play."

" I have been at the play, too," said I. " At Covent
Garden. What a delightful and magnificent entertainment,
Steerforth ! "

Steerforth laughed heartily.

" My dear young Davy," he said, clapping me on the
shoulder again, " you are a very Daisy. The daisy of the
field, at sunrise, is not fresher than you are ! I have been at
Covent Garden, too, and there never was a more miserable
business. Holloa, you sir ! "

This was addressed to the waiter, who had been very
attentive to our recognition, at a distance, and now came
forward deferentially.

" Where have you put my friend, Mr. Copperfield ? " said
Steerforth.

" Beg your pardon Sir ? "

STEERFORTH' S HOME. 285

" Where does he sleep ? What's his number ? You know
what I mean," said Steerforth. ' â€¢

-Well, sir," said the waiter, with an apologetic air, " Mr,
Copperfield is at present in forty-four sir."

"And what the devil do you mean," retorted Steerforth,
u by putting Mr. Copperfield into a little loft over a stable ? "

" Why, you see we wasn't aware, sir," returned the waiter
still apologetically, " as Mr. Copperfield was anyways partic-
ular. We can give Mr. Copperfield seventy-two, sir, if it
would be preferred. Next you, sir."

" Of course it would be preferred," said Steerforth. "And
do it at once."

The waiter immediately withdrew to make the exchange.
Steerforth, very much amused at my having been put into forty-
four, laughed again, and clapped me on the shoulder again,
and invited me to breakfast with him next morning at ten
o'clock â€” an invitation I was only too proud and happy to ac-
cept. It being now pretty late, we took our candles and went
up stairs, where we parted with friendly heartiness at his door,
and where I found my new room a great improvement on my
old one, it not being at all musty, and having an immense
four-post bedstead in it, which was quite a little landed estate.
Here, among pillows enough for six, I soon fell asleep in a
blissful condition, and dreamed of ancient Rome, Steerforth,
and* friendship, until the early morning coaches, rumbling out
of the archway underneath, made me dream of thunder and
the gods.

CHAPTER XX.

steerforth's home

When the chambermaid tapped at my door at eight o'clock
and informed me that my shaving-water was outside, I felt
severely the having no occasion for it, and blushed in my bed.
The suspicion that she laughed too, when she said it, preyed
upon my mind all the time I was dressing ; and gave me, I
was conscious, a sneaking and guilty air when I passed her on
the staircase, as I was going down to breakfast. I was so
sensitively aware, indeed, of being younger than I could have

286

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

wished, that for some time I could not make up my mind to
pass her at all, under the ignoble circumstances of the case \
but, hearing her there with a broom, I stood peeping out of
window at King Charles on horseback, surrounded by a maze
of hackney-coaches, and looking anything but regal in a driz-
zling rain and a dark-brown, fog, until I was admonished by
the waiter that the gentleman was waiting for me.

It was not in the coffee-room that I found Steerforth ex
pectlng me, but in a snug private apartment, red-curtained
and Turkey-carpeted, where the fire burnt bright, and a fine
hot breakfast was set forth on a table covered with a clean
cloth ; and a cheerful miniature of the room, the fire, the break-
fast, Steerforth, and all, was shining in the little round mirror
over the sideboard. I was rather bashful at first, Steerforth
being so self-possessed, and elegant, and superior to me in all
respects (age included) â– but his easy patronage soon put that
to rights, and made me quite at home. I could not enough
admire the change he had wrought in the Golden Cross ; or
compare the dull forlorn state I had held yesterday, with this
morning's comfort and this morning's entertainment. As to
the waiter's familiarity, it was quenched as if it had never been.
He attended on us, as I may say, in sackcloth and ashes.

"Now, Copperfield," said Steerforth, when we were alone,
" I should like to hear what you are doing, and where you are
going, and all about you. I feel as if you were my property."

Glowing with pleasure to find that he had still this inter-
est in me, I told him how my aunt had proposed the little ex-
pedition that I had before me, and whither it tended.

" As you are in no hurry, then," said Steerforth, " come
home with me to Highgate, and stay a day or two. You will
be pleased with my mother â€” she is a little vain and prosy
about me, but that you can forgive her â€” and she will be
pleased with you."

" I should like to be as sure of that, as you are kind
enough to say you are," I answered, smiling.

" Oh ! " said Steerforth, " every one who likes me, has a
claim on her that is sure to be acknowledged."

" Then I think I shall be a favorite," said I.

" Good ! " said Steerforth. " Come and prove it. We
will go and see the lions for an hour or two â€” it's something ta
have a fresh fellow like you to show them to, Copperfield â€”
and then we'll journey out to Highgate by the coach."

I could hardly believe but that 1 was in a dream, and that I

STEERFORTH' S HOME.

should wake presently in number forty-four, to the solitary
box in the coffee-room and the familiar waiter again. ' After I
had written to my aunt and told her of my fortunate meeting
with my admired old school-fellow, and my acceptance of his
invitation, we went out in a hackney-chariot, and saw a Pano-
rama and some other sights, and took a walk through the Mu -
seum, where I could not help observing how much Steerforth
knew, on an infinite variety of subjects, and of how little ac-
count he seemed to make his knowledge.

"You'll take a high degree at college, Steerforth," said L
15 if you have not done so already ; and they will have good
reason to be proud of you."

" / take a degree ! " cried Steerforth. " Not I ! my dear
Daisy â€” will you mind my calling you Daisy ? "

" Not at all ! " said I.

" That's a good fellow ! My dear Daisy," said Steerforth,
laughing, " I have not the least desire or intention to distin-
guish myself in that way. I have done quite sufficient for my
purpose. I find that I am heavy company enough for myself
as I am."

" But the fame " I was beginning.

M You romantic Daisy ! " said Steerforth, laughing still
more heartily ; " why should I trouble myself, that a parcel of
heavy-headed fellows may gape and hold up their hands ?
Let them do it at some other man. There's fame for him,
and he's welcome to it."

I was abashed at having made so great a mistake, and was
glad to change the subject. Fortunately it was not difficult to
do, for Steerforth could always pass from one subject to an-
other with a carelessness and lightness that were his own.

Lunch succeeded to our sight-seeing, and the short winter
day wore away so fast, that it was dusk when the stage-coach
stopped with us at an old brick house at Highgate on the
summit of the hill. An elderly lady, though not very far ad-
vanced in years, with a proud carriage and a handsome face,
was in the doorway as we alighted; and greeting Steerforth
as " My dearest James," folded him in her arms. To this
lady he presented me as his mother, and she gave me a stately
welcome.

It was a genteel old-fashioned house, very quiet and or-
derly. From the windows of my room I saw all London lying
in the distance like a great vapor, with here and there some
lights twinkling through it. I had only time, in dressing, to

288

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

glance at the solid furniture, the framed pieces of work (donej
I supposed, by Steerforth's mother when she was a girl), and
some pictures in crayons of ladies with powdered hair and
bodices, coming and going on the walls, as the newly-kindled
fire crackled and sputtered, when I was called to dinner.

There was a second lady in the dining-room, of a slight
short figure, dark, and not agreeable to look at, but with some
appearance of good looks too, who attracted my attention : per-
haps because I had not expected to see her : perhaps because J
found myself sitting opposite to her : perhaps because of some-
thing really remarkable in her. She had black hair and eager
black eyes, and was thin, and had a scar upon her lip. It
was an old scar â€” I should rather call it seam, for it was not
discolored, and had healed years ago â€” which had once cut
through her mouth, downwards towards the chin, but was now
barely visible across the table, except above and on her upper
lip, the shape of which it had altered. I concluded in my own
mind that she was about thirty years of age, and that she
wished to be married. She was a little dilapidated â€” like a
house â€” with having been so long to let ; yet had, as I have
said, an appearance of good looks. Her thinness seemed to
be the effect of some wasting fire within her, which found a
vent in her gaunt eyes.

She was introduced as Miss Dartle, and both Steerforth
and his mother called her Rosa. I found that she lived there,
and had been for a long time Mrs. Steerforth's companion.
It appeared to me that she never said anything she wanted
to say, outright ; but hinted it, and made a great deal more of
it by this practice. For example, when Mrs. Steerforth ob-
served, more in jest than earnest, that she feared her son led
but a wild life at college, Miss Dartle put in thus :

" Oh, really ? You know how ignorant I am, and that I
only ask for information, but isn't it always so ? I thought
that kind of life was on all hands understood to be â€” eh ? "

" It is education for a very grave profession, if you mean
that, Rosa," Mrs. Steerforth answered with some coldness.

" Oh ! Yes ! That's very true," returned Miss Dartle.
" But isn't it, though ? â€” I want to be put right, if I am wrong
â€”isn't it, really ? "

" Really what ? '' said Mrs. Steerforth.

"Oh! You mean it's ?iot!" returned Miss Dartle.
"Well, I'm very glad to hear it! Now, I know what to do!
That's the advantage of asking. I shall never allow people to

-STEER FOR TIES HOME.

289

talk before me about wastefulness and profligacy, and so forth,
in connection with that life any more."

" And you will be right," said Mrs. Steerforth. " My son's
tutor is a conscientious gentleman ; and u I had not implicit
reliance on my son, I should have reliance on him."

" Should you ? " said Miss Dartle. " Dear me ! Con-
sciendous, is he ? Really conscientious, now? "

" Yes, I am convinced of it," said Mrs. Steerforth.

" How very nice ! " exclaimed Miss Dartle. " What a
comfort ! Really conscientious ? Then he's not â€” but of
course he can't be, if he's really conscientious. Well, I shall
be quite happy in my opinion of him, from this time. You
can't think how it elevates him in my opinion to know for
certain that he's really conscientious ! "

Her own views of every question, and her correction of
everything that was said to which she was opposed, Miss Dartle
insinuated in the same way : sometimes, I could not conceal
from myself, with great power, though in contradiction even
of Steerforth. An instance happened before dinner was done.
Mrs. Steerforth speaking to me about my intention of going
down into Suffolk, I said at hazard how glad I should be, if
Steerforth would only go there with me ; and explaining to
him that I was going to see my old nurse, and Mr. Peg-
gotty's family, I reminded him of the boatman whom he had
seen at school.

" Oh ! That bluff fellow ! " said Steerforth. " He had a
son with him, hadn't he ? "

" No. That was his nephew," I replied ; " whom he adopt-
ed, though, as a son. He has a very pretty little niece too,
whom he adopted as a daughter. In short, his house (or
rather his boat, for he lives in one, on dry land) is full of peo-
ple who are objects of his generosity and kindness, You
would be delighted to see that household."

" Should I ? " said Steerforth. " Well, I think I should.
I must see what can be done. It would be worth a journey
(not to mention the pleasure of a journey with you, Daisy), to
see that sort of people together, and to make one of 'em."

My heart leaped with a new hope of pleasure. But it was
in reference to the tone in which he had spoken of " that sort
of people," that Miss Dartle, whose sparkling eyes had been
watchful of us, now broke in again.

" Oh, but really ? Do tell me. Are they, though ? " she
said.

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Are they what ? And are who what ? " said Steerforth,

" That sort of people. Are they really animals and clods,
and beings of another order ? I want to know so much."

" Why, there's a pretty wide separation between them and
us," said Steerforth, with indifference. " They are not to be
expected to be as sensitive as we are. Their delicacy is not
to be shocked, or hurt very easily. They are wonderfully
virtuous, I dare say. Some people contend for that, at least j
and I am sure I dcn't want to contradict them. But they
have not very fine natures, and they may be thankful that,
like their coarse rough skins, they are not easily wounded."

" Really ! " said Miss Dartle. " Well, I don't know, now,
when I have been better pleased than to hear that. It's so
consoling ! It's such a delight to know that, when they suffer,
they don't feel ! Sometimes I have been quite uneasy for
that sort of people ; but now I shall just dismiss the idea of
them altogether. Live and learn. I had my doubts, I con-
fess, but now they're cleared up. I didn't know, and now I
do know, and that shows the advantage of asking â€” don't
it ? "

I believed that Steerforth had said what he had, in jest, or
to draw Miss Dartle out ; and I expected him to say as much
when she was gone, and we two were sitting before- the fire.
But he merely asked me what I thought of her.

" She is very clever, is she not ? " I asked.

" Clever i She brings everything to a grindstone," said
Steerforth, " and sharpens it, as she has sharpened her own
face and figure these years past. She has worn herself away
by constant sharpening. She is all edge."

" What a remarkable scar that is upon her lip ! " I said.

Steerforth's face fell, and he paused a moment.

" Why, the fact is," he returned, "/did that."

" By an unfortunate accident ! "

" No, I was a young boy, and she exasperated me, and ]
threw a hammer at her. A promising young angel I must
have been ! "

I was deeply sorry to have touched on such a painful
theme, but that was useless now.

" She has borne the mark ever since, as you see," said
Steerforth ; " and she'll bear it to her grave, if she ever rests in
one ; though I can hardly believe she will ever rest anywhere.
She was the motherless child of a sort of cousin of my father's*
He died one day. My mother, who was then a widow, brought

STEERFORTH' S HOME.

her here to be company to her. She has a couple of thou-
sand pounds of her own, and saves the interest 'of it every
year, to add to the principal. There's the history of Miss
Rosa Dartle for you."

"And I have no doubt she loves you like a brother?"
said I.

" Humph ! " retorted Steerforth, looking at the fire.
,( Some brothers are not loved over much ; and some love â€” >
i>ut help yourself, Copperfield ! We'll drink the daisies of the
field, in compliment to you ; and the lilies of the valley that
toil not, neither do they spin, in compliment to me â€” the more
shame for me!" A moody smile that had overspread his
features cleared off as he said this merrily, and he was his own
frank, winning self again.

I could not help glancing at the scar with a painful interest
when we went in to tea. It was not long before I observed
that it was the most susceptible part of her face, and that,
when she turned pale, that mark altered first, and became a
dull, lead-colored streak, lengthening out to its full extent,
like a mark in invisible ink brought to the fire. There was a
little altercation between her and Steerforth about a cast of
the dice at backgammon, when I thought her, for one moment,
in a storm of rage ; and then I saw it start forth like the old
writing on the wall.

It was no matter of wonder to me to find Mrs. Steerforth
devoted to her son. She seemed to be able to speak or think
about nothing else. She showed me his picture as an infant,
in a locket, with some of his baby-hair in it ; she showed me
his picture as he had been when I first knew him ; and she
wore at her breast his picture as he was now. All the letters
he had ever written to her, she kept in a cabinet near her own
chair by the fire ; and she would have read me some of them>
and I should have been very glad to hear them too, if he had
not interposed, and coaxed her out of the design.

"It was at Mr. Creakle's, my son tells me, that you first beÂ«
came acquainted," said Mrs. Steerforth, as she and I were
talking at one table, while they played backgammon at an-
other. " Indeed, I recollect his speaking, at that time, of a pu-
pil younger than himself who had taken his fancy there ; but
your name, as you may suppose, has not lived in my memory."

" He was very generous and noble to me in those days, I
assure you, ma'am," said I, " and I stood in need of such a
"riend. I should have been quite crushed without him."

292

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" He is always generous and noble," said Mrs. Steerforth,
proudly.

I subscribed to this with all my heart, God knows. She
knew I did â– for the stateliness of her manner already abated
towards me, except when she spoke in praise of him, and then
her air was always lofty.

" It was not a fit school generally for my son," said she \
" far from it ; but there were particular circumstances to be
considered at the time, of more importance even than that
selection. My son's high spirit made it desirable that he
should be placed with some man who felt its superiority, and
would be content to bow himself before it ; and we found such
a man there."

I knew that, knowing the fellow. And yet I did not
despise him the more for it, but thought it a redeeming quality
in him, if he could be allowed any grace for not resisting one
so irresistible as Steerforth.

"My son's great capacity was tempted on, there, by a feel-
ing of voluntary emulation and conscious pride," the lady went
on to say. " He would have risen against all constraint ; but
he found himself the monarch of the place, and he haughtily
determined to be worthy of his station. It was like himself."

I echoed, with all my heart and soul, that it was like him-
self.

"So my son took, of his own will, and on no compulsion, to
the course in which he can always, when it is his pleasure,
outstrip every competitor," she pursued. " My son informs
me, Mr. Copperfield, that you were quite devoted to him, and
that when you met yesterday you made yourself known to him
with tears of joy. I should be an affected woman if I made
any pretence of being surprised by my son's inspiring such
emotions ; but I cannot be indifferent to any one who is so
sensible of his merit, and I am very glad to see you here, and
can assure you that he feels an unusual friendship for you, and
that you may rely on his protection."

Miss Dartle played backgammon as eagerly as she did
everything else. If I had seen her, first, at the board, I should
have fancied that her figure had got thin, and her eyes had
got large, over that pursuit, and no other in the world. But I
am very much mistaken if she missed a word of this, or lost a
look of mine as I received it with the utmost pleasure, and
honored by Mrs. Steerforth's confidence, felt older than I had
done since I left Canterbury.

STEERFORTH' S HOME.

293

When the evening was pretty far spent, and a tray of
glasses and decanters came in, Steerforth promised, over the
fire, that he would seriously think of going down into the
country with me. There was no hurry, he said ; a week hence
would do ; and his mother hospitably said the same. While
we were talking, he more than once called me Daisy ; which
brought Miss Dartle out again.

" But really, Mr. Copperfield," she asked, " is it a nick
name ? And why does he give it you ? Is it â€” eh ? â€” because
he thinks you young and innocent ? I am so stupid in these
things."

I colored in replying that I believed it was.

" Oh ! " said Miss Dartle. " Now I am glad to know
that ! I ask for information, and I am glad to know it. He
thinks you young and innocent ; and so you are his friend ?
Well, that's quite delightful ! "

She went to bed soon after this, and Mrs. Steerforth re-
tired too. Steerforth and I, after lingering for half an hour
over the fire, talking about Traddles and all the rest of them
at old Salem House, went up stairs together. Steerforth's
room was next to mine, and I went in to look at it. It was a
picture of comfort, full of easy chairs, cushions and footstools
worked by his mother's hand, and with no sort of thing
omitted that could help to render it complete. Finally, her
handsome features looked down on her darling from a portrait
on the wall, as if it were even something to her that her like-
ness should watch him while he slept.

I found the fire burning clear enough in my room by this
time, and the curtains drawn before the windows and round
the bed, giving it a very snug appearance. I sat down in a
great chair upon the hearth to meditate on my happiness ; and
had enjoyed the contemplation of it for some time, when I
found a likeness of Miss Dartle looking eagerly a^ me from
above the chimney-piece.

It was a startling likeness, and necessarily had a startling
look. The painter hadn't made the scar, but / made it ; and
there it was, coming and going, now confined to the upper
lip as I had seen it at dinner, and now showing the whole ex
tent or the wound inflicted by the hammer, as I had seen it
when she was passionate.

I wondered peevishly why they couldn't put her anywhere
else instead of quartering her on me. To get rid of her I un-
dressed quickly, extinguished my light, and went to bed. But,

294 DAVID COPPERFIELD.

as I fell asleep, I could not forget that she was still there
looking, " Is it really, though ? I want to know â€¢ " and when
I awoke in the night, I found that I was uneasily asking all
sorts of people in my dreams whether it really was or notâ€”
without knowing what I meant.

CHAPTER XXI.

LITTLE EM'LY.

There was a servant in that house, a man who, I under*
stood, was usually with Steerforth, and had come into his ser-
vice at the University, who was in appearance a pattern of
respectability. I believe there never existed in his station a
more respectable-looking man. He was taciturn, soft-footed,
very quiet in his manner, deferential, observant, always at
hand when wanted, and never near when not wanted ; but his
great claim to consideration was his respectability. He had
not a pliant face, he had rather a stiff neck, rather a tight
smooth head with short hair clinging to it at the sides, a soft
way of speaking, with a peculiar habit of whispering the letter
S so distinctly, that he seemed to use it oftener than any other
man ; but every peculiarity that he had he made respectable.
If his nose had been upside-down, he would have made that
respectable. He surrounded himself with an atmosphere
of respectability, and walked secure in it. It would have
been next to impossible to suspect him of anything wrong,
he was so thoroughly respectable. Nobody could have thought
of putting him in a livery, he was so highly respectable. To
have imposed any derogatory work upon him, would have
been to inflict a wanton insult on the feelings of a most respecta-
ble man. And of this, I noticed the women-servants in the
household were so intuitively conscious, that they always did
such work themselves, and generally while he read the paper
by the pantry fire.

Such a self-contained man I never saw. But in that qual-
ity, as in every other he possessed, he only seemed to be the
more respectable. Even the fact that no one knew his Chris-
tian name, seemed to form a part of his respectability. Noth-
ing could be objected against his surname, Littimer, by which

LITTLE EM'LY.

295

he was known. Peter might have been hanged, or Tom trans-
ported ; but Littimer was perfectly respectable.

It was occasioned, I suppose, by the reverend nature of
respectability in the abstract, but I felt particularly young in
this man's presence. How old he was himself, I could not
guess. And that again went to his credit on the same score ;
for in the calmness of respectability he might have num-
bered fixty years as well as thirty.

Littimer was in my room in the morning before I was up,
to bring me that reproachful shaving-water, and to put out my
clothes. When I undrew the curtains and looked out of bed,
I saw him, in an equable temperature of respectability, unaf-
fected by the east wind of January, and not even breathing
frostily, standing my boots right and left in the first dancing
position, and blowing specks of dust off my coat as he laid it
down like a baby.

I gave him good morning, and asked him what o'clock it
was. He took out of his pocket the most respectable hunting-
watch I ever saw, and preventing the spring with his thumb
from opening far, looked in at the face as if he were consult-
ing an oracular oyster, shut it up again, and said, if I pleased,
it was half-past eight.

" Mr. Steerforth will be glad to hear how you have rested.,
sir."

" Thank you," said I, " very well indeed. Is Mr. Steer-
forth quite well ? "

" Thank you, sir, Mr. Steerforth is tolerably well." Another
of his characteristics. No use of superlatives. A cool calm
medium always.

" Is there anything more I can have the honor of doing
for you, sir ? The warning-bell will ring at nine ; the family
take breakfast at half-past nine."

" Nothing, I thank you."

" I thank you, sir, if you please ; " and with that, and wit}..
a little inclination of his head when he passed the bedside, as
in apology for correcting me, he went out, shutting the door
as delicately as if I had just fallen into a sweet sleep on which
my life depended.

Every morning we held exactly this conversation : never
any more, and never any less ; and yet, invariably, however
far I might have been lifted out of myself over-night, and
advanced towards maturer years, by Steerforth's companion-
ship, or Mrs. Steerforth's confidence, or Miss Dartle's coi>

DAVID COPPER FIELD.

versation, in the presence of this most respectable man I ba
cam2, as our smaller poets sing, " a boy again."

He got horses for us ; and Steerforth, who knew every-
thing, gave me lessons in riding. He provided foils for us,
and Steerforth gave me lessons in fencing â€” gloves, and I be-
gan, of the same master, to improve in boxing. It gave me
no manner of concern that Steerforth should find me a novice
in these sciences, but I never could bear to show my want ot
skill before the respectable Littimer. I had no reason to be-
lieve that Littimer understood such arts himself : he never
led me to suppose anything of the kind, by so much as the
vibration of one of his respectable eyelashes ; yet whenever he
was by, while we were practising, I felt myself the greenest and
most inexperienced of mortals.

I am particular about this man, because he made a par-
licular effect on me at tha*- time, and because of what took
place thereafter.

The week passed away in a most delightful manner. It
passed rapidly, as may be supposed, to one entranced as I
was â€¢ and yet it gave me so many occasions for knowing
Steertorth better, and admiring him more in a thousand re-
spects, that at its close I seemed to have been with him for a
a much longer time. A dashing way he had of treating me
like a plaything, was more agreeable to me than any behavior
he could have adopted. It reminded me of our old acquaint-
ance ; it seemed the natural sequel of it ; it showed me that
he was unchanged ; it relieved me of any uneasiness I might
have felt, in comparing my merits with his, and measuring my
claims upon his friendship by any equal standard ; above all,
it was a familiar, unrestrained, affectionate demeanor that he
used towards no one else. As he had treated me at school
differently from all the rest, I joyfully believed that he treated
me in life unlike any other friend he had. I believe that I
Was nearer to his heart than any other friend, and my own
heart warmed with attachment to him.

He made up his mind to go with me into the country, and
the day arrived for our departure. He had been doubtful at
first whether to take Littimer or not, but decided to leave him
at home. The respectable creature, satisfied with his lot
whatever it was, arranged our portmanteaus on the little
carriage that was to take us into London, as if they were in-
tended to defy the shocks of ages ; and received my modestly
proffered donation with perfect tranquility.

LITTLE EM'LY.

297

We bade adieu to Mrs. Steerforth and Miss Dartle, with
many thanks on my part, and much kindness on the devoted
mother's. The last thing I saw was Littimer's unruffled eye ;
fraught, as I fancied, with the silent conviction, that I was
very young indeed.

What I felt, in returning so auspiciously to the old famil-
iar places, I shall not endeavor to describe. We went down
by the Mail. I was so concerned, I recollect, even for the
honor of Yarmouth, that when Steerforth said, as we drove
through its dark streets to the inn, that, as well as he could
make out, it was a good, queer, out-of-the-way kind of hole, I
was highly pleased. We went to bed on our arrival (I ob-
served a pair of dirty shoes and gaiters in connection with my
old friend the Dolphin as we passed that door), and break-
fasted late in the morning. Steerforth, who was in great
spirits, had been strolling about the beach before I was up,
and had made acquaintance, he said, with half the boatmen
in the place. Moreover, he had seen, in the distance, what
he was sure must be the identical house of Mr. Peggotty, with
smoke coming out of the chimney ; and had had a great mind,
he told me, to walk in and swear he was myself grown out of
knowledge.

" When do you propose to introduce me there, Daisy ? "
he said. " I am at your disposal. Make your own arrange-
ments."

" Why, I was thinking that this evening would be a good
time, Steerforth, when they are atl sitting round the fire. I
should like you to see it when it's snug, it's such a curious
place."

" So be it ! " returned Steerforth. " This evening."

" I shall not give them any notice that we are here, you
know," said I, delighted. "We must take them by surprise,"

"Oh, of course! It's no fun," said Steerforth, "unless
we take them by surprise. Let us see the natives in their
aboriginal condition."

" Though they are that sort of people that you mention
ed," I returned.

" Aha ! What ! you recollect my skirmishes with Rosa, do
you ? " he exclaimed with a quick look. " Confound the
girl, I am half afraid of her. She's like a goblin to me. But
never mind her. Now what are you going to do ? You are
going to see your nurse, I suppose ? "

" Why, yes,' I said, " I must see Peggotty first of all."

298

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Well," replied Steerforth, looking at his watch, " sup
pose I deliver you up to be cried over for a couple of hours..
Is that long enough ? "

I answered, laughing, that I thought we might get through
it in that time, but that he must come also ; for he would find
that his renown had preceded him, and that he was almost
, is great a personage as I was.

" I'll come anywhere you like,'1 said Steerforth, " or do
anything you like. Tell me where to come to ; and in two
hours I'll produce myself in any state you please, sentimental
or comical."

I gave him minute directions for finding the residence of
Mr. Barkis, carrier to Blunderstone and elsewhere ; and, on
this understanding, went out alone. There was a sharp brac-
ing air ; the ground was dry ; the sea was crisp and clear ;
the sun was diffusing abundance of light, if not much warmth ;
and everything was fresh and lively. I was so fresh and lively
myself, in the pleasure of being there, that I could have
stopped the people in the streets and shaken hands with them.

The streets looked small, of course. The streets that we
have only seen as children always do, I believe, when we go
back to them. But I had forgotten nothing in them, and found
nothing changed, until I came to Mr. Omer's shop. Omer
and Joram was now written up, where Omer used to be ; but
the inscription Draper, Tailor, Haberdasher, Funeral
Furnisher, &c., remained as it was.

My footsteps seemed to tend so naturally to the shop-door,
after I had read these words from over the way, that I went
across the road and looked in. There was a pretty woman at
the back of the shop, dancing a little child in her arms, while
another little fellow clung to her apron. I had no difficulty
in recognizing either Minnie or Minnie's children. The glass
door of the parlor was not open ; but in the workshop across
the yard I could faintly hear the old tune playing, as if it had
never left off.

" Is Mr. Omer at home ? " said I, entering. " I should
like to see him, for a moment, if he is."

" Oh yes, sir, he's at home," said Minnie ; "this weather
don't suit his asthma out of doors. Joe, call your grand-
father ! "

The little fellow, who was holding her apron, gave such a
Justy shout, that the sound of it made him bashful, and he
buried his face in her skirts, to her great admiration. I heard

LITTLE EM'L Y

a heavy puffing and blowing coming towards us, and soon Mr.
Omer, shorter-winded than of yore, but not much older look-
ing, stood before me.

<c Servant, sir," said Mr. Omer. "What can I do for you,
sir?"

"You can shake hands with me, Mr. Omer, if you please,"
said I, putting out my own. " You were very good-natured to
me once, when I am afraid I didn't show that I thought so."

" Was I though ? " returned the old man. " I'm glad to
hear it, but I don't remember when. Are you sure it was
me?"

" Quite."

" I think my memory has got as short as my breath," said
Mr. Omer looking at me and shaking his head; "for I don't
remember you."

" Don't you remember your coming to the coach to meet
me, and my having breakfast here, and our riding out to Blun-
derstone together : you, and I, and Mrs. Joram, and Mr.
Joram too â€” who wasn't her husband then ? "

" Why, Lord bless my soul ! " exclaimed Mr. Omer, after
being thrown by his surprise into a fit of coughing, "you don't
say so ! Minnie, my dear, you recollect ? Dear me, yes ; the
party was a lady, I think ? "

"My mother," I rejoined.

" To â€” be â€” sure," said Mr. Omer, touching my waistcoat
with his forefinger, " and there was a little child too ! There
was two parties. The little party was laid along with the other
party. Over at Blunderstone's it was, of course. Dear me I
And how have you been since ? "

Very well, I thanked him, as I hoped he had been too.

" Oh ! nothing to grumble at, you know," said Mr. Omen
" I find my breath gets short, but it seldom gets longer as a
man gets older. I take it as it comes, and make the most of
it. That's the best way, ain't it ? "

Mr. Omer coughed again, in consequence of laughing, and
was assisted out of his fit by his daughter, who now stood
close beside us, dancing her smallest child on the counter.

" Dear me ! " said Mr. Omer. " Yes, to be sure. Two
parties ! Why, in that very ride, if you'll believe me, the day
was named for my Minnie to marry Joram. 'Do name it, sir,
says Joram. * Yes, do, father,' says Minnie. And now he's
come into the business. And look here ! The youngest ! "

Minnie laughed, and stroked her banded hair upon hei

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

temples, as her father put one of his fat fingers into the hand
of the child she was dancing on the counter.

" Two parties, of course ! " said Mr. Omer, nodding his
head retrospectively. " Ex-actly so ! And Joram's at work
at this minute, on a gray one with silver nails, not this meas-
urement " â€” the measurement of the dancing child upon the
counter â€” " by a good two inches. Will you take something ? n

I thanked him, but declined.

" Let me see," said Mr. Omer. " Barkis 's the carrier's
wife â€” Peggotty's the boatman's sister â€” she had something to
do with your family ? She was in service there, sure ? "

My answering in the affirmative gave him great satisfaction.

" I believe my breath will get long next, my memory's
getting so much so," said Mr. Omer. " Well, sir, we've got a
young relation of hers here, under articles to us, that has as
elegant a taste in the dressmaking business â€” I assure you I
don't believe there's a Duchess in England can touch her."

" Not little Em'ly ? " said I, involuntarily.

" Em'ly's her name," said Mr. Omer, "and she's little too.
But if you'll believe me, she has such a face of her own that
half the women in this town are mad against her."

" Nonsense, father ! " cried Minnie.

" My dear," said Mr. Omer, " I don't say it's the case
with you," winking at me, " but I say that half the women in
Yarmouth, ah ! and in five miles round, are mad against that
girl."

" Then she should have kept to her own station in life,
father," said Minnie, " and not have given them any hold to
talk about her, and then they couldn't have done it."

" Couldn't have done it, my dear ! " retorted Mr. Omer.
" Couldn't have done it ! Is that your knowledge of life ?
What is there that any woman couldn't do, that she shouldn't
do â€” especially on the subject of another woman's good
looks ? "

I really thought it was all over with Mr. Omer, after he
had uttered this libellous pleasantry. He coughed to that ex-
tent, and his breath eluded all his attempts to recover it with
that obstinacy, that I fully expected to see his head go down
behind the counter, and his little black breeches, with the rusty
little bunches of ribbons at the knees, come quivering up in a
last ineffectual struggle. At length, however, he got better,
though he still panted hard, aiod was so exhausted that he was
obliged to sit on the stool of the shop-desk.

LITTLE EM'LY.

'* You see," he said, wiping his head, and breathing with
difficulty, " she hasn't taken much to any companions here ;
she hasn't taken kindly to any particular acquaintances and
friends, not to mention sweethearts. In consequence, an ill-
natured story got about, that Em'ly wanted to be a lady. Now,
my opinion is, that it came into circulation principally on ac-
count of her sometimes saying at the school, that if she was a
lady, she would like to do so-and-so for her uncle â€” don't you
see ? â€” and buy him such-and-such fine things."

" I assure you, Mr. Omer, she has said so to me," I re-
turned eagerly, " when we were both children."

Mr. Omer nodded his head and rubbed his chin. " Just
so. Then out of a very little, she could dress herself, you see,
better than most others could out of a deal, and that made
things unpleasant. Moreover, she was rather what might be
called wayward. I'll go so far as to say what I should call
wayward myself," said Mr. Omer ; " didn't know her own mind
quite ; and couldn't at first, exactly bind herself down. No
more than that was ever said against her, Minnie ? "

" No, father," said Mrs. Joram. " That's the worst, I be-
lieve."

" So when she got a situation," said Mr. Omer, " to keep a
fractious old lady company, they didn't very well agree, and
she didn't stop. At last she came here, apprenticed for three
years. Nearly two of 'em are over, and she has been as good
a girl as ever was. Worth any six ! Minnie, is Lhe worth
any six, now ? "

" Yes, father," replied Minnie. "Never say /detracted
from her ! "

" Very good," said Mr. Omer. " That's right. And so,
young gentleman," he added, after a few moments' further rub-
bing of his chin, " that you may not consider me long-winded
as well as short-breathed, I believe that's all about it."

As they had spoken in a subdued tone, while speaking of
Em'ly, I had no doubt that she was near. On my asking now,
if that were not so, Mr. Omer nodded yes, and nodded to-
wards the door of the parlor. My hurried inquiry if I might
peep in, was answered with a free permission ; and looking
through the glass, I saw her sitting at her work. I saw her, a
most beautiful little creature, with the cloudless blue eyes, that
had looked into my childish heart, turned laughingly upon an-
other child of Minnie's who was playing near her ; with enough
of wilfulness in her bright face to justify what I had heard;

302

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

with much of the old capricious coyness lurking in it ; but
with nothing in her pretty looks, I am sure, but what was
meant for goodness and for happiness, and what was on a
good and happy course.

The tune across the yard that seemed as if it never had
left off â€” alas ! it was the tune that never does leave off â€”
was beating, softly, all the while.

" Wouldn't you like to step in," said Mr. Omer, " and speak1
to her ? Walk in and speak to her, sir ! Make yourself at
home ! "

I was too bashful to do so then â€” I was afraid of confusing
her, and I was no less afraid of confusing myself \ but I in-
formed myself of the hour at which she left of an evening, in
order that our visit might be timed accordingly ; and taking
leave of Mr. Omer, and his pretty daughter, and her little
children, went away to my dear old Peggotty's.

Here she was, in the tiled kitchen, cooking dinner ! The
moment I knocked at the door she opened it, and asked me
what I pleased to want. I looked at her with a smile, but she
gave me no smile in return. I had never ceased to write to
her, but it must have been seven years since we had met.

" Is Mr. Barkis at home, ma'am ? " I said feigning to speak
roughly to her.

" He's at home, sir," returned Peggotty, " but he's bad abed
with the rheumatics."

" Don't he go over to Blunderstone now ? " I asked.

"When he's well he do," she answered.

" Do you ever go there, Mrs. Barkis ? "

She looked at me more attentively, and I noticed a quick
movement of her hands towards each other.

" Because I want to ask a question about a house there,,
that they call the â€” what is it? â€” the Rookery," said I.

She took a step backward, and put out her hands in an un*
decided frightened way, as if to keep me off.

" Peggotty ! " I cried to her.

She cried, " My darling boy ! " and we both burst into tears,
and were locked in one another's arms.

What extravagancies she committed ; what laughing and
crying over me ; what pride she showed, what joy, what sorrow
that she whose pride and joy I might have been, could never
hold me in a fond embrace ; I have not the heart to tell. J
was troubled with no misgiving that it was young in me to re*
spond to her emotions. I had never laughed and cried in a.l\

LITTLE EM'L Y.

my life, I dare say, not even to her, more freely than I did that
morning.

"Barkis will be so glad," said Peggotty, wiping her eyes
with her apron, " that it'll do him more good than pints of
liniment. May I go and tell him you are here ? Will you
come up and see him, my dear ? "

Of course I would. But Peggotty could not get out of the
room as easily as she meant to, for as often as she got to the
door and looked round at me, she came back again to have an-
other laugh and another cry upon my shoulder. At last, to
make the matter easier, I went up stairs with her \ and having
waited outside for a minute, while she said a word of prepara-
tion to Mr. Barkis, presented myself before that invalid.

He received me with absolute enthusiasm. He was too
rheumatic to be shaken hands with, but he begged me to
shake the tassel on the top of his nightcap, which I did most
cordially. When I sat down by the side of the bed, he said
that it did him a world of good to feel as if he was driving me
on the Blunderstone road again. As he lay in bed, face up-
ward, and so covered, with that exception, that he seemed to be
nothing but a face â€” like a conventional cherubim â€” he looked
the queerest object I ever beheld.

" WThat name was it as I wrote up in the cart, sir " said Mr.
Barkis, with a slow rheumatic smile.

" Ah ! Mr. Barkis, we had some grave talks about that
matter, hadn't we ? "

" I was willin' a long time, sir ? " said Mr. Barkis.

"A longtime," said I.

"And I don't regret it," said Mr. Barkis. "Do you re-
member what you told me once, about her making all the apple
parsties and doing all the cooking? "

"Yes, very well," I returned.

" It was as true," said Mr. Barkis, " as turnips is. It was
as true," said Mr. Barkis, nodding his nightcap, which was
his only means of emphasis, " as taxes is. And nothing's
truer than them."

Mr. Barkis turned his eyes upon me, as if for my assent to
this result of his reflections in bed ; and I gave it.

" Nothing's truer than them," repeated Mr. Barkis ; " a man
as poor as I am, finds that out in his mind when he is laid up.
I'm a very poor man, sir ? "

" I am sorry to hear it, Mr. Barkis."

" A very poor man, indeed I am," said Mr. Barkis.

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Here his right hand came slowly and feebly from under
the bedclothes, and with a purposeless uncertain grasp took
hold of a stick which was loosely tied to the side of the bed.
After some poking about with this instrument, in the course
of which his face assumed a variety of distracted expressions;
Mr. Barkis poked it against a box, an end of which had been
visible to me all the time. Then his face became composed,.

" Old clothes," said Mr. Barkis.

" Oh \ " said I.

" I wish it was Money, sir," said Mr. Barkis.
" I wish it was, indeed," said I.

" But it ain't," said Mr. Barkis, opening both his eyes as
wide as he possibly could.

I expressed myself quite sure of that, and Mr. Barkis turn-
ing his eyes more gently to his wife, said :

" She's the usefullest and best of women, C. P. Barkis,
All the praise that anyone can give to C. P. Barkis she de-
serves, and more ! My dear, you'll get a dinner to-day, foi
company ; something good to eat and drink will you ? "

I should have protested against this unnecessary demon-
stration in my honor, but that I saw Peggotty, on the opposite
side of the bed, extremely anxious I should not. So I held
my peace.

"I've got a trifle of money somewhere about me, my dear,"
said Mr. Barkis, " V*ut I'm a little tired. If you and Mr.
David will leave m^ tor a short nap, I'll try and find it when
I wake."

We left the *(y>m, in compliance with this request. When
we got outside the door, Peggotty informed me that Mr. Bar-
kis, being now " a little nearer " than he used to be, always
resorted "o this same device before producing a single coin
from his store ; and that he endured unheard-of agonies in
crawling out of bed alone, and taking it from that unlucky
box. In effect, we presently heard him uttering suppressed
groans of the most dismal nature, as this magpie proceeding
racked him in every joint ; but while Peggotty's eyes were full
of compassion for him, she said his generous impulse would do
him good, and it was better not to check it. So he groaned
on, until he had got into bed again, suffering, I have no doubt,
a martyrdom ; and then called us in, pretending to have just
woke up from a refreshing sleep, and to produce a guinea
from under his pillow. His satisfaction in which happy im-
position on us, and in having preserved the impenetrable se-

LITTLE EM'LY.

cret of the box, appeared to be a sufficient compensation to
him for all his tortures.

I prepared Peggotty for Steerforth's arrival, and it was not
long before he came. I am persuaded she knew no differ-
ence between his having been a personal benefactor of hers
and a kind of friend to me, and that she would have received
him with the utmost gratitude and devotion in any case. But
his easy, spirited good humor ; his genial manner, his hand-
some looks, his natural gift of adapting himself to whomso-
ever he pleased, and making direct, when he cared to do it,
to the main point of interest in anybody's heart, bound her
to him wholly in five minutes. His manner to me, alone,
would have won her. But, through all these causes combined
I sincerely believe she had a kind of adoration for him before
he left the house that night.

He stayed there with me to dinner â€” if I were to say will-
ingly, I should not half express how readily and gayly. He
went into Mr. Barkis's room like light and air, brightening
and refreshing it as if he were healthy weather. There was
no noise, no effort, no consciousness, in anything he did ;
but in everything an indescribable lightness, a seeming im-
possibility of doing anything else, or doing anything better,
which was so graceful, so natural, and agreeable, that it
overcomes me, even now, in the remembrance.

We made merry in the little parlor, where the Book
of Martyrs, unthumbed since my time, was laid out upon the
desk as of old, and where I now turned over its terrific pic-
tures, remembering the old sensations they had awakened,
but not feeling them. When Peggotty spoke of what she
called my room, and of its being ready for me at night, and
of her hoping I would occupy it, before I could so much as
look at Steerforth, hesitating, he was possessed of the whole
case.

" Of course," he said. " You'll sleep here, while we stay,
and I shall sleep at the hotel."

"But to bring you so far," I returned, "and to separate,
seems bad companionship, Steerforth."

" Why in the name of Heaven, where do you naturally be-
long ' " he said. " What is ' seems,' compared to that ! " It
was settled at once.

He maintained all his delightful qualities to the last, until
we started forth, at eight o'clock, for Mr. Peggotty's boat. In-
deen, they were more and more brightly exhibited as the

3Â°6

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

hours went on ; for I thought even then, and I have no doubt
now, that the consciousness of success in his determination
to please, inspired him with a new delicacy of perception, and
made it, subtle as it was, more easy to him. If any one had
told me, then, that all this was a brilliant game, played for
the excitement of the moment, for the employment of high
.spirits, in the thoughtless love of superiority, in a mere waste-
ful careless course of winning what was worthless to him, and
next minute thrown away : I say, if any one had told me such
a lie that night, I wonder in what manner of receiving it my
indignation would have found a vent !

Probably only in an increase, had that been possible, of
the romantic feelings of fidelity and friendship with which I
walked beside him, over the dark wintry sands, towards the
old boat ; the wind sighing around us even more mournfully
than it had sighed and moaned upon the night when I first
darkened Mr. Peggotty's door.

" This is a wild kind of place, Steerforrh, is it not ? "

"Dismal enough in the dark," he said; "and the sea
roars as if it were hungry for us. Is that the boat where 1
see a light yonder ? "

" That's the boat," said I.

" And it's the same I saw this morning," he returned. " I
came straight to it by instinct, I suppose."

We said no more as we approached the light, but made
softly for the cloor. I laid my hand upon the latch ; and
whispering Steerforth to keep close to me, went in.

A murmur of voices had been audible on the outside, and.
at the moment of our entrance, a clapping of hands, which
latter noise, I was surprised to see, proceeded from the gen-
erally disconsolate Mrs. Gummidge. But Mrs. Gummidge
was not the only person there who was unusually excited.
^Ir. Peggotty, his face lighted up with uncommon satisfaction,
and laughing with all his might, held his rough arms wide
open, as if for little Em'ly to run into them ; Ham, with
a mixed expression in his face of admiration, exultation, and
a lumbering sort of bashfulness that sat upon him very well,
held little Em'ly by the hand, as if he were presenting her to
Mr. Peggotty ; little Em'ly herself, blushing and shy, but de-
lighted with Mr. Peggotty's delight, as her joyous eyes ex-
pressed, was stopped by our entrance (for she saw us first) in
the very act of springing from Ham to nestle in Mr. Peggot-
ty's embrace. In the first glimpse we had of them all, and at

ZTTTLE EM'LY.

307

the moment of our passing from the dark cold night into the
warm light room, this was the way in which they were all em*
ployed ; Mrs. Gummidge in the background, clapping her
hands like a madwoman.

The little picture was so instantaneously dissolved by oui
going in, that one might have doubted whether it had ever been.
I was in the midst of the astonished family, face to face with
Mr. Peggotty, and holding out my hand to him, when Ham
shouted :

" Mas'r Davy ! It's Mas'r Davy ! "

In a moment we were all shaking hands with one another,
and asking one another how wre did, and telling one another
how glad we were to meet, and all talking at once. Mr. Peg-
gotty was so proud and overjoyed to see us, that he did not
know what to say or do, but kept over and over again shaking
hands with me, and then with Steerforth, and then with me,
and then ruffling his shaggy hair all over his head, and laugh-
ing with such glee and triumph, that it was a treat to see him.

" Why, that you two gent'lmen â€” gent'lmen growed â€” should
come to this here roof to-night, of all nights of my life," said
Mr. Peggotty, " is such a thing as never happened afore, I da
rightly believe ! Em'ly, my darling, come here ! Come here,,
my little witch ! There's Mas'r Davy's friend, my dear \
There's the gent'lman as you've heerd on, Em'ly. He comes-
to see you, along with Mas'r Davy, on the brightest night of.
your uncle's life as ever was or will be, Gorm the t'other one,
and horroar for it ! "

After delivering this speech all in a breath, and with ex-
traordinary animation and pleasure, Mr. Peggotty put one of
his large hands rapturously on each side of his niece's face,
and kissing it a dozen times, laid it with a gentle pride and
love upon his broad chest, and patted it as if his hand had
been a lady's. Then he let her go; and as she ran into the
little chamber where I used to sleep, looked round upon us,
quite hot and out of breath with his uncommon satisfaction.

" If you two gent'lmen â€” gent'lmen growed now, and such
gent'lmen â€” " said Mr. Peggotty.

" So th' are, so th' are ! " cried Ham. " Well said ! So
th' are. Mas'r Davy bor â€” gent'lmen growed â€” so th' are ! "

" If you two gent'lmen, gent'lmen growed," said Mr. Peg-
gotty, " don't ex-cuse me for being in a state of mind, when
you understand matters, I'll arks your pardon. Em'ly, my
dear I â€” She knows I'm a going to tell," here his delight broke

308

DAVID COPPERFIELD*

out again, " and has made off. Would you be so good ai
look arter her. Mawther, for a minute ? "

Mrs. Gummidge nodded and disappeared.

" If this ain't," said Mr. Peggotty, sitting down among us
by the fire, " the brightest night o' my life, I'm a shellfishâ€”
biled too â€” and more I can' t say. This here little Em'ly, sir, *
" n a low voice to Steerforth, " â€” her as you see a blushing here
:iist now "

Steerforth only nodded, but with such a pleased expression
of interest, and of participation in Mr. Peggotty's feelings,
that the latter answered him as if he had spoken.

" To be sure," said Mr. Peggotty, " That's her, and so she
is. Thankee, sir."

Ham nodded to me several times, as if he would have said
so too.

"This here little Em'ly of ours," said Mr. Peggotty, "has
â€¢been, in our house, what I suppose (I'm a ignorant man, but
that's my belief) no one but a little bright-eyed creetur can be
in a house. She ain't my child ; I never had one ; but I
couldn't love her more. You understand ! I couldn't do it ! "

" I quite understand," said Steerforth.

" I know you do, sir," returned Mr. Peggotty, "and thankee
again. Mas'r Davy, he can remember what she was ; you may
judge for your own self what she is ; but neither of you can't
fully know what she has been, is, and will be, to my loving art.
I am rough, sir," said Mr. Peggotty, " I am as rough as a Sea
Porkypine ; but no one, unless, mayhap, it is a woman, can
know, I think, what our little Em'ly is to me. And betwixt
ourselves," sinking his voice lower yet, " that woman's name
ain't Missis Gummidge neither, though she has a world of
merits."

Mr. Peggotty ruffled his hair again with both hands, as a
further preparation for what he was going to say, and went on,
with a hand upon each of his knees :

" There was a certain person as had know'd our Em'ly,
from the time when her father was drownded y as had seen
her constant ; when a babby, when a young gal, when a
woman. Not much of a person to look at, he warn't," said
Mr. Peggotty, " something o' my own build â€” rough â€” a good
deal o' the sou'-wester in him â€” wery salt â€” but, on the whole,
a honest sort of a chap, with his art in the right place."

I riiought I had never seen Ham grin to anything like the
extent to which he sat grinning at us now.

LITTLE EM'L Y. 309

" What does this here blessed tarpaulin go and do,"' said Mr.
Peggotty, with his face one high noon of enjoyment, " but he
loses that there art of his to our little Em'ly. He follers her
about, he makes hisself a sort o' sarvant to her, he loses in a
great measure his relish for his wittles, and in the long-run he
makes it clear to me wot's amiss. Now I could wish myself,
you see, that our little Em'ly was in a fair way of being mar-
ried. I could wish to see her, at all ewents, under articles to
a honest man as had a right to defend her. I don't know how
long I may live, or how soon I may die ; but I know that if I
was capsized, any night, in a gab of wind in Yarmouth Roads
here, and was to see the town-lights shining for the last time
over the rollers as I couldn't mak2 no head aginst, I could go
down quieter for thinking 6 There's a man ashore there, iron-
true to my little Em'ly, God bless her, and no wrong can
touch my Em'ly while so be as that man lives.' "

Mr. Peggotty, in simple earnestness, waved his right arm,
as if he were waving it at the town-lights for the last time, and
then, exchanging a nod with Ham, whose eye he caught, pro-
ceeded as before :

" Well ! I counsels him to speak to Em'ly. He's big
enough, but he's bashfuller than a little un, and he don't like.
So / speak. 1 What ! Him / ' says little Em'ly, ' Him that
I've know'd so intimate so many years, and like so much.
Oh, Uncle ! I never can have him. He's such a good fellow ! '
I gives her a kiss, and I says no more to her than * My dear,
you're right to speak out, you're to choose for yourself, you're
as free as a little bird.' Then I aways to him, and I says, * I
wish it could have been so, but it can't. But you can both be
as you was, and wot I say to you is, Be as you was with her,
like a man.' He says to me, a shaking of my hand, * I will ! '
he says. And he was- â€” honorable and manful â€” for two year
going on, and we was just the same at home here as afore."

Mr. Peggotty'sface, which had varied in its expression with
the various stages of his narrative, now resumed all its former
triumphant delight, as he laid a hand upon my knee and a
hand upon Steerforth's (previously wetting them both, for the
greater emphasis of the action), and divided the following
speech between us :

" All of a sudden, one evening â€” as it might be to-night â€” â–
comes little Em'ly from her work, and him with her ! There
ain't so much in that, you'll say. No, because he takes care
on her, like a brother, arter dark, and indeed afore dark, and

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

at all times. But this tarpaulin chap, he takes hold of her
hand, and he cries out to me, joyful, ' Look here ! This is to
be my little wife ! ' And she says, half bold and half shy, and
half a laughing and half a crying, ' Yes, Uncle ! If you please.'
^-If I please! ^ried Mr. Peggotty, rolling his head in an ec-
stasy at the idea ; " Lord, as if I should do anything else ! â€”
i If ) ou please, I am steadier now, and I have thought bettei
of it, and I'll be as good a little wife as I can to him, for he's
a dear, good fellow ! ' Then Missis Gummidge, she claps her
hands like a play, and you come in. Theer ! the murder's
out ! " said Mr. Peggotty â€” " You come in ! It took place this
here present hour ; and here's the man that'll marry her, the
minute she's out of her time."

Plam staggered, as well he might, under the blow Mr. Peg-
gotty dealt him in his unbounded joy, as a mark of confidence
and friendship ; but feeling called upon to say something to
us, he said, with much faltering and great difficulty :

" She warn't no higher than you was, Mas'r Davy â€” when
you first come â€” when I thought what she'd grow up to be. I
see her grow up- â€” gent'lmen â€” like a flower. I'd lay down my
life for her â€” Mas'r Davy â€” Oh ! most content and cheerful ?
She's more to me â€” gent'Pmen â€” than â€” she's all to me that
ever I can want, and more than ever I â€” than ever I could say.
I â€” I love her true. There ain't a gent'lman in all the land â€” -
nor yet sailing upon all the sea â€” that can love his lady more
than I love her, though there's many a common man â€” would
say better â€” what he meant."

I thought it affecting to see such a sturdy fellow as Ham
was now, trembling in the strength of what he felt for the pret-
ty little creature who had won his heart. I thought the simple
confidence reposed in us by Mr. Peggotty and by himself, was,
in itself, affecting. I was affected by the story altogether.
How far my emotions were influenced by the recollections of
my childhood, I don't know. Whether I had come there with
any lingering fancy that I was still to love little Em'ly, I don't
know. I know that I was filled with pleasure by all this ;
but, at first, with an indescribably sensitive pleasure, that a
very little would have changed to pain.

Therefore, if it had depended upon me to touch the pre-
vailing chord among them with any skill, I should have made
a poor hand of it. But it depended upon Steerforth ; and he
did it with such address, that in a few minutes we were all as
easy and as happy as it was possible to be.

LITTLE EM'LY.

" Mr. Peggotty," he said, " you are a thoroughly good fel-
low, and deserve to be as happy as you are to-nignt. My
hand upon it ! Ham, I give you joy, my boy. My hand upon
that, too ! Daisy, stir the fire, and make it a brisk one ! and
Mr. Peggotty, unless you can induce your gentle niece to come
back (for whom I vacate this seat in the corner) I shall go.
Any gap at your fireside on such a night â€” such a gap least of
all â€” I wouldn't make, for the wealth of the Indies ! "

So Mr. Peggotty went into my old room to fetch little
Em'ly. At first, little Em'ly didn't like to come, and then
Ham went. Presently they brought her to the fireside, very
much confused, and very shy, â€” but she soon became more
assured when she found how gently and respectful !y Steerforth
spoke to her ; how skilfully he avoided anything that would
embarrass her ; how he talked to Mr. Peggotty of boats, and
ships, and tides, and fish ; how he referred to me about the
time he had seen Mr. Peggotty at Salem House ; how delight-
ed he was with the boat and all belonging to it ; how lightly
and easily he carried on, until he brought us, by degrees, into
a charmed circle, and we were all talking away without any
reserve.

Em'ly, indeed, said little all the evening ; but she looked,
and listened, and her face got animated, and she was charm-
ing. Steerforth told a story of a dismal shipwreck (which
arose out of his talk with Mr. Peggotty), as if he saw it all
before him â€” and little Em'ly's eyes were fastened on him all
the time, as if she saw it too. He told us a merry adventure
of his own, as a relief to that, with as much gayety as if the
narrative were as fresh to him as it was to us â€” and little Em'ly
laughed until the boat rang with -the musical sounds, and we
all laughed (Steerforth too), in irresistible sympathy with what
â€žwas so pleasant and light-hearted. He got Mr. Peggotty to
ling, or rather to roar, "When the stormy winds do blow, do
blow, do blow;" and he sang a sailor's song himself, so pa>
thetically and beautifully, that I could have almost fancied
that the real wind creeping sorrowfully round the house, and
murmuring low through our unbroken silence, was *here to
listen.

As to Mrs. Gummidge, he roused that victim of despop^
dency with a success never attained by any one else (so Mr.
Peggotty informed me), since the decease of the old one. He
left her so little leisure for being miserable, that she said next
day she thought she must have been bewitched.

312

DAVIB COPPERFIELD.

But he set up no monopoly of the general attention, or the
conversation. When little Em'ly grew more courageous, and
talked (but still bashfully) across the fire to me, of our old
wanderings upon the beach, to pick up shells and pebbles \
and when I asked her if she recollected how I used to be de-
voted to her ; and when we both laughed and reddened, cast-
ing these looks back on the pleasant old times, so unreal to
look at now ; he was silent and attentive, and observed us
thoughtfully. She sat, at this time, and all the evening, on
the old locker in her old little corner by the fire, with Ham
beside her, where I used to sit. I could not satisfy myself
whether it was in her own little tormenting way, or in a maid-
enly reserve before us, that she kept quite close to the wall,
and away from him ; but I observed that she did so, all the
evening.

As I remember, it was almost midnight when we took our
leave. We had had some biscuit and dried fish for supper,
and Steerforth had produced from his pocket a full flask of
Hollands, which we men (I may say we men, now, without a
blush) had emptied. We parted merrily; and as they all
stood crowded round the door to light us as far as they could
upon our road, I saw the sweet blue eyes of little Em'ly peep-
ing after us, from behind Ham, and heard her soft voice call-
ing to us to be careful how we went.

" A most engaging little Beauty ! " said Steerforth, taking
my arm. "Well! It's a quaint place, and they are quaint
company ; and it's quite a new sensation to mix with them."

" How fortunate we are, too," I returned, " to have ar-
rived to witness their happiness in that intended marriage 1
I never saw people so happy. How delightful to see it, and
to be made the sharers in their honest joy, as we have been ! "

"That's rather a chuckle-headed fellow for the girl ; isn't
he ? " said Steerforth.

He had been so hearty with him, and with them all, that I
felt a shock in this unexpected and cold reply. But turning
quickly upon him, and seeing a laugh in his eyes, 1 answered,
much relieved :

" Ah, Steerforth ! It's well for you to jok*s about the poor !
You may skirmish with Miss Dartle, or try to hide your sym-
pathies in- jest from me, but I know better. When I see how
perfectly you understand them, how exquisitely you can enter
into happiness like this plain fisherman's, or humor a love like
my old nurse's, I know that there is not a joy or sorrow, no?

SOME OLD SCENES, AND SOME NE W PEOPLE, 313

an emotion, of such people, that can be indifferent to you
And 1 admire and love you for it, Steerforth, twenty times the
more ! "

He stopped, and looking in my face, said : " Daisy, I be-
lieve you are in earnest, and are good. I wish we all were ! "
Next moment he was gayly singing Mr. Peggotty's song, as we
talked at a round pace back to Yarmouth.

CHAPTER XXII.

SOME OLD SCENES, AND SOME NEW PEOPLE.

ST&erforth and I stayed for more than a fortnight in that
**rt or the country. We were very much together, I need not
say ; but occasionally we w;ere asunder for some hours at a
time, tie was a good sailor, and I was but an indiiferent
one ; and when he went out boating with Mr. Peggotty,
which was 1 iavorite amusement of his, I generally remained
ashore. My occupation of Peggotty's spare-room put a con-
straint upon mc, from which he was free ; for, knowing how
assiduously sne attended Mr. Barkis all day, I did not like to
remain out late at night ; whereas Steerforth, lying at the Inn,
had nothing to consult but his own humor. Thus it came
about, that I heard of his making little treats for the fishermen
at Mr. Peggotty's house of call, "The Willing Mind," after I
was in bed, and or fiis being afloat, wrapped in fishermen's
clothes, whole moonlight nights, and coming back when the
morning tide was at flood. By this time, however, I knew
that his restless nature and bold spirits delighted to find a
vent in rough toil and hard weather, as in any other means of
excitement that presented itself freshly to him ; so none of his
pioceedings surprised me.

Another cause of our being sometimes apart was, that I
had naturally an interest in going over to Blunderstone, and
revisiting the old familiar scenes of my childhood ; while
Steerforth, after being there once, had naturally no great in-
terest in going there again. Hence, on three or four days
that I can at once recall, we went our several ways afte: as

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

early breakfast, and met again at a late dinner. I had no idea
how he employed his time in the interval, beyond a general
knowledge that he was very popular in the place, and had
twenty means of actively diverting himself where another man
might not have found one.

For my own part, my occupation in my solitary pilgrimage
was to recall every yard of the old road as I went along it,
and to haunt the old spots, of which I never tired. I haunted1
them, as my memory had often done, and lingered among them
as my younger thoughts had lingered when I was far away,
The grave beneath the tree, where both my parents lay â€” on
which I had looked out, when it was my father's only, with
such curious feelings of compassion, and by which I had stood,
so desolate, when it was opened to receive my pretty mother
and her baby â€” the grave which Peggotty's own faithful care
had ever since kept neat, and made a garden of, I walked
near, by the hour. It lay a little off the church-yard path, in
a quiet corner, not so far removed but I could read the names
upon the stone as I walked to and fro, startled by the sound
of the church-bell when it struck the hour, for it was like a
departed voice to me. My reflections at these times were
always associated with the figure I was to make in life, and the
distinguished things I was to do. My echoing footsteps went
to no other tune, but were as constant to that as if I had.
come home to build my castles in the air at a living mother's
side.

There were great changes in my old home. The ragged
nests, so long deserted by the rooks, were gone ; and the trees
were lopped and topped out of their remembered shapes. The
garden had run wild, and half the windows of the house were
shut up. It was occupied, only by a poor lunatic gentleman,
and the people who took care of him. He was always sitting
at my little window, looking out into the church-yard ; and I
wondered whether his rambling thoughts ever went upon any of
the fancies that used to occupy mine, on the rosy mornings when
I peeped out of that same little window in my night-clothes,
and saw the sheep quietly feeding in the light of the rising
sun.

Our old neighbors, Mr.. and Mrs. Grayper, were gone to
South America, and the rain had made its way through the
roof of their empty house, and stained the outer walls. Mi;
Chillip was married again to a tall, raw-boned, high nosed wifej
and they had a weazen little baby, with a heavy head that it

SOME OLD SCENES, AND SOME NEW PEOPLE. 315

couldn't hold up, and two weak staring eyes, with which it
seemed to be always wondering why it had ever been born.

It was with a singular jumble of sadness and pleasure that
I used to linger about my native place, until the reddening
winter sun admonished me that it was time to start on my re-
turning walk. But, when the place was left behind, and
especially when Steerforth and I were happily seated ovei our
dinner by a blazing fire, it was delicious to think of having
been there. So it was, though in a softened degree, when I
want to my neat room at night ; and, turning over the leaves
of the crocodile-book (which was always there, upon a little
table), remembered with a grateful heart how blest I was in
having such a friend as Steerforth, such a friend as Peggotty,
and such a substitute for what I had lost as my excellent and
generous aunt.

My nearest way to Yarmouth, in coming back from these
long walks, was by a ferry. It landed me on the flat between
the town and the sea, which I could make straight across, and
so save myself a considerable circuit by the high roads. Mr.
Peggotty's house being on that waste-place, and not a hundred
yards out of my track, I always looked in as I went by.
Steerforth was pretty sure to be there expecting me, and we
went on together through the frosty air and gathering fog to-
wards the twinkling lights of the town.

One dark evening, when I was later than usual â€” for I had,
that day, been making my parting visit to Blunderstone, as
we were now about to return home â€” I found him alone in Mr.
Peggotty's house, sitting thoughtfully before the fire. He was
so intent upon his own reflections that he was quite uncon-
scious of my approach. This, indeed, he might easily have
been if be had been less absorbed, for footsteps fell noiselessly
on the sandy ground outside ; but even my entrance failed to
rouse him. I was standing close to him, looking at him ; and
Still, with a heavy brow, he was lost in his meditations.

He gave such a start when I put my hand upon his shoul-
der, that he made me start too.

" You come upon me," he said, almost angrily, " like a
reproachful ghost ! "

" I was obliged to announce myself, somehow," I replied.
" Have I called you down from the stars ? "

" No," he answered. " No."

" Up from anywhere, then ? " said I taking my seat ne*i
him.

3i6

DAVID COPPER FIELD.

4< I was looking at the pictures in the fire," he returned.

"But you are spoiling them for me," said I, as he stirred
it quickly with a piece of burning wood, striking out of it a
train of red-hot sparks that went careering up the little chim-
ney, and roaring out into the air.

" You would not have seen them," he returned. " I detest
â€¢his mongrel time, neither day nor night. How late you are !
Where have you been ? "

" I have been taking leave of my usual walk," said I.

"And I have been sitting here," said Steerforth, glancing
round the room, 'thinking that all the people we found so glad
on the night of our coming down, might â€” to judge from the
present wasted air of the place â€” be dispersed, or dead, or come
to I don't know what harm. David, I wish to God I had had
a judicious father these last twenty years ? "

" My dear Steerforth, what is the matter ! "

" I wish with all my soul I had been better guided ! " he
exclaimed. " I wish with all my soul I could guide myself
better ! '

There was a passionate dejection in his manner that quite
amazed me. He was more unlike himself than I could have
supposed possible.

" It would be better to be this poor Peggotty, or his lout
of a nephew," he said, getting up and leaning moodily against
the chimney-piece, with his face towards the fire, " than to be
myself, twenty times richer and twenty times wiser, and be the
torment to myself that I have been, in this Devil's bark of a
boat, within the last half-hour."

I was so confounded by the alteration in him, that at first
I could only observe him in silence, as he stood leaning his
head upon his hand, and looking gloomily down at the fire.
At length I begged him, with all the earnestness I felt, to tell
me what had occurred to cross him so unusually, and to let
me sympathize with him, if I could not hope to advise him.
Before I had well concluded, he began to laugh â€” fretfully at
first, but soon with returning gayety.

" Tut, it's nothing, Daisy ! nothing ! " he replied. " I told
you at the inn in London, I am heavy company for myself,
sometimes. I have been a nightmare to myself, just now â€”
must have had one, I think. At odd dull times, nursery tales
come up into the memory, unrecognized for what they are. I
believe I have been confounding myself with the bad boy who
1 didn't care,' and became food for lionsâ€” a grander kind of

SOME OLD SCENES, AND SOME NEW PEOPLE. 317

going to the dogs, I suppose. What old women 6s\\ the hor-
rors have been creeping over me from head to foot. I have
been afraid of myself."

" You are afraid of nothing else, I think," said I.

" Perhaps not, and yet may have enough to be afraid of,
too," he answered. " Well ! So it goes by ! I am not about
to be hipped again, David ; but I tell you, my good fellow,
once more, that it would have been well for me (and for more
than me) if I had had a steadfast and judicious father ! "

His face was always full of expression, but I never saw it
express such a dark kind of earnestness as when he said these
words, with his glance bent on the fire.

" So much for t lat ! " he said, making as if he tossed
something light into the air, with his hand.

" 1 Why, being gone, I am a man again,'

like Macbeth. And now for dinner ! If I have not (Mac-
beth-like) broken up the feast with most admired disorder,
Daisy."

" But where are they all, I wonder ! " said I.

" God knows," said Steerforth. " After strolling to the
ferry looking for you, I strolled in here and found the place
deserted. That set me thinking, and you found me thinking."

The advent of Mrs. Gummidge with a basket, explained
how the house had happened to be empty. She had hurried
out to buy something that was needed, against Mr. Peggotty's
return with the tide ; and had left the door open in the mean-
while, lest Ham and little Em'ly, with whom it was an early
night, should come home while she was gone. Steerforth,
after very much improving Mrs. Gummidge's spirits by a
cheerful salutation and a jocose embrace, took my arm, and
hurried me away.

" He had improved his own spirits, no less than Mrs.
Gummidge's, for they were again at their usual flow, and he
was full of vivacious conversation as we went along.

" And so," he said, gayly, " we abandon this buccaneer
life to-morrow, do we ? "

" So we agreed," I returned. " And our places by the
coach are taken, you know."

" Ay ! there's no help for it, I suppose," said Steerforth.
" I have almost forgotten that there is anything to do in the
world but to go out tossing on the sea here. I wish there
was not."

3*S

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" As long as the novelty should last," said I, laughing.

" Like enough, he returned ; " though there's a sarcastic
meaning in that observation for an amiable piece of innocence
like my young friend. Well ! I dare say I am a capricious
fellow, David. I know I am ; but while the iron is hot, I can
.strike it vigorously too. I could pass a reasonably good ex-
amination already, as a pilot in these waters, I think."

" Mr. Peggotty says you are a wonder," I returned.

" A nautical phenomenon, eh ? " laughed Steerforth.

" Indeed he does, and you know how truly ; knowing how
ardent you are in any pursuit you follow, and how easily you
can master it. And that amazes me most in you, Steerforth
,â€”that you should be contented with such fitful uses of your
powers."

" Contented ? " he answered, merrily. " I am never con-
tented, except with your freshness, my gentle Daisy. As to
fltfulness, I have never learnt the art of binding myself to any
of the wheels on which the Ixions of these days are turning
round and round. I missed it somehow in a bad apprentice-
ship, and now don't care about it. â€” You know I have bought
a boat down here ? "

" What an extraordinary feliow you are, Steerforth ! " I
exclaimed, stopping â€” for this was the first I had heard of it.
u When you may never care to come near the place again ! "

" I don't know that," he returned. " I have taken a fancy
to the place. At all events, I have bought a boat that was
for sale â€” a clipper, Mr. Peggotty says : and so she is â€” and
Mr. Peggotty will be master of her in my absence."

" Now I understand you, Steerforth ! " said I exultingly.
<; You pretend to have bought it for yourself, but you have
really done so to confer a benefit on him. I might have known
as much at first, knowing you. My dear kind Steerforth, how
can I tell you what I think of your generosity ? "

" Tush ! " he answered, turning red. " The less said, the
better."

" Didn't I know ? " cried I, " didn't I say that there was
not a joy, or sorrow, or any emotion of such honest hearts
that was indifferent to you ? "

" Ay, ay," he answered, " you told me all that. There
let it rest. We have said enough ! "

Afraid of offending him by pursuing the subject when he
made so light of it, I only pursued it in my thoughts as we
went on at even a quicker pace than before.

SOME OLD SCENES, AND SOME NEW PEOPLE. 319

" She must be newly rigged," said Steerforth, " and I shall
leave Littimer behind to see. it done, that I may know she is
quite complete. Did I tell you Littimer had come down ? "

" No."

" Oh yes ! came down this morning, with a letter from my
mother."

As our looks met, I observed that he was pale even to his
lips, though he looked very steadily at me. If eared that V
some difference between him and his mother might have led
to his being in the frame of mind in which I had found him
at the solitary fireside. I hinted so.

" Oh no ! " he said, shaking his head, and giving a slight
laugh. " Nothing of the sort ! Yes. He is come down, that
man of mine."

" The same as ever ? " said I.

" The same as ever," said Steerforth. " Distant and quiet
as the North Fole. He shall see to the boat being fresh
named. She's the Stormy Petrel now. What does Mr. Peg-
gotty care for Stormy Petrels ! Til have her christened
again."

" By what name?" I asked.
" The Little Em'ly."

As he had continued to look steadily at me, I took it as a
reminder that he objected to being extolled for his considera-
tion. I could not help showing in my face how much it
pleased me, but I said little, and he resumed his usual smile,
and seemed relieved.

" But see here," he said, looking before us, " where the
original little Em'ly comes ! And that fellow with her, eh ?
Upon my soul, he's a true knight. He never leaves her ! "

Ham was a boat-builder in these days, having improved a
natural ingenuity in that handicraft, until he had become a
skilled workman. He was in his working dress, and looked
rugged enough, but manly withal, and a very fit protector for
the blooming little creature at his side. Indeed, there was a
frankness in his face, an honesty, and an undisguised show of
his pride in her, and his love for her, which were, to me, the
best of good looks. I thought, as they came towards us, that
they were well matched even in that particular.

She withdrew her hand timidlv from his arm as we stopped
to speak to them, and blushed as she gave it to Steerforth
and to me. When they passed on, after we had exchanged a
lew words, she did not like to replace that hand, but, still ar>

320

DAVID COPPER FIELD.

pearing timid and constrained, walked by herself. I thought
all this very pretty and engaging, and Steerforth seemed to
think so too, as we looked after them fading away in the light
of a young moon.

" Suddenly there passed us â€” evidently following them â€” a
young woman whose approach we had not observed, but whose
face I saw as she went by, and thought I had a faint remem-
brance of. She was lightly dressed, looked bold, and hag-
gard, and flaunting, and poor ; but seemed, for the time, to
have given all that to the wind which was blowing, and to have
nothing in her mind but going after them. As the dark dis-
tant level, absorbing their figures into itself, left but itself visi-
ble between us and the sea and clouds, her figure disappeared
in like manner, still no nearer to them than before.

" That is a black shadow to be following the girl," said
Steerforth, standing still ; " what does it mean ? "

He spoke in a low voice that sounded almost strange to me.

" She must have it in her mind to beg of them, I think,"
said I.

" A beggar would be no novelty," said Steerforth ; " but it
is a strange thing that the beggar should take that shape to-
aight."

" Why ? " I asked him.

" For no better reason, truly, than because I was think-
ing," he said, after a pause, " of something like it, when it
came by. Where the devil did it come from, I wronder ! "

" From the shadow of this wall, I think," said I, as we
emerged upon a road on which a wall abutted.

" It's gone ! " he returned, looking over his shoulder.
" And all ill go with it. Now for our dinner ! "

But, he looked again over his shoulder towards the sea-
line glimmering afar off ; and yet again. And he wondered
about it, in some broken expressions, several times, in the
short remainder of our walk ; and only seemed to forget it
when the light of fire and candle shone upon us, seated warm
and merry, at table.

Littimer was there, and had his usual effect upon me. When
I said to him that I hoped Mrs. Steerforth and Miss Dartle
were well, he answered respectfully (and of course respecta-
bly), that they were tolerably well, he thanked me, and had
sent their compliments. THs was all; and yet he seemed
to me to say as plainly as a man could say : " You are very
young, sir ; you are exceedingly young."

SOME OLD SCENES, AND SOME NEW PEOPLE. 321

We had almost finished dinner, when taking a step or two
towards the table, from the 'corner where he kept watch upon
us, or rather upon me, as I felt, he said to his master :

" I beg your pardon, sir. Miss Mowcher is down here."

"Who?" cried Steerforth, much astonished.

" Miss Mowcher, sir."

" Why, what on earth does she do here ? " said Steerforth.

" It appears to be her native part of the country, sir. She
informs me that she makes one of her professional visits here,
every year, sir. I met her in the street this afternoon, and
she wished to know if she might have the honor of waiting on
you after dinner, sir."

" Do you know the Giantess in question, Daisy ? " inquired
Steerforth.

I was obliged to confess â€” I felt ashamed, even of being at
this disadvantage before Littimer â€” that Miss Mowcher and I
were, wholly unacquainted.

" Then you shall know," said Steerforth, " for she is one
of the seven wonders of the world. When Miss Mowcher
comes, show her in."

I felt some curiosity and excitement about this lady, es-
pecially as Steerforth burst into a fit of laughing when I re-
ferred to her, and positively refused to answer any question
of which X made her the subject. I remained, therefore, in a
state ot considerable expectation until the cloth had been re-
lieved some half an hour, and we were sitting over our decanter
of vane oeiore the fire, when the door opened, and Littimer,
with his nabitual serenity quite undisturbed, announced :

*' Miss Mowcher ! "

1 looked at the doorway and saw nothing. I was still
lookir.^ it ihe doorway, thinking that Miss Mowcher was a long
while making her appearance, when, to my infinite astonish-
ment, t>recame waddling round a sofa which stood between
me and tÂ», a pursy dwarf, of about forty or forty-five, with a
very larÂ£*fc head and face, a pair of roguish gray eyes, and
such extn-tnely little arms, that, to enable herself to lay a fin-
ger archly against her snub nose as she ogled Steerforth, she
was obliged to meet the finger half-way, and lay her nose
against it. Her chin, which was what is called a double-chin,
was so fat that it entirely swallowed up the strings of her bon-
net, bow and all. Throat she had none ; waist she had none ;
legs she had none, worth mentioning; for though she was
more than full-sized down to where her waist would have

322

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

been, if sIk Lad had any, and though she terminated, as hu-
man beings generally do, in a pair of feet, she was so short
that she stood at a common-sized chair as at a table, resting
a bag she carried on the seat. This lady, dressed in an off-
hand, easy style, bringing her nose and her forefinger together,
with the difficulty I have described ; standing with her head
necessarily on one side, and, with one of her sharp eyes shut
up, making an uncommonly knowing face, after ogling
Steerforth for a few moments, broke into a torrent of w rds.

" What ! My flower ! " she pleasantly began, shaking hei
~'arge head at him. " You're there, are you ' Oh, you naughty
boy, fie for shame, what do you do so far away from home ?
Up to mischief, I'll be bound. Oh, you're a downy fellow,
Steerforth, so you are, and I'm another, ain't I ? Ha, ha, ha J
You'd have betted a hundred pound to five, now, that you
wouldn't have seen me here, wouldn't you ? Bless you, man
alive, I'm everywhere. I'm here, and there, and where not,
like the conjuror's half-crown in the lady's hankercher. Talk-
ing of hankerchersâ€” -and talking of ladies â€” what a comfort you
are to your blessed mother, ain't you, my dear boy, over one
of my shoulders, and I don't say which ! "

Miss Mowcher untied her bonnet, at this passage of her
discourse, threw back the strings, and sat down, panting, on a
footstool in front of the fire â€” making a kind of arbor of the
dining-table, which spread its mahogany shelter above her
head.

" Oh my stars and what's-their-names ! " she went on,
clapping a hand, on each of her little knees, and glancing
shrewdly at me. " I'm of too full a habit, that's the fact,
Steerforth. After a flight of stairs, it gives me as much trou-
ble to draw every breath I want, as if it was a bucket of water.
If you saw me looking out of an upper window, you'd think I
was a fine woman, wouldn't you ? "

" I should think that, wherever I saw you," replied Steer
forth.

" Go along, you dog, do ! " cried the little creature, mak
ing a whisk at him with the handkerchief with which she was
wiping her face, " and don't be impudent ! But I give you
my word and honor I was at Lady Mithers's last week â€” there's
a woman ! How she wears ! â€” and Mithers himself came into
the room where I was waiting for her â€” there's a man ! How
he wears ! and his wig too, for he's had it these ten years â€”
and he went on at that rate in the complimentary linet that I

SOME OLD SCENES, AND SOME NEW PEOPLE 323

began to think I should be obliged to ring the bell. Ha ! ha !
ha ! He's a pleasant wretch, but he wants principle."

" What were you doing for Lady Mithers ? " asked Steer-
forth.

" That's tellings, my blessed infant," she retorted, tapping
her nose again, screwing up her face, and twinkling her eyes
like an imp of supernatural intelligence. " Never you mind !
You'd like to know whether I stop her hair from falling off,
or dye, or touch up her complexion, or improve her eye-
brows, wouldn't you ? And so you shall, my darling â€” when I
tell you ! Do you know what my great grandfather^ name
was ? "

" No," said Steerforth.

u It was Walker, my sweet pet,'' replied Miss Mowcher,
" and he came of a long line of Walkers, that I inherit all the
Hookey estates from."

I never beheld anything approaching to Miss Mowcher's
wink, except Miss Mowcher's self-possession. She had a
wonderful way too, when listening to what was said to her,
or when waiting for an answer to what she had said herself,
of pausing with her head cunningly on one side, and one eye
turned up like a magpie's. Altogether I was lost in amaze-
ment, and sat staring at her, quite oblivious, I am afraid, of
the laws of politeness.

She had by this time drawn the chair to her side, and was
busily engaged m producing from the bag (plunging in her
short arm to the shoulder, at every dive) a number of small
bottles, sponges, combs, brushes, bits of flannel, little pairs of
curling-irons, and other instruments, which she tumbled in a
heap upon the chair. From this employment she suddenly
desisted, and said to Steerforth, much to my confusion :

" Who's your friend ? "

" Mr. Copperfield," said Steerforth ; " he wants to know
you."

" Well, then, he shall ! I thought he looked as if he did ! "
returned Miss Mowcher, waddling up to me, bag in hand, and
laughing on me as she came. " Face like a peach ! " standing
on tiptoe to pinch my cheek as I sat. " Quite tempting !
I'm very fond of peaches. Happy to make your acquaintance,
Mr. Copperfield, I'm sure.'*

I said that I congratulated myself on having the honor to
make hers, and that the happiness was mutual.

" Oh, my goodness, how polite we are 1 " exclaimed Miss

3^4

DAVID COPPE R FIELD*

Mowcher, making a preposterous attempt to covei her large
face with her morsel of a hand. " What a world oi gammon
and spinnage it is, ain't it ! "

This was addressed confidentially to both of us, as the
morsel of a hand came away from the face, and buried itselÂ£Â»
arm and all, in the bag again.

" What do you mean Miss Mowcher ? " said Steerforth.

" Ha ! ha ! ha ! what a refreshing set of humbugs we are,
to be sure, ain't we, my sweet child ? " replied that morsel of
a woman, feeling in the bag with her head on one side and
her eye in the air. " Look here ! " taking something out.
" Scraps of the Russian Prince's nails ! Prince Alphabet
turned topsy-turvy, I call him, for his name's got all the let-
ters in it, higgledy-piggledy."

*' The Russian Prince is a client of yours, is he ? " said
Steerforth.

" I believe you, my pet," replied Miss Mowcher. " I keep
his nails in order for him. Twice a week! Fingers and
toes."

" He pays well, I hope ? " said Steerforth.

"Pays as he speaks, my dear child â€” through the nose/'
replied Miss Mowcher. " None of your close shavers the
Prince ain't. You'd say so, if you saw his mustaches. Red
by nature, black by art."

" By your art, of course," said Steerforth.

Miss Mowcher winked assent. " Forced to send for me.
Couldn't help it. The climate affected his dye ; it did very
well in Russia, but it was no go here. You never saw such
a rusty Prince in all your born days as he was. Like old
iron ! "

"Is that why you called him a humbug, just now*" in-
quired Steerforth.

"Oh, you're a broth of a boy, ain't you?" returned Misy
Mowcher, shaking her head violently. " I said, what a set of
humbugs we were in general, and I showed you the scraps of
the Prince's nails to prove it. The Prince's nails do more
for me in private families of the genteel sort, than all my
talents put together. I always carry 'em about. They're the
best introduction. If Miss Mowcher cuts the Prince's nails,
she must be all right. I gav 'em away to the young ladies.
They put 'em in albums, I believe. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Upon my
life, * the whole social system ' (as the men call it when they
make speeches in Parliament) is a system of Prince's nails 1 n

SOME OLD SCENES, AND SOME NEW PEOPLE. 325

said the least of women, trying to fold her short arms, and
nodding her large head.

Steerforth laughed heartily, and I laughed toe. Miss
Mowcher continuing all the time to shake her head (which
was very much on one side), and to look into the air with one
eye, and to wink with the other.

" Well, well ! " she said, smiting her small knees, and
rising, " this is not business. Come, Steerforth, let's explore
the polar regions, and have it over."

She then selected two or three of the little instruments,
and a little bottle, and asked (to my surprise) if the table
would bear. On Steerforth's replying in the affirmative, she
pushed a chair against it, and begging the assistance of my
hand, mounted up, pretty nimbly, to the top, as if it were a
stage.

" If either of you saw my ankles," she said, when she was
safely elevated, " say so, and I'll go home and destroy myself/'
" / did not," said Steerforth.
"/did not," said I.

" Well then," cried Miss Mowcher, " I'll consent to live.
Now, ducky, ducky, ducky, come to Mrs. Bond and be
killed."

This was an invocation to Steerforth to place himself
under her hands ; who, accordingly, sat himself down, with
his back to the table, and his laughing face towards me, and
submitted his head to her inspection, evidently for no other
purpose than our entertainment. To see Miss Mowcher
standing over him, looking at his rich profusion of brown hair
through a large round magnifying glass, which she took out
of her pocket, was a most amazing spectacle.

" You're a pretty fellow ! " said Miss Mowcher, after a brief
inspection. "You'd be as bald as a friar on the top of your
head in twelve months, but for me. Just half-a-minute, my
young friend, and we'll give you a polishing that shall keep
your curls on for the next ten years ! "

With this, she tilted some of the contents of the little
bottle on to one of the little bits of flannel, and, again impart*
ing some of the virtues of that preparation to one of the little
brushes, began rubbing and scraping away with both on the
crown of Steerforth's head in the busiest manner I ever wit-
nessed, talking all the time.

"There's Charley Pyegrave, the duke's son," she said.
"You know Charley?" peep^ round into his face.

$26

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

"A little," said Steerforth.

" What a man he is ! There's a whisker ! As to Chailey's
legs, if they were only a pair (which they ain't), they'd defy
competition. Would you believe he tried to do without me â€” -
in the Life-Guards, too ? "

" Mad ! " said Steerforth.
\ " It looks like it. However, mad or sane, he tried," re-
aimed Miss Mowcher. " What does he do, but, lo and be-
hold you, he goes into a perfumer's shop, and wants to buy a
bottle of the Madagascar Liquid."

" Charley does ? " said Steerforth.

" Charley does. But they haven't got any of the MadaÂ«
gascar Liquid."

" What is it ? Something to drink ? " asked Steerforth.

" To drink ? " returned Miss Mowcher, stopping to slap
his cheek. " To doctor his own mustaches with, you know.
There was a woman in the shop â€” elderly female â€” quite a
Griffin â€” who had never even heard of it by name, 'Begging
pardon, sir,' said the Griffin to Charley, 'it's not â€” not â€” not
rouge, is it ? ' ' Rouge,' said Charley to the Griffin. ' What
the unmentionable to ears polite, do you think I want with
rouge?' 'No offence, sir,' said the Griffin; 'we have it
asked for by so many names, I thought it might be.' Now
that, my child," continued Miss Mowcher, rubbing all the
time as busily as ever, " is another instance of the refreshing
humbug I was speaking of. I do something in that way my-
self â€” perhaps a good deal â€” perhaps a little â€” sharp's the word,
my dear boy â€” never mind ! "

" In what way do you mean ? In the rouge way ? " said
Steerforth.

" Put this and that together, my tender pupil," returned
the wary Mowcher, touching her nose, " work it by the rule
of Secrets in all trades, and the product will give you the
desired result. I say / do a little in that way myself. One
Dowager, she calls it lip-salve. Another, she calls it gloves.
Another, she calls it tucker-edging. Another, she calls it a
fan. /call it whatever they call it. I supply it for 'em, but
we keep up the trick so, to one another, and make believe
with such a fact, that they'd as soon think of laying it on, be-
fore a whole drawing-room, as before me. And when I wait
upon 'em, they'll say to me sometimes â€” with it on â€” thick, and
no mistake â€” ' How am I looking, Mowcher ? Am I pale ? '
Ha ! ha 1 ha ! ha 1 Isn't that refreshing, my young friend I *

SOME OLD SCENES, AND SOME NEW PEOPLE. 327

I never did in my days behold anything like Mowcher as
she stood upon the dining-table, intensely enjoying this re-
freshment, rubbing busily at Steerforth's head, and winking
at me over it.

" Ah ! " she said. " Such things are not much in demand
hereabouts. That sets me off again ! I haven't seen a pretty
woman since I've been here, Jemmy."

" No ? " said Steerforth.

"Not the ghost of one," replied Miss Mowcher.
" We could show her the substance of one, I think ? " said
Steerforth, addressing his eyes to mine. " Eh, Daisy ? "
" Yes, indeed," said I.

" Aha ? " cried the little creature, glancing sharply at my
face, and then peeping round at Steerforth's. " Umph ? "

The first exclamation sounded like a question put to both
of us, and the second like a question put to Steerforth only.
She seemed to have found no answer to either, but continued
to rub, with her head on one side and her eye turned up, as
if she were looking for an answer in the air, and were confi-
dent of its appearing presently.

" A sister of yours, Mr. Copperfield ? " she cried, after a
pause, and still keeping the same look-out. " Ay, ay ? "

" No," said Steerforth, before I could reply. " Nothing
of the sort. On the contrary, Mr. Copperfield used â€” or I am
much mistaken â€” to have a great admiration for her."

" Why, hasn't he now ? " returned Miss Mowcher. " Is
he fickle ? oh, for shame ! Did he sip every flower and change
every hour, until Polly his passion requited ? â€” Is her name
Polly ? "

The Elfin suddenness with which she pounced upon me
with this question, and a searching look, quite disconcerted
me for a moment.

" No, Miss Mowcher," I replied. " Her name is Emily."

" Aha ? " she cried exactly as before. " Umph ? What a
rattle I am ! Mr. Copperfield, ain't I volatile ? "

Her tone and look implied something that was not agree<-
able to me in connection with the subject. So I said, in a
graver manner than any of us had yet assumed :

" She is as virtuous as she is pretty. She is engaged to
be married to a most worthy and deserving man in her own
station of life. I esteem her for her good sense, as much as
I admire her fcr her good looks."

" Well said 1 " cried Steerforth. " Hear, hear, hear ! Now

328 DAVID COPPERFIELD.

I'll quench the curiosity of this little Fatima, dear Daisys
by leaving her nothing to guess at. She is at present appren-
ticed, Miss Mowcher, or articled, or whatever it may be, to
Omer and Joram, Haberdashers, Milliners, and so forth, in
this town. Do you observe ? Omer and Joram. The prom-
ise of which my friend has spoken, is made and entered into
with her cousin ; Christian name, Ham ; surname, Peggotty,
occupation, boatbuilder ; also of this town. She lives with a
relative ; Christian name, unknown ; surname, Peggotty ; oc-
cupation, seafaring ; also of this town. She is the prettiest
and most engaging little fairy in the world. I admire her â€” -
as my friend does â€” exceedingly. If it were not that I might
appear to disparage her intended, which I know my friend
would not like, I would add, that to me she seems to be throw-
ing herself away ; that I am sure she might do better ; and
that I swear she was born to be a lady."

Miss Mowcher listened to these words, which were very
slowly and distinctly spoken, with her head on one side, and
her eye in the air, as if she were still looking for that answer.
When he ceased she became brisk again in an instant, and
rattled away with surprising volubility.

" Oh ! And that's all about it, is it ? " she exclaimed,
trimming his whiskers with a little restless pair of scissors,
that went glancing round his head in all directions. " Very
well : very well ! Quite a long story. Ought to end ' and
they lived happy ever afterwards ; oughtn't it ? Ah ! What
is that game at forfeits ? I love my love with an E, because
she's enticing ; I hate her with an E, because she's engaged.
I took her to the sign of the exquisite, and treated her with
an elopement ; her name's Emily, and she lives in the east ?
Ha ! ha ! ha ! Mr. Copperfield, ain't I volatile ? "

Merely looking at me with extravagant slyness, and not
waiting for any reply, she continued, without drawing breath :

" There ! If ever any scapegrace was trimmed and
touched up to perfection, you are, Steerforth. If I under-
stand any noddle in the world, I understand yours. Do you
hear me when I tell you that, my darling ? I understand yours,'
peeping down into his face. " Now you may mizzle, Jemmy
(as we say at Court), and if Mr. Copperfield will take the
chair I'll operate on him."

uWhat do you say, Daisy?" inquired Steerforth, laugh
ing and resigning his seat. " Will you be improved ? *

" Thank you, Miss Mowcher, not this evening."

SOME OLD SCENES, AND SOME NE W PEOPLE. 329

" Don't say no," returned the little woman, looking at me
mth the aspect of a connoisseur ; " a little bit more eyebrow ? "

"Thank you," I returned, "some other time."

" Have it carried half a quarter of an inch towards the
temple," said Miss Mowcher. " We can do it in a fortnight."

" No, I thank you. Not at present."

"Go in for a tip," she urged. " No ? Let's get the scaf â€¢
folding up, then, for a pair of whiskers. Come ! "

I could not help blushing as I declined, for I felt we were
on my weak point, now. But Miss Mowcher, finding that I
was not at present disposed for any decoration within the
range of her art, and that I was, for the time being, proof
against the blandishments of the small bottle which she held
up before one eye to enforce her persuasions, said we would
make a beginning on an early day, and requested the aid of
my hand to descend from her elevated station. Thus assisted,
she skipped down with much agility, and began to tie her
double chin into her bonnet.

"The fee," said Steerforth, "is "

" Five bob," replied Miss Mowcher, " and dirt cheap, my
chicken. Ain't I volatile, Mr. Copperneld ? "

I replied politely : "Not at all." But I thought she was
rather so, when she tossed up his two half-crowns like a gob-
lin pieman, caught them, dropped them in her pocket, and gave
it a loud slap.

" That's the Till ! " observed Miss Mowcher, standing at
the chair again, and replacing in the bag a miscellaneous col-
lection of little objects she had emptied out of it. " Have I
got all my traps ? It seems so. It won't do to be like long
Ned Bead wood, when they took him to church ' to marry him
to somebody,' as he says, and left the bride behind. Ha ! hat
ha! A wicked rascal, Ned, but droll! Now, I know I'm
going to break your hearts, but I am forced to leave you. You
must call up all your fortitude, and try to bear it. Good-bye,
Mr. Copperfield ! Take care of yourself, Jockey of Norfolk !
How I have been rattling on ! It's all the fault of you two
wretches, /forgive you ! ' Bob swore ! ' â€” as the Englishman
said for ' Good-night,' when he first learnt Frencl^ and thought
it so like English. ' Bob swore,' my clucks ! "

With the bag slung over her arm, and rattling as she wad-
dkd away, she waddled to the door ; where she stopped to in-
quire if she should leave us a lock of her hair. " Ain't I vola
tile ? " she added, as a commentary on this offer, and, with
her finger on her nose, departed.

33Â°

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Steerforth laughed to that degree, that it was impossible
for me to help laughing too ; though I am not sure I should
have done so, but for this inducement. When we had had out
laugh quite out, which was after some time, he told me that
Miss Mowcher had quite an extensive connection, and made
herself useful to a variety of people in a variety of ways.
Some people trifled with her as a mere oddity, he said, but
she was as shrewdly and sharply observant as any one he knew,
and as long-headed as she was short-armed. He told me that
what she had said of being here, and there, and everywhere,
was true enough ; for she made little darts into the provinces,
and seemed to pick up customers everywhere, and to know
everybody. I asked him what her disposition was ; whether
it was at all mischievous, and if her sympathies were generally
on the right side of things ; but, not succeeding in attracting
his attention to these questions after two or three attempts, I
forbore or forgot to repeat them. He told me instead, with
much rapidity, a good deal about her skill, and her profits ;
and about her being a scientific cupper, if I should ever have
occasion for her service in that capacity.

She was the principal theme of our conversation during
the evening : and when we parted for the night Steerforth
called after me over the banisters, ' Bob swore ! ' as I went
down stairs.

I was surprised, when I came to Mr. Barkis's house, to
find Ham walking up and down in front of it, and still more
surprised to learn from him that little Em'ly was inside. I
naturally inquired why he was not there too, instead of pacing
the streets by himself ?

" Why, you see, Mas'r Davy," he rejoined, in a hesitating
manner, " Em'ly, she's talking to some 'un in here."

" I should have thought," said I, smiling, " that that was
a reason for your being in here too, Ham."

" Well, Mas'r Davy, in a general way, so't would be," he
returned ; " but look'ee here, Mas'r Davy," lowering his voice,
and speaking very gravely. " It's a young woman, sir â€” a young
woman, that Em'ly knowed once, and doen't ought to know no
more."

When I heard these words, a light began to fall upon the
figure I had seen following them, some hours ago.

" It's a poor wurem, Mas'r Davy," said Ham, " as is trod
under foot by all the town. Up street and down street. The
mowld o' the church-yard don't hold any that the folk shrink
away from, more."

SOME OLD SCEArES, AND SOME NEW PEOFLE. 33 j

" Did I see her to-night, Ham, on the sands, a/ter we met
you ? "

" Keeping us in sight ? " said Ham. " It's like you dic^
Mas'r Davy. Not that I know'd then, she was theer, sir, but
along of her creeping soon arterwards under Em'ly's little
winder, when she see the light come, and whisp'ring ' Em'ly,
Em'ly, for Christ's sake, have a woman's heart towards me.
I was once like you ! ' Those was solemn words, Mas'r Davy,
fur to hear! "

" They were indeed, Ham. What did Em'ly do ? "

" Says Em'ly, ' Martha, is it you ? Oh, Martha, can it be
you ! ' â€” for they had sat at work together, many a day, at Mr.
Omer's."

" I recollect her now ! " cried I, recalling one of the two
girls I had seen when I first went there. " I recollect her
quite well ! "

"Martha Endell," said Ham. "Two or three year older
than Em'ly, but was at the school with her."

" I never heard her name," said I. " I didn't mean to in-
terrupt you."

"For the matter o' that, Mas'r Davy," replied Ham, "all's
told a'most in them words, ' Em'ly, Em'ly, for Christ's sake
have a woman's heart towards me. I was once like you! '
She wanted to speak to Em'ly. Em'ly couldn't speak to her
theer, for her loving uncle was come home, and he wouldn't â€” â–
no, Mas'r Davy," said Ham, with great earnestness, "he
couldn't, kind-natur'd, tender-hearted as he is, see them two
together, side by side, for all the treasures that's wrecked in
the sea."

I felt how true this was. I knew it, on the instant, quite
as well as Ham.

" So Em'ly writes in pencil on a bit of paper," he pursued,
u and gives it to her out o' window to bring here. â€¢ Show that,'
she says, ' to my aunt, Mrs. Barkis, and she'll set you down
by her fire, for the love of me, till uncle is gone out, and I can
come.' By-and-by she tells me what I tell you, Mas'r Davy,
and asks me to bring her. What can I do ? She doen't
ought to know any such, but I can't deny her, when the tears
is on her face."

He put his hand into the breast of his shaggy jacket, and
took out with great care a pretty little purse.

" And if I could deny her when the tears was on her face,
Mas'r Davy," said Ham, tenderly adjusting it on the rough

332

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

palm of his hand, " how could I deny her when she give mÂ«
this to carry for her â€” knowing what she brought it for ? Such
a toy as it is ! " said Ham, thoughtfully looking on it. " With
such a little money in it, Em'ly, my dear! "

I shook him warmly by the hand when he had put it away
again â€” for that was more satisfactory to me than saying any-
thingâ€” and we walked up and down, for a minute or two, in
silence. The door opened then, and Peggotty appeared, beck-
oning to Ham to come in. I would have kept away, but she
came after me, entreating me to come in too. Even then, I
would have avoided the room where they all were, but for its
being the neat-tiled kitchen I have mentioned more than once.
The door opening immediately into it, I found myself among
them, before I considered whither I was going.

The girl â€” the same I had seen upon the sands â€” was near
the fire. She was sitting on the ground, with her head and one
arm lying on a chair. I fancied from the disposition of her
figure, that Em'ly had but newly risen from the chair, and
that the forlorn head might perhaps have been lying on her
lap. I saw but little of the girl's face, over which her hair
fell loose and scattered, as if she had been disordering it with
her own hands ; but I saw that she was young, and of a fair
complexion. Peggotty had been crying. So had little Em'ly.
Not a word was spoken when we first went in ; and the Dutch
clock by the dresser seemed, in the silence, to tick twice as
loud as usual.

Em'ly spoke first

" Martha wants," she said to Ham, " to go to London."
" Why to London ? " returned Ham.

He stood between them, looking on the prostrate girl with
a mixture of compassion for her, and of jealousy of her hold-
ing any companionship with her whom he loved so well, which
I have always remembered distinctly. They both spoke as if
she were ill ; in a soft, suppressed tone that was plainly heard,
although it hardly rose above a whisper.

" Better there than here," said a third voice aloud â€”
Martha's, though she did not move. " No one knows me
there. Everybody knows me here."

" What will she do there ? " inquired Ham.

She lifted up her head, and looked darkly round at him
for a moment ; then laid it down 'again, and curved her right
arm about her neck, as a woman in a fever or m an agony ot
pain from a shot, might twist herself.

SOME OLD SCENES, AND SOME NEW PEOPLE. 333

" She will try to do well," said little Em'ly v You don?t
know what she has said to us. Does he â€” do they â€” aunt ?

Peggotty shook her head compassionately.

" I'll try," said Martha, " if you'll help me away. I never
can do worse than I have done here. I may do better. Oh ! *3
with a dreadful shiver, "take me out of these streets, where
the whole town knows me from a child ! "

As Em'ly held out her hand to Ham, I saw him put in it a
little canvas bag. She took it as if she thought it were her
purse, and made a step or two forward * but finding her mis-
take, came back to where he had retired near me, and showed
it to him.

" It's all yourn, Em'ly," I could hear him say. " I haven't
nowt in all the wureld that ain't yourn, my dear. It ain't of
no delight to me, except for you ! "

The tears rose freshly in her eyes, but she turned away
and went to Martha. What she gave her, I don't know. I
saw her stooping over her, and putting money in her bosom.
She whispered something, as she asked was that enough ?
" More than enough," the other said, and took her hand and
kissed it.

Then Martha arose, and gathering her shawl about her,
covering her face with it, and weeping aloud, went slowly to
the door. She stopped a moment before going out, as if she
would have uttered something or turned back ; but no word
passed her lips. Making the same low, dreary, wretched moan-
ing in her shawl, she went away.

As the door closed, little Em'ly looked at us three in a
hurried manner, and then hid her face in her hands, and fell
to sobbing.

" Doen't Em'ly ! " said Ham, tapping her gently on the
shoulder. " Doen't, my dear ! You doen't ought to cry so,
pretty ! "

" Oh, Ham ! " she exclaimed, still weeping pitifully. " I
am not as good a girl as I ought to be ! I know I have not
the thankful heart, sometimes, I ought to have ! "

" Yes, yes, you have, I'm sure," said Ham.

" No ! no ! no ! " cried little Em'ly, sobbing, and shaking
her head. " I am not as good a girl as I ought to be. Not
near ! not near ! "

And still she cried, as if her heart would break.

" I try your love too much. I know I do ! " she sobbed.
"I'm often cross to you, ancLchir.sreable with you, when I

334

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

ought to be far different. You are never so to me. Why ant
I ever so to you, when I should think of nothing but how to
be grateful, and to make you happy ! "

"You always make me so," said Ham, " my dear! I am
happy in the sight of you. I am happy, all day long, in the
thoughts of you."

" Ah ! that's not enough ! " she cried. " That is because
you are good ; not because I am ! Oh, my dear, it might
have been a better fortune for you, if you had been fond of
some one else â€” of some one steadier and much worthier than
me, who was all bound up in you, and never vain and change-
able like me ! "

" Poor little tender-heart," said Ham in a low voice.
" Martha has overset her, altogether."

" Please, aunt," sobbed Em'ly, " come here, and let me lay
my head upon you. Oh, I am very miserable to-night, aunt !
Oh, I am not as good a girl as I ought to be. I am not, I
know ! "

Peggotty had hastened to the chair before the fire. Em'ly,
with her arms around her neck, kneeled by her, looking up
most earnestly into her face.

" Oh, pray, aunt, try to help me ! Ham, dear, try to help
me ! Mr. David, for the sake of old times, do, please, try to
help me ! I want to be a better girl than I am. I want to
feel a hundred times more thankful than I do. I want to
feel more, what a blessed thing it is to be the wife of a good
man, and to lead a peaceful life. Oh me, oh me ! Oh my
heart, my heart ! "

She dropped her face on my old nurse's breast, and, ceas-
ing this supplication, which in its agony and grief was half a
woman's, half a child's, as all her manner was (being, in that,
more natural, and better suited to her beauty, as I thought
than any other manner could have been), wept silently, while
my old nurse hushed her like an infant.

She got calmer by degrees, and then we soothed her;
now talking encouragingly, and now jesting a little with her,
until she began to raise her head and speak to us. So we got
on, until she was able to smile, and then to laugh, and then to
sit up, half ashamed ; while Peggotty recalled her stray ring-
lets, dried her eyes, and made her neat again, lest her uncle
should wonder, when she got home, why his darling had been
crying.

I saw her do that night, what I had never seen her do be

/ CORROBORATE MR. DICK, ETC.

335

foie. I saw her innocently kiss her chosen husband on the
cheek, and creep close to his bluff form as if it were her best
support. When they went away together, in the waning moon-
light, and I looked after them, comparing their departure in
my mind with Martha's, I saw that she held his arm with
both her hands, and still kept close to him.

CHAPTER XXIII.

I CORROBORATE MR. DICK, AND CHOOSE A PROFESSION,

When I awoke in the morning I thought very much of
little Em'ly, and her emotion last night, after Martha had left.
I felt as if I had come into the knowledge of those domestic
weaknesses and tendernesses in a sacred confidence, and that
to disclose them, even to Steerforth, would be wrong. I had
no gentler feeling towards any one than towards the pretty
creature who had been my playmate, and whom I have always
been persuaded, and shall always be persuaded to my dying
day, I then devotedly loved. The repetition to any ears â€” â–
even to Steerforth's â€” of what she had been unable to repress
when her heart lay open to me by an accident, I felt would be
a rough deed, unworthy of myself, unworthy of the light of
our pure childhood, which I always saw encircling her head.
I made a resolution, therefore, to keep it in my own breast ;
and there it gave her image a new grace.

While we were at breakfast, a letter was delivered to me
from my aunt. As it contained matter on which I thought
Steerforth could advise me as well as any one, and on which
I knew I should be delighted to consult him, I resolved to
make it a subject of discussion on our journey home. For
the present we had enough to do, in taking leave of all our
friends. Mr. Barkis was far from being the last among them,
in his regret at our departure ; and I believe would even have
opened the box again, and sacrificed another guinea, if it
would have kept us eight-and-forty hours in Yarmouth. Peg-
gotty and all her family were full of grief at our going. The
whole house of Omer and Joram turned out to bid us good-
bye j and there were so many seafaring volunteers in attend*

33&

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

ance on Steerforth, when our porraanteaus wen*- to the
coach, that if we had had the baggage of a regiment with us,
we should hardly have wanted porters to carry it. In a word,
we departed to the regret and admiration of all concerned,
and left a great many people very sorry behind us.

" Do you stay long here, Littimer ? " said I, as he stood
waiting to see the coach start.

"No, sir," he replied; "probably not very long, sir."

"He can hardly say, just now," observed Steerforth, care-
lessly. " He knows what he has to do, and he'll do it."

" That I am sure he will," said I.

Littimer touched his hat in acknowledgment of my good
opinion, and I felt about eight years old. He touched it once
more, wishing us a good journey ; and we left him standing
on the pavement, as respectable a mystery as any pyramid in
Egypt.

For some little time we held no conversation, Steerforth
being unusually silent, and I being sufficiently engaged in won-
dering, within myself, when I should see the old places again,
and what new changes might happen to me or them in the
meanwhile. At length Steerforth, becoming gay and talk-
ative in a moment, as he could become anything he liked at
any moment, pulled me by the arm :

" Find a voice, David. What about the letter you were
speaking of at breakfast ? "

" Oh ! " said I, taking it out of my pocket. " It's from my
aunt."

" And what does she say, requiring consideration ? "

" Why, she reminds me, Steerforth," said I, " that I came
out on this expedition to look about me, and to think a
little."

" Which, of course, you have done ? "

" Indeed I can't say I have, particularly. To tell you the
truth, I am afraid I had forgotten it." I

" Well ! look about you now, and make up for your negli-
gence," said Steerforth. " Look to the right, and you'll see
a flat country, with a good deal of marsh in it ; look to thfc
left, and you'll see the same. Look to the front, and you'l)
find no difference ; look to the rear, and there it is still."

I laughed and replied that I saw no suitable profession in
the whole prospect ; which was perhaps to be attributed to its
flatness.

" What says our aunt on the subject ? " inquired Steer-

/ CORROBORATE MR. DICK, ETC.

337

forth, glancing at the letter in ray hand. " Does she suggest
anything ? "

"Why, yes," said I. "She asks me, here, if I think I
should like to be a proctor ? What do you think of it .? "

"Well, I don't know," replied Steerforth, ccolly. " Yo*
may as well do that as anything else, I suppose."

I could not help laughing again, at his balancing all call-
ings and professions so equally ; and I told him so.

"What is a proctor, Steerforth ? " said I.

" Why, he is a sort of monkish attorney," replied Steer-
forth. " He is, to some faded courts held in Doctors' Com-
monsâ€” a lazy old nook near St. Paul's Churchyard â€” what
solicitors are to the courts of law and equity. He is a func-
tionary whose existence, in the natural course of things, would
have terminated about two hundred years ago. I can tell you
best what he is, by telling you what Doctors' Commons is.
It's a little out-of-the-way place, where they administer what
is called ecclesiastical law, and play all kinds of tricks with
obsolete old monsters of acts of Parliament, which three-
fourths of the world know nothing about, and the other fourth
supposes to have been dug up, in a fossil state, in the days of
the Edwards. It's a place that has an ancient monopoly in
suits about people's wills and people's marriages, and disputes
among ships and boats."

" Nonsense, Steerforth ! You don't mean to say that there
Is any affinity between nautical and ecclesiastical matters ? "

" I don't, indeed, my clear boy," he returned ; " but I mean
to say that they are managed and decided by the same set of
people, down in that same Doctors' Commons. You shall go
there one day, and find them blundering through half the
nautical terms in Young's Dictionary, apropos of the ' Nancy *
having run down the 'Sarah Jane,' or Mr. Peggotty and the
r armouth boatmen having put off in a gale of wind with an
anchor and cable to the ' Nelson ' Indiaman in distress ; and
you shall go there another day, and find them deep in the
evidence, pro and con., respecting a clergyman who has mis-
behaved himself ; and you shall find the judge in the nautical
case, the advocate in the clergyman's case, or contrariwise.
They are like actors : now a man's a judge, and now he is
not a judge ; now he's one thing, now he's another ; now he's
something else, change and change about ; but it's always a
very pleasant profitable little affair of private theatricals, pre
sented to an uncommonly select audience."

338

DAVID COPPERFIELD,

^ But advocates and proctors are not one and the same? *
said I, a little puzzled. " Are they ? "

" No," returned Steerforth, " the advocates are civilians â€”
men who have taken a doctor's degree at college â€” which is
the first reason of my knowing anything about it. The proc-
tors employ the advocates. Both get very comfortable fees,
and altogether they make a mighty snug little party. On the
ivhole, I would recommend you to take to Doctors' Common?
kindly, David. They plume themselves on their gentility
there, I can tell you, if that's any satisfaction."

I made allowance for Steerforth's light way of treating the
subject, and, considering it with reference to the staid air of
gravity and antiquity which I associated with that " lazy old
nook near St. Paul's Churchyard," did not feel indisposed
towards my aunt's suggestion ; which she left to my free decis-
ion, making no scruple of telling me that it had occurred to
her, on her lately visiting her own proctor in Doctors' Com-
mons for the purpose of settling her will in my favor.

" That's a laudable proceeding on the part of our aunt, at
all events," said Steerforth, when I mentioned it ; " and one
deserving of all encouragement. Daisy, my advice is that you
take kindly to Doctors' Commons."

I quite made up my mind to do so. I then told Steerforth
that my aunt was in town awaiting me (as I found from her
letter), and that she had taken lodgings for a week at a kind
of private hotel in Lincoln's Inn Fields, where there was a
stone staircase, and a convenient door in the roof ; my aunt
being firmly persuaded that every house in London was going
to be burnt down every night.

We achieved the rest of our journey pleasantly, sometimes
recurring to Doctors' Commons, and anticipating the distant
days when I should be a proctor there, which Steerforth
pictured in a variety of humorous and whimsical lights, that
made us both merry. When we came to our journey's end, he
went home, engaging to call upon me next day but one ; and
I drove to Lincoln's Inn Fields, where I found my aunt up, and
waiting supper.

If I had been round the world since we parted, we could
hardly have been better pleased to meet again. My aunt cried
outright as she embraced me ; and said, pretending to laugh,
that if my poor mother had been alive, that silly little creature
would have shed tears, she had no doubt.

" So you have left Mr. D;ck behind, aunt ? " said I. " I
am sorry for that. Ah, Janet, how do you do ? "

/ CORROBORATE MR. DICK, ETC.

339

As Janet curtsied, hoping I was well, I observed my aumt's
eisage lengthen very much.

" I am sorry for it, too," said my aunt, rubbing her nose.
" I have had no peace of mind, Trot, since I h*ve been here/'

Before I could ask why, she told me.

" I am convinced," said my aunt, laying her hand with
melancholy firmness on the table, " that Dick's character is
not a character to keep the donkies off. I am confident he
wants strength of purpose. I ought to have left Janet at home,
instead, and then my mind might perhaps have been at ease.
If ever there was a donkey trespassing on my green," said my
aunt, with emphasis, " there was one this afternoon at four
o'clock. A cold feeling came over me from head to foot, and
I know it was a donkey ! "

I tried to comfort her on this point, but she rejected con-
solation.

" It was a donkey," said my aunt ; " and it was the one
with the stumpy tail which that Murdering sister of a woman
rode, when she came to my house." This had been, ever since,
the only name my aunt knew for Miss Murdstone. " If there
is any Donkey in Dover, whose audacity it is harder to me to
bear than another's, that," said my aunt, striking the table,
" is the animal ! "

Janet ventured to suggest that my aunt might be disturbing
herself unnecessarily, and that she believed the donkey in
question was then engaged in the sand-and-gravel line of bus-
iness, and was not available for purposes of trespass. But my
aunt wouldn't hear of it.

Supper was comfortably served and hot, though my aunt's
rooms were very high up â€” whether that she might have more
stone stairs for her money, or might be nearer to the door in
the roof, I don't know â€” and consisted of a roast fowl, a steak
and some vegetables, to all of which I did ample justice, and
which were all excellent. But my aunt had her own ideas con-
cerning London provision, and ate but little.

" I suppose this unfortunate fowl was born and brought up
in a cellar," said my aunt, " and never took the air except on
a hackney-coach stand. I hope the steak may be beef, but I
don't believe it. Nothing's genuine in the place, in my
opinion, but the dirt."

" Don't you think the fowl may have come out of the
country, aunt ? " I hinted.

"Certainly not," returned my aunt. "It would be no

3iÂ°

DAVID COPrERFIELD.

pleasure to a London tradesman to sell anything which was
what he pretended it was."

I did not venture to controvert this opinion, but I made a
good supper, which it greatly satisfied her to see me do. When
the table was cleared, Janet assisted her to arrange her hair, to
put on her nightcap, which was of a smarter construction than
usual (" in case of fire," my aunt said), and to fold her gown
back over her knees, these being her usual preparations for
warming herself before going to bed. I then made her, accord-
ing to certain established regulations from which no deviation,
however slight, could ever be permitted, a glass of hot white
wine and water, and a slice of toast cut into long thin strips.
With these accompaniments we were left alone to finish the
evening, my aunt sitting opposite to me drinking her wine and
water ; soaking her strips of toast in it, one by one, before
eating them ; and looking benignantly on me, from among the
borders of her nightcap.

" Well, Trot," she began, " what do you think of the proc-
tor plan ? Or have you not begun to think about it yet ? "

" I have thought a good deal about it, my dear aunt, and I
have talked a good deal about it with Steerforth. I like it very
much indeed. I like it exceedingly."

" Come," said my aunt. " That's cheering."

" I have only one difficulty, aunt."

" Say what it is, Trot," she returned.

" Why, I want to ask, aunt, as this seems, from what I un-
derstand, to be a limited profession, whether my entrance into
it would not be very expensive ? "

" It will cost," returned my aunt, " to article you, just a
thousand pounds."

" Now, my dear aunt," said I, drawing my chair nearer, " I
am uneasy in my mind about that. It's a large sum of money.
You have expended a great deal on my education, and have
always been as liberal to me in all things, as it was possible to
be. You have been the soul of generosity. Surely there are
some ways in which I might begin life with hardly any outlay,
and yet begin with a good hope of getting on by resolution and
exertion. Are you sure that it would not be better to try that
course ? Are you certain that you can afford to part with so
much money, and that it is right that it should be so expended ?
I only ask you, my second mother, to consider. Are vou cer-
tain ? "

My aunt finished eating the piece of toast on which she was

/ CORROBORATE MR. DICK, ETC.

341

then engaged, looking me full in the face all the while ; and
then setting her glass on the chimney-piece, and folding her
hands upon her folded skirts, replied as follows :

"Trot, my child, if I have any object in life, it is to provide
for your being a good, a sensible, and a happy man. I am
bent upon it â€” so is Dick. I should like some people that I
know to hear Dick's conversation on the subject. Its sagacity
is wonderful. But no one knows the resources of that man's
intellect except myself ! "

She stopped for a moment to take my hand between hers,
and went on :

" It's in vain, Trot, to recall the past, unless it works some
influence upon the present. Perhaps I might have been better
friends with your poor father. Perliaps I might have been
better friends with that poor child your mother, even after your
sister Betsey Trotwood disappointed me. When you came to
me, a little runaway boy, all dusty and way-worn, perhaps I
thought so. From that time until now, Trot, you have ever
been a credit to me and a pride and a pleasure. I have no
other claim upon my means ; at least " â€” here to my surprise
she hesitated, and was confused â€” " no, I have no other claim
upon my means â€” and you are my adopted child. Only be a
loving child to me in my age, and bear with my whims and
fancies ; and you will do more for an old woman whose prime
of life was not so happy or conciliating as it might have been,
than ever that old woman did for you."

It was the first time I had heard my aunt refer to her past
history. There was a magnanimity in her quiet way of doing
so, and of dismissing it, which would have exalted her in my
respect and affection, if anything could.

" All is agreed and understood between us now, Trot,"
said my aunt, " and we need talk of this no more. Give me
a kiss, and we'll go to the Commons after breakfast to-
morrow."

We had a long chat by the fire before we went to bed. I
slept in a room on the same floor with my aunt's, and was a
little disturbed in the course of the night by her knocking at
my door as often as she was agitated by a distant sound of
hackney-coaches or market-carts, and inquiring " if I heard the
â€¢engines ? " But towards morning she slept better, and suffered
me to do so too.

At about mid-day, we set out for the office of Messrs.
Spenlow and Jorkins, in Doctors' Commons. My aunt, who

342

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

had this other general opinion in reference to London, that
every man she saw was a pickpocket, gave me her purse ta
cairy for her, which had ten guineas in it and some silver.

We made a pause at the toy-shop in Fleet-street, to see the
giants of Saint Dunstan's strike upon the bells â€” we had timed
our going, so as to catch them at it, at twelve o'clock â€” and
then went on towards Ludgate Hill and St. Paul's Church-
yard. We were crossing to the former place, when I found
that my aunt greatly accelerated her speed, and looked fright-
ened. I observed, at the same time, that a lowering ill-dressed
man who had stopped and stared at us in passing, a little
before, was coming so close after us, as to brush against her.

" Trot ! My dear Trot ! " cried my aunt, in a terrified
whisper, and pressing my arm. " I don't know what I am
to do."

" Don't be alarmed," said I. " There's nothing to be afraid
of. Step into a shop, and I'll soon get rid of this fellow."

" No, no, child ! " she returned. " Don't speak to him for
the world. I entreat, I order you ! "

" Good Heaven, aunt ! " said I. " He is nothing but a
sturdy beggar."

" You don't know what he is ! " replied my aunt. " You
don't know who he is ! You don't know what you say.! "

We had stopped in an empty doorway, while this was pass-
ing, and he had stopped too.

" Don't look at him ! " said my aunt, as I turned my head
indignantly, " but get me a coach, my dear, and wait for me
in St. Paul's Churchyard."

" Wait for you ? " I repeated.

" Yes," rejoined my aunt. " I must go alone. I must go
with him."

" With him, aunt ? This man ? "

" I am in my senses," she replied, " and I tell you I must.
Get me a coach ! "

However much astonished I might be, I was sensible that
I had no right to refuse compliance with such a peremptory
command. I hurried away a few paces, and called a hackney
chariot which was passing empty. Almost before I could let
down the steps, my aunt sprang in, I don't know how, and the
man followed. She waved her hand to me to go away, so-
earnestly, that, all confounded as I was, I turned from them
at once. In doing so, I heard her say to the coachman,
" Drive anywhere ! Drive straight on ! " and presently the
chariot passed me, go'm? up the hill.

/ CORROBORATE MR. DICK', ETC.

343

What Mr. Dick had told me, and what I had supposed to
be a delusion of his, now came into my mind. I could not
doubt that this person was the person of whom he had made
such mysterious mention, though what the nature of his hold
upon my aunt could possibly be, I was quite unable to imagine.
After half an hour's cooling in the churchyard, I saw the
chariot coming back. The driver stopped beside me, and my
aunt was sitting in it alone.

She had not yet sufficiently recovered from her agitation
to be quite prepared for the visit we had to make. She desired
me to get into the chariot, and to tell the coachman to drive
slowly up and down a little while. She said no more, except,
" My dear child, never ask me what it was, and don't refer to
it," until she had perfectly regained her composure, when she
told me she was quite herself now, and we might get out. On
her giving me her purse, to pay the driver, I found that all the
guineas were gone, and only the loose silver remained.

Doctors' Commons was approached by a little low arch-
way. Before we had taken many paces down the street
beyond it, the noise of the city seemed to melt, as if by magic,
into a softened distance. A few dull courts and narrow ways
brought us to the sky-lighted offices of Spenlow and Jorkins ;
in the vestibule of which temple, accessible to pilgrims with-
out the ceremony of knocking, three or four clerks were at
work as copyists. One of these, a little dry man, sitting by
himself, who wore a stiff brown wig that looked as if it were
made of gingerbread, rose to receive my aunt, and show us
into Mr. Spenlow's room.

" Mr. Spenlow's in Court, ma'am," said the dry man ; " it's
an Arches day; but it's close by, and I'll send for him
directly."

As we were left to look about us while Mr. Spenlow was
fetched, I availed myself of the opportunity. The furniture
of the room was old-fashioned and dusty ; and the green baize
on the top of the writing-table had lost all its color, and was
as withered and pale as an old pauper. There were a great
many bundles of papers on it, some indorsed as Allegations,
and some (to my surprise) as Libels, and some as being in the
Consistory Court, and some in the Arches Court, and some in
the Prerogative Court, and some in the Admiralty Court, and
some in the Delegates' court ; giving me occasion to wonder
much, how many Courts there might be in the gross, and how
long it would take to understand them all. Besides these, there

344

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

were sundry immense manuscript Books of Evidence taken oil
affidavit, strongly bound, and tied together in massive sets, a
set to each cause, as if every cause were a history in ten or
twenty volumes. All this looked tolerably expensive, I
thought, and gave me an agreeable notion of a proctor's busi-
ness. I was casting my eyes with increasing complacency
over these and many similar objects, when hasty footsteps
were heard in the room outside, and Mr. Spenlow, in a black
gown trimmed with white fur, came hurrying in, taking off his
hat as he came.

He was a little light-haired gentleman, with undeniable
boots, and the stiffest of white cravats and shirt-collars. He
Was buttoned up mighty trim and tight, and must have taken
a great deal of pains with his whiskers, which were accurately
curled. His gold watch-chain was so massive, that a fancy
came across me, that he ought to have a sinewy golden arm,,
to draw it out with, like those which are put up over the gold-
beaters' shops. He was got up with such care, and was so
stiff, that he could hardly bend himself ; being obliged, when
he glanced at some papers on the desk, after sitting down in
his chair, to move his whole body, from the bottom of his
spine, like Punch.

I had previously been presented by my aunt, and had been
courteously received. He now said :

" And so Mr. Copperfield, you think of entering into our
profession ? I casually mentioned to Miss Trotwood, when I
had the pleasure of an interview with her the other day." â€” â€¢
with another inclination of his body â€” Punch again â€” " that
there was a vacancy here. Miss Trotwood was good enough
to mention that she had a nephew who was her peculiar care,
and for whom she was seeking to provide genteelly in life.
That nephew, I believe, I have now the pleasure of " â€” Punch
again.

I bowed my acknowledgments, and said, my aunt had men .
tioned to me that there was that opening, and that I believed I
should like it very much. That I was strongly inclined to
like it, and had taken immediately to the proposal. That I
could not absolutely pledge myself to like it, until I knew
something more about it. That although it was little else
than a matter of form, I presumed I should have an oppor-
tunity of trying how I liked it, before I bound myself to it
irrevocably.

" Oh surely ! surely ! " said Mr. Spenlow. " We always,

/ CORROBORATE MR. DICK, ETC. 34.5

in this house, propose a month â€” an initiatory month. I should
be happy, myself, to propose two months â€” three â€” an indefi-
nite period, in fact â€” but I have a partner. Mr. Jorkins."

"And the premium, sir," I returned, "is a thousand
pounds."

" And the premium, Stamp included, is a thousand pounds."
said Mr. Spenlow. "As I have mentioned to Miss Trotwood,
I am actuated by no mercenary considerations ; few men'
are less so, I believe; but Mr. Jorkins has his opinions on
.liese subjects, and I am bound to respect Mr. Jorkins's opin-
ions. Mr. Jorkins thinks a thousand pounds too little, in
short."

" I suppose, sir," said I, still desiring to spare my aunt,
" that it is not the custom here, if an articled clerk were par-
ticularly useful, and made himself a perfect master of his pro-
fessionâ€” " I could not help blushing, this looked so like
praising myself â€” " I suppose it is not the custom in the later
years of his time, to allow him any â€” "

Mr. Spenlow, by a great effort, just lifted his head far
enough out of his cravat, to shake it, and answered, anticipa-
ting the word " salary."

" No. I will not say what consideration I might give to
that point myself, Mr. Copperfield, if I were unfettered. Mr.
Jorkins is immovable."

I was quite dismayed by the idea of this terrible Jorkins.
But I found out afterwards that he was a mild man of a heavy
temperament, whose place in the business was to keep him-
self in the background, and be constantly exhibited by name
as the most obdurate and ruthless of men. If a clerk wanted
his salary raised, Mr. Jorkins wouldn't listen to such a propo-
sition. If a client were slow to settle his bill of costs, Mr.
Jorkins was resolved to have it paid ; and however painful
these things might be (and always were) to the feelings of
Mr. Spenlow, Mr. Jorkins would have his bond. The heart
and hand of the good angel Spenlow would have been always
open, but for the restraining demon Jorkins. As I have
grown older, I think I have had experience of some other
houses doing business on the principle of Spenlow and Jor-
kins !

It was settled that I should begin my month's probation
as soon as I pleased, and that my aunt need neither remain
in town nor return at its expiration, as the articles of agree-
ment of which I was to be the subject, could easily be sent

346

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

to her at home for her signature. When we had got so fat
Mr. Spenlow offered to take me into Court then and there;
and show me what sort of place it was. As I was willing
enough to know, we went out with this object, leaving my
aunt behind ; who would trust herself, she said, in nc such
place, and who, I think, regarded all Courts of Law as a sort
of powder-mills that might blow up at any time.

Mr. Spenlow conducted me through a paved courtyard
fDrmed of grave brick houses, which I inferred, from the Doc-
tors' names upon the doors, to be the official abiding-places of
the learned advocates of whom Steerforth had told me ; and
into a large dull room, not unlike a chapel to my thinking,
on the left hand. The upper part of this room was fenced
off from the rest ; and there, on the two sides of a raised
platform of the horse-shoe form, sitting on easy old-fash-
ioned dining-room chairs, were sundry gentlemen in red gowns
and gray wigs, whom I found to be the doctors aforesaid.
Blinking over a little desk like a pulpit-desk, in the curve of
the horse-shoe, was an old gentleman, whom, if I had seen him
in an aviary, I should certainly have taken for an owl, but whoT
I learned, was the presiding judge. In the space within the
horse-shoe, lower than these, that is to say on about the level
of the floor, were sundry other gentlemen of Mr. Spenlow's
rank, and dressed like him in black gowns with white fur upon
them, sitting at a long green table. Their cravats were in gen-
eral stiff, I thought, and their looks haughty ; but in this last
respect, I presently conceived I had done them an injustice,
for when two or three of them had to rise and answer a ques-
tion of the presiding dignitary, I never saw anything more
sheepish. The public represented by a boy with a comforter,
and a shabby-genteel man secretly eating crumbs out of his
coat pockets, was warming itself at a stove in the centre of the
Court. The languid stillness of the place was only broken
by the chirping of this fire and by the voice of one of the
Doctors, who was wandering slowly through a perfect library
of evidence, and stopping to put up, from time to time, at
little road-side inns of argument on the journey. Altogether,
I have never, on any occasion, made one at such a cosey,
dosey, old-fashioned, time-forgotten, sleepy-headed little fam"
ily-party in all my life ; and I felt it would be quite a soothing
opiate to belong to it in any character â€” except perhaps as a
suitor.

Very well satisfied with the dreamy nature of this retreat-

/ CORROBORATE MR. DICK, ETC.

347

I informed Mr. Spenlow that I had seen enough for that time,
and we rejoined my aunt ; in company with whom, I presently
departed from the Commons, feeling very young when I went
out of Spenlow and Jorkins's, on account of the clerks poking
one another with their pens to point me out.

We arrived at Lincoln's Inn Fields without any new ad-
ventures, except encountering an unlucky donkey in a coster-
monger's cart, who suggested painful associations to my auntc
We had another long talk about my plans, when we were safely
housed j and as I knew she was anxious to get home, and be*
tween fire, food, and pickpockets, could never be considered
at her ease for half-an hour in London, I urged her not to be
uncomfortable on my account, but to leave me to take care oi
myself.

" I have not been here a week to-morrow, without consid*
ering that too, my dear," she returned. " There is a furnished
little set of chambers to be let in the Adelphi, Trot, which
ought to suit you to a marvel."

With this brief introduction, she produced from her pocket
an advertisement, carefully cut out of a newspaper, setting
forth that in Buckingham Street in the Adelphi there was to
be let furnished, with a view of the river, a singularly desirable
and compact set of chambers, forming a genteel residence for
a young gentleman, a member of one of the Inns of Court,
or otherwise, with immediate possession. Terms moderate,
and could be taken for a month only, if required.

" Why, this is the very thing, aunt ! " said I, flushed with
the possible dignity of living in chambers.

"Then come," replied my aunt, immediately resuming the
bonnet she had a minute before laid aside. "We'll go and
look at 'em."

Away we went. The advertisement directed us to apply
to Mrs. Crupp on the premises, and we rung the area bell,
which we supposed to communicate with Mrs. Crupp. It was
not until we had rung three or four times that we could pre-
vail on Mrs. Crupp to communicate with us, but at last she
appeared, being a stout lady with a flounce of flannel petticoat
below a nankeen gown.

" Let us see these chambers of yours, if you please, ma'am,"
said my aunt.

" For this gentleman ? " said Mrs. Crupp, feeling in hef
pocket for her keys.

"Yes, for my nephew," said my aunt.

348

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" And a sweet set they is for sich ! " said Mrs. Crupp.
So we went up stairs.

They were on the top o^ the house â€” a great point with my
aunt, being near the fire-escape â€” and consisted of a little
half-blind entry where you could see hardly anything, a little
stone-blind pantry where you could see nothing at all, a sitting-
room, and a bed-room. The furniture was rather faded, but
quite good enough for me ; and sure enough, the river was
Outside the windows.

As I was delighted with the place, my aunt and Mrs. Crupp
withdrew into the pantry to discuss the terms, while I re-
mained on the sitting-room sofa, hardly daring to think it
possible that I could be destined to live in such a noble resi-
dence After a single combat of some duration they returned,
and I saw, to my joy, both in Mrs. Crupp's countenance and
in my aunt's, that the deed was done.

" Is it the last occupant's furniture ? " inquired my aunt

"Yes, it is, ma'am," said Mrs. Crupp.

" What's become of him ? " asked my aunt.

Mrs. Crupp was taken with a troublesome cough, in the
midst of which she articulated with much difficulty. " He
was took ill here, ma'am, and â€” ugh ! ugh ! ugh ! dear me ! â€” â–
and he died ! "

" Hey ! What did he die of ? " asked my aunt.

" Well, ma'am, he died of drink," said Mrs. Crupp, in con-
fidence. " And smoke."

" Smoke ? You don't mean chimneys ? " said my aunt.

" No, ma'am," returned Mrs. Crupp. " Cigars and pipes."

" Thafs not catching, Trot, at any rate," remarked my
a"-nt, turning to me.

" No, indeed," said I.

In short, my aunt, seeing how enraptured I was with the
premises, took them for a month, with leave to remain for
twelve months when that time was out. Mrs. Crupp was to
find linen, and to cook ; every other necessary was already
provided ; and Mrs. Crupp expressly intimated that she should
always yearn towards me as a son. I was to take possession
the day after to-morrow, and Mrs. Crupp said, thank Heaven
she had now found summun she could care for.

On our way back, my aunt informed me how she confi-
dently trusted that the life I was now to lead would make me
firm and self-reliant, which was all I wanted. She repeated
this several times next day, in the intervals of our arranging

f MY FIRST DISSIPATION. 345

for the transmission of my clothes and books from Mr. Wick-
field's ; relative to which, and to all my late holiday, I wrote
a long letter to Agnes, of which my aunt took charge, as she
was to leave on the succeeding day. Not to lengthen these
particulars, I need only add, that she made a handsome pro-
vision for all my possible wants during my month of trial ;
that Steerforth, to my great disappointment and hefs too, did
not make his appearance before she went away ; that I saw
her safely seated in the Dover coach, exulting in the coming
discomfiture of the vagrant donkeys, with Janet at her side â€¢
and that when the coach was gone, I turned my face to the
Adelphi, pondering on the old days when I used to roam
about its subterranean arches, and on the happy changes
which had brought me to the surface.

CHAPTER XXIV.

MY FIRST DISSIPATION.

It was a wonderfully fine thing to have that lofty castle w
myself, and to feel, when I shut my outer door, like Robinson
Crusoe, when le had got into his fortification, and pulled his
ladder up after him. It was a wonderfully fine thing to walk
about town with the key of my house in my pocket, and to
know that I could ask any fellow to come home, and make
quite sure of its b*ing inconvenient to nobody, if it were not
so to me. It was a wonderfully fine thing to let myself in and
out, and to come ai*J go without a word to any one, and to
ring Mrs. Crupp up, gasping, from the depths of the earth,
when I wanted herâ€” md when she vvas disposed to come. All
this, I say, was wonderfully fine ; but I must say, too, that
there were times whei - it was very dreary.

It was fine in the morning, particularly in the fine morn-
ings. It looked a very fresh, free life, by daylight ; still fresher
and more free, by sunlight. But as the day declined, the life
seemed to go down too. I don't know how it was ; it seldom
looked well by candle-nght. I wanted somebody to talk to,
then. I missed Agnes. I found a tremendous blank, in the
place of that smiling repository of my confidence. Mrs. Crupp
appeared to be a long way off. I thought about my prede*

35Â°

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

cessor, who had died of drink and smoke \ and I could have
wished he had been so good as to live, and not bother me with
his decease.

After two days and nights, I felt as if I had lived there for a
year, and yet I was not an hour older, but was quite as much
tormented by my own youthfulness as ever.

Steerforth not yet appearing, which induced me to appre-
hend that he must be ill, I left the Commons early on the
third day, and walked out to Highgate. Mrs. Steerforth was
very glad to see me, and said that he had gone away with one
of his Oxford friends to see another who lived near St. Albans,
but that she expected him to return to-morrow. I was so fond
of him, that I felt quite jealous of his Oxford friends.

As she pressecf me to stay to dinner, I remained, and I
believe we talked about nothing but him all day. I told her
how much the people liked him at Yarmouth, and what a de-
lightful companion he had been. Miss Dartle was full of
hints and mysterious questions, but took a great interest in all
our proceedings there, and said, " Was it really though ? "
and so forth, so often, that she got everything out of me she
wanted to know. Her appearance was exactly what I have
described it, when I first saw her ; but the society of the two
ladies was so agreeable, and came so natural to me, that I felt
myself falling a little in love with her. I could not help think-
ing, several times in the course of the evening, and particularly
when I walked home at night, what delightful company she
would be in Buckingham Street.

I was taking my coffee and roll in the morning, before
going to the Commons â€” and I may observe in this place that
it is surprising how much coffee Mrs. Crupp used, and how
weak it was, considering â€” when Steerforth himself walked in,
to my unbounded joy.

" My dear Steerforth," cried I, " I began to think I should
never see you again ! "

" I was carried off, by force of arms," said Steerforth, "the
very next morning after I got home. " Why, Daisy, what a
rare old bachelor you are here ! "

I showed him over the establishment, not omitting the
pantry, with no little pride, and he commended it highly. " I
tell you what, old boy," he added, " I shall make quite a
town-house of this place, unless you give me notice to quit."

This was a delightful hearing. I told him if he waited fo*
that he would have to wait till doomsday.

MY FIRST DISS/PA TIQA '.

35*

" But you shall have some breakfast ! " said I, with my
hand on the bell-rope, " and Mrs. Crupp shall make you some
fresh coffee, and I'll toast you some bacon in a bachelor's
Dutch-oven that I have got here."

M No, no ! " said Steerforth. " Don't ring ! I can't ! I
am going to breakfast with one of those fellows whcJ is at the
Piazza Hotel, Covent Garden."

" But you'll come back to dinner," said I.

" I can't, upon my life. There's nothing I should like bet-
ter, but I must remain with these two fellows. We are all
three off together to-morrow morning."

" Then bring them here to dinner," I returned. " Do you
think they would come ? "

" Oh ! they would come fast enough," said Steerforth ;
" but we should inconvenience you. You had better come
and dine with us somewhere."

I would not by any means consent to this, for it occurred
to me that I really ought to have a little house-warming, and
that there never could be a better opportunity. I had a new
pride in my rooms after his approval of them, and burned
with a desire to develop their utmost resources. I therefore
made him promise positively in the names of his two friends,
and we appointed six o'clock as the dinner-hour.

When he was gone, I rang for Mrs. Crupp, and acquainted
her with my desperate design. Mrs. Crupp said, in the first
place, of course it was well known she couldn't be expected
to wait, but she knew a handy young man, who she thought
could be prevailed upon to do it, and whose terms wouid be
five shillings, and what I pleased. I said, certainly we would
have him. Next, Mrs. Crupp said it was clear she couldn't
be in two places at once (which I felt to be reasonable), and
that " a young gal " stationed in the pantry with a bed-room
candle, there never to desist from washing plates, would be
indispensable. I said, what would be the expense of this
young female, and Mrs. Crupp said she supposed eighteen
pence would neither make me nor break me. I said I sup
posed not ; and t/iatwas settled. Then Mrs. Crupp said, Now
about the dinner.

It was a remarkable instance of want of forethought on the
part of the ironmonger who made Mrs. Crupp's kitchen fire
place, that it was capable of cooking nothing but chops and
mashed potatoes. As to a fish-kettle, Mrs. Crupp said, well J
would I only come and look at the range ? She couldn't say

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

fairer than that. Would I come and look at it ? As I should
not have been much the wiser if I had looked at it, I declined,
and said, " Never mind fish." But Mrs. Crupp said, Don't
say that ; oysters was in, and why not them ? So that was
settled. Mrs. Crupp then said what she would recommend
would be this. A pair of hot roast fowls â€” from the pastry-
cook's ; a dish of stewed beef, with vegetables â€” from the
pastry-cook's ; two little corner things, as a raised pie and a
dish of kidneys â€” from the pastry-cook's ; a tart, and (if I liked)
a shape of jelly â€” from the pastry-cook's. This, Mrs. Crupp
said, would leave her at full liberty to concentrate her mind
on the potatoes, and to serve up the cheese and celery as she
could wish to see it done.

I acted on Mrs. Crupp's opinion, and gave the order at
the pastry-cook's myself. Walking along to the Strand, after-
wards, and observing a hard mottled substance in the window
of a ham and beef shop, which resembled marble, but was
labelled " Mock Turtle," I went in and bought a slab of it,
which I have since seen reason to believe would have sufficed
for fifteen people. This preparation, Mrs. Crupp, after some
difficulty, consented to warm up ; and it shrunk so much in a
liquid state, that we found it what Steerforth called " rather
a tight fit " for four.

These preparations happily completed, I bought a little
dessert in Covent Garden Market, and gave a rather extensive
order at a retail wine-merchant's in that vicinity. When I
came home in the afternoon, and saw the bottles drawn up in
a square on the pantry-floor, they looked so numerous (though
there were two missing, which made Mrs. Crupp very uncom-
fortable), that I was absolutely frightened at them.

One of Steerforth's friends was named Grainger, and the
Other Markham. They were both very gay and lively fellows ;
Grainger something older than Steerforth ; Markham, youth-
ful-looking, and I should say not more than twenty. I ob-
served that the latter always spoke of himself indefinitely, as
" a. man," and seldom or never in the first person singular.

" A man might get on very well here, Mr. Copperfield/'
said Markham â€” meaning himself.

" It's not a bad situation," said I, " and the rooms are
really commodious."

" I hope you have both brought appetites with you ? "
said Steerforth.

M Upon my honor," returned Markham, " town seems to

MY FIRST DTSSIPA TION.

353

sharpen a man's appetite. A man is hungry all day long.
A man is perpetually eating.

Being a little embarrassed at first, and feeling much too
young to preside, I made Steerforth take the head of the
table when dinner was announced, and seated myself opposite
to him. Everything was very good ; we did not spare the
wine ; and he exerted himself so brilliantly to make the thing
pass off well, that there was no pause in our festivity. I was
not quite such good company during dinner as I could have
wished to be, for my chair was opposite the door, and my at-
tention was distracted by observing that the handy young man
went out of the room very often, and that his shadow always
presented itself, immediately afterwards, on the wall of the
entry, with a bottle at its mouth. The " young gal " likewise
occasioned me some uneasiness ; not so much by neglecting
to wash the plates, as by breaking them. For being of an in-
quisitive disposition, and unable to confine herself ( as her
positive instructions were) to the pantry, she was constantly
peering in at us, and constantly imagining herself detected ; in
which belief, she several times retired upon the plates (with
which she had carefully paved the floor), and did a great deal
of destruction.

These, however, were small drawbacks, and easily forgot-
ten when the cloth was cleared, and the dessert put on the
table ; at which period of the entertainment the handy young
man was discovered to be speechless. Giving him private di-
rections to seek the society of Mrs. Crupp, and to remove the
" young gal " to the basement also, I abandoned myself to
enjoyment.

I began, by being singularly cheerful and light-hearted ;
all sorts of half-forgotten things to talk about, came rushing
into my mind, and made me hold forth in a most unwonted
manner. I laughed heartily at my own jokes, and everybody
else's, called Steerforth to order for not passing the wine;
made several engagements to go to Oxford ; announced that I
meant to have a dinner-party exactly like that, once a week
until further notice ; and madly took so much snuff out of
Grainger's box, that I was obliged to go into the pantry, and
have a private fit of sneezing ten minutes long.

I went on, by passing the wine faster and faster yet, and
continually starting up with a corkscrew to open more wine,
long before any was needed. I proposed Steerforth's health.
I said he was my dearest friend, the protector of my boyhood,

354

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

and the companion of my prime. I said I was delighted ta
propose his health. I said I owed him more obligations than
I could ever repay, and held him in a higher admiration than I
could ever express. I finished by saying, " I'll give you Steer-
forth ! God bless him ! Hurrah ! " We gave him three
times three, and another, and a good one to finish with. I
broke my glass in going round the table to shake hands with
him, and I said (in two words) " Steerforth, you'retheguiding-
starofmyexistence."

I went on, by finding suddenly that somebody was in the
middle of a song. Markham was the singer, and he sang
" When the heart of a man is depressed with care." He said,
when he had sung it, he would give us " Woman ! " I took
objection to that, and I couldn't allow it. I said it was not a
respectful way of proposing the toast, and I would never per-
mit that toast to be drunk in my house otherwise than as " The
Ladies ! " I was very high with him, mainly I think because
I saw Steerforth and Grainger laughing at me â€” or at him â€” or
at both of us. He said a man was not to be dictated to. I
said a man was. He said a man was not to be insulted, then.
I said he was right- there â€” never under my roof, where the
Lares were sacred, and the laws of hospitality paramount.
He said it was no derogation from a man's dignity to confess
that I was a devilish good fellow. I instantly proposed his
health.

Somebody was smoking. We were all smoking. / was
smoking, and trying to suppress a rising tendency to shudder.
Steerforth had made a speech about me, in the course of
which I had been affected almost to tears. I returned thanks,
and hoped the present company would dine with me to mor-
row, and the day after â€” each day at five o'clock, that we might
enjoy the pleasures of conversation and society through a long
evening. I felt called upon to propose an individual. I would
give them my aunt. Miss Betsey Trotwood, the best of hei
sex !

Somebody was leaning out of my bed-room window, refresh-
ing his forehead against the cool stone of the parapet, and feel-
ing the air upon his face. It was myself. I was addressing
myself as " Copperfield," and saying, " Why did you try to
smoke ? You might have known you couldn't do it." Now,
somebody was unsteadily contemplating his features in the
looking glass. That was I too. I was very pale in the look-
ing-glass ; my eyes had a vacant appearance ; and my hairâ€”
only my hair, nothing e!se â€” looked drunk.

MY FIRST DISS IP A TION.

355

bomebody said to me, " Let us go to the theatre. Copper-
field ! " There was no bed-room before me, but again the
jingling table covered with glasses ; the lamp ; Grainger on my
right hand, Markham on my left, and Steerforth ^opposite â€” â–
all sitting in a mist, and a long way off. The theatre ? To be
sure. The very thing. Come along ! But they mus- excuse
me if I s^v everybody out first, and turned the lamp off â€” in
case of fire.

Owing to some confusion in the dark, the door was gone.
I was feeling for it in the window-curtains, when Steerforth,
laughing, took me by the arm and led me out. We went
down stairs, one behind another. Near the bottom, somebody
fell, and rolled down. Somebody else said it was Copperfield.
I was angry at that false report, until, finding myself on my
back in the passage, I began to think there might be some
foundation for it.

A very foggy night, with great rings round the lamps in the
streets ! There was an indistinct talk of its being wet. /con-
sidered it frosty. Steerforth dusted me under a lamp-post,
and put my hat into shape, which somebody produced from
somewhere in a most extraordinary manner, for I hadn't had
it on before. Steerforth then said, " You are all right, Copper-
field, are you not ? " and I told him, " Neverberrer."
" A man, sitting in a pigeon-hole-place, looked out of the fog,
and took money from somebody, inquiring if I was one of the
gentlemen paid for, and appearing rather doubtful (as I re-
member in the glimpse I had of him) whether to take the
money for me or not. Shortly afterwards, we were very high
up in a very hot theatre, looking down into a large pit, that
seemed to me to smoke ; the people with whom it was crammed
were so indistinct. There was a great stage, too, looking
very clean and smooth after the streets ; and there were peo-
ple upon it, talking about something or other, but not at all
intelligibly. There was an abundance of bright lights, and
there was music, and there were ladies down in the boxes,
and I don't know what more. ; The whole building looked to
me, as if it were learning to swim ; it conducted itself in such
an unaccountable manner, when I tried to steady it.

On somebody's motion, we resolved to go down stairs to
the dress-boxes, where the ladies were. A gentleman loung-
ing, tull dressed, on a sofa, with an opera-glass in his hand,
passed before my view, and also my own figure at full length
in a glass. Then I was being ushered into one of these boxes.

356

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

and found myself saying something as I sat down, and people
about me crying " Silence ! " to somebody, and ladies casting
indignant glances at me, and â€” what ! yes ! â€” Agnes, sitting on
the seat before me, in the same box, with a lady and gentle-
man beside her, whom I didn't know. I see her face now,
better than I did then, I dare say, with its indelible look of re
gret and wonder turned upon me. â€¢

" Agnes ! " I said thickly, " Lordblessmer ! Agnes ! "

" Hush ! Pray ! " she answered, I could not conceive why,
" You disturb the company. Look at the stage ! "

I tried, on her injunction, to fix it, and to hear something
of what was going on there, but quite in vain. I looked at
her again by-and-by, and saw her shrink into her corner, and
put her gloved hand to her forehead.

" Agnes ! " I said. " I'mafraidyou'renorwell."

" Yes, yes. Do not mind me, Trotwood," she returned.
" Listen ! are you going away soon ! "

" Amigoarawaysoo ? " I repeated,

" Yes."

I had a stupid intention of replying that I was going to
â€¢Wait, to hand her down stairs. I suppose I expressed it some-
how , for after she had looked at me attentively for a little while,
she appeared to understand, and replied in a low tone :

" I know you will do as I ask you, if I tell you I am very-
earnest in it. Go away now, Trotwood, for my sake, and ask
you friends to take you home."

She had so far improved me, for the time, that though I
Was angry with her, I felt ashamed, and with a short " Goori ! "
(which 1 intended for " Good night ! ") got up and went away.
They followed, and I stepped at once out of the box-door into
my bedroom, where only Steerforth was with me, helping me
to undress, and where I was by turns telling him that Agnes
was my sister, and adjuring him to bring the corkscrew, that
I might open anofher bottle of wine.

How somebody, lying in my bed, lay saying and doing all
this over again, at cross purposes, in a feverish dream all
night â€” the bed a rocking sea that was never still i How, as
that somebody slowly settled down into myself, did I begin to
parch and feel as if my outer covering of skin were a hard
board ; my tongue the bottom of an empty kettle, furred with
long service, and burning up over a slow fire ; the palms of
my hands, hot plates of metal which no ice could cool !

But the agony of mind, the remorse, and shame I felt.

GOOD AND BAD ANGELS.

357

when I became conscious next day ! My horror of having
committed a thousand offences I had forgotten, and which,
nothing could ever expiate â€” my recollection of that indelible
look which Agnes had given me â€” the torturing impossibility
of communicating with her, not knowing, Beast that I was,,
how she came to be in London, or where she stayed â€” my dis-
gust of the very sight of the room where the revel had been held
â€” my racking head â€” the smell of smoke, the sight of glasses,
the impossibility of going out, or even getting up ! Oh, what a
day it was !

Oh, what an evening, when I sat down by my fire, to a
basin of mutton broth, dimpled all over with fat, and thought
I was going the way of my predecessor, and should succeed
to his dismal story as well as to his chambers, and had half a
mind to rush express to Dover and reveal all ! What an
evening, when Mrs. Crupp, coming in to take away the broth-
basin, produced one kidney on a cheese-plate as the entire re-
mains of yesterday's feast, and I was really inclined to fall,
upon her nankeen breast, and say, in heartfelt penitence,
" Oh, Mrs. Crupp, Mrs. Crupp, never mind the broken meats I
I am very miserable ! " â€” only that I doubted, even at that
pass, if Mrs. Crupp were quite the sort of woman to confide in Â£

CHAPTER XXV.

GOOD AND BAD ANGELS.

I was going out at my door on the morning after that de-
plorable day of headache, sickness, and repentance, with an
odd confusion in my mind relative to the date of my dinner-
party, as if a body of Titans had taken an enormous lever and
pushed the day before yesterday some months back, when I
saw a ticket-porter coming up stairs, with a letter in his hand.
He was taking his time about his errand, then ; but when he
saw me on the top of the staircase, looking at him over the
banisters, he swung into a trot, and came up panting, as if he
had run himself into a state of exhaustion.

" T. Copperfield, Esquire," said the ticket-porter, touching
his hat with his little cane.

I could scaicely lay claim to the name : I was so disturbed

358

DAVID COPPERFTELD

by the conviction that the letter came from Agnes. Howeve^
I told him I was T. Copperfield, Esquire, and he believed it,
and gave me the letter, which he said required an answer. I
shut him out on the landing to wait for the answer, and went
into my chambers again, in such a nervous state that I was
fain to lay the letter down on my breakfast-table, and famil-
iarize myself with the outside of it a little, before I could re-
solve to break the seal.

I found, when I did open it, that it was a very kind note,
containing no reference to my condition at the theatre. All
it said was, " My dear Trotwood. I am staying at the house
of papa's agent, Mr. Waterbrook, in Ely-place, Holborn. Will
you come and see me to-day, at any time you like to appoint ?
Ever yours affectionately, Agnes/'

It took me such a long time to write an answer at all to
my satisfaction, that I don't know what the ticket-porter can
have thought, unless he thought I was learning to write. I
must have written half a dozen answers at least. I began
one, " How can I ever hope, my dear Agnes, to efface from
your remembrance the disgusting impression " â€” there I didn't
like it, and then I tore it up. I began another, " Shakspeare
has observed, my dear Agnes, how strange it is that a man
should put an enemy into his mouth " â€” that reminded me of
Markham, and it got no farther. I even tried poetry. I be-
gan one note, in a six-syllable line, " Oh, do not remember "
â€” but that associated itself with the fifth of November, and
became an absurdity. After many attempts, I wrote, " My
dear Agnes. Your letter is like you, and what could I say of
it that would be higher praise than that ? I will come at four
o'clock. Affectionately and sorrowfully, T. C." With this
missive (which I was in twenty minds at once about recalling,
as >oon as it was out of my hands), the ticket-porter at last
departed.

If the day were half as tremendous to any other profes-
sional gentleman in Doctors' Commons as it was to me, I sin-
cerely believe he made some expiation for his share in that
rotten old ecclesiastical cheese. Although I left the office
at half-past three, and was prowling about the place of ap-
pointment within a few minutes afterwards, the appointed
time was exceeded by a full quarter of an hour, according to
the clock of St. Andrew's, Holborn, before I could muster up
sufficient desperation to pull the private bell-handle let into
the left-hand door-post of Mr. Waterbrook's house.

GOOD AND BAD ANGELS.

359

The professional business of Mr. Waterbrook's establish
ment was done on the ground floor, and the genteel business
(of which there was a good deal) in the upper part of the
building. I was shown into a pretty but rather close drawing,
room, and there sat Agnes, netting a purse.

She looked so quiet and good, and reminded me so
strongly of my airy fresh school days at Canterbury, and the
sodden, smoky, stupid wretch I had been the other night,
that, nobody being by, I yielded to my self-reproach and
shame, and â€” in short, made a fool of myself. I cannot deny
that I shed tears. To this hour I am undecided whether it
was upon the whole the wisest thing I could have done, or the
most ridiculous.

" If it had been any one but you, Agnes," said I, turning
away my head, " I should not have minded it half so much.
But that it should have been you who saw me ! I almost wish
I had been dead, first."

She put her hand â€” its touch was like no other hand â€”
upon my arm for a moment ; and I felt so befriended and
comforted, that I could not help moving it to my lips, and
gratefully kissing it.

" Sit down," said Agnes, cheerfully. " Don't be unhappy,
Trotwood. If you cannot confidently trust me, whom will
you trust ? "

" Ah Agnes ! " I returned. " You are my good Angel ! "

She smiled rather sadly, I thought, and shook her head.

" Yes, Agnes, my good Angel ! Always my good Angel ! "

"If I were, indeed, Trotwood," she returned, "there is
one thing that I should set my heart on very much."

I looked at her inquiringly ; but already with a foreknowl-
edge of her meaning.

" On warning you," said Agnes, with a steady glance,
44 against your bad Angel."

" My dear Agnes," I began, " if you mean Steerforth â€” "

" I do, Trotwood," she returned.

" Then, Agnes, you wrong him very much. He my bad
Angel, or anyone's ! He, anything but a guide, a support,
and a friend to me ! My dear Agnes ! Now, is it not unjust,
and unlike you, to judge him from what you saw of me the
other night ? "

" I do not judge him from what I saw of you the othei
night," she quietly replied.
" From what, then ?

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" From many things â€” trifles in themselves, but they do
not seem to me to be so, when they are put together. I judge
him, partly from your account of him, Trotwood, and your
character, and the influence he has over you."

There was always something in her modest voice that
seemed to touch a chord within me, answering to that sound
alone. It was always earnest ; but when it was very earnest,
as it was now, there was a thrill in it that quite subdued me.
I sat looking at her as she cast her eyes down on her work \
I sat seeming still to listen to her ; and Steerforth, in spite of
all my attachment to him, darkened in that tone.

"It is very bold in me," said Agnes, looking up again,
" who have lived in such seclusion, and can know so little of
the world, to give you my advice so confidently, or even to
have this strong opinion. But I know in what it is engen-
dered, Trotwood, â€” in how true a remembrance of our having
grown up together, and in how true an interest in all relating
to you. It is that which makes me bold. I am certain that
what I say is right. I am quite sure it is. I feel as if it were
some one else speaking to you, and not I, when I caution you
that you have made a dangerous friend."

Again I looked at her, again I listened to her after she
was silent, and again his image, though it was still fixed in my
heart, darkened.

" I am not so unreasonable as to expect," said Agnes,
resuming her usual tone, after a while, " that you will, or that
you can, at once, change any sentiment that has become a
conviction to you ; least of all a sentiment that is rooted in
your trusting disposition. You ought not hastily to do that.
I only ask you, Trotwood, if you ever think of me â€” I mean,"
with a quiet smile, for I was going to interrupt her, and she
knew why, " as often as you think of me â€” to think of what I
lhave said. Do you forgive me for all this ? "

" I will forgive you, Agnes," I replied, " when you come
to do Steerforth justice, and to like him as well as I do."

" Not until then ? " said Agnes.

I saw a passing shadow on her face when I made this
mention of him, but she returned my smile, and were again
as unreserved in our mutual confidence as of old.

"And when, Agnes," said I, "will you forgive me the
other night ? "

"When I recall it," said Agnes.

She would have dismissed the subject so, but I was too

GOOD AND BAD ANGELS.

36l

full of it to allow that, and insisted on telling her how it hap-
pened that I had disgraced myself, and what chain of acci-
dental circumstances had had the theatre for its final link. It
was a great relief to me to do this, and to enlarge on the
obligation that I owed to Steerforth for his care of me when
I was unable to take care of myself.

"You must not forget," said Agnes, calmly changing the
conversation as soon as I had concluded, " that you are
always to tell me, not only when you fall into trouble, but
when you fall in love. Who has succeeded to Miss Larkins*
Trot wood ? "

" No one, Agnes."

" Some one, Trotwood," said Agnes, laughing, and hold*
ing up her finger.

" No, Agnes, upon my word ! There is a lady, certainly,,
at Mrs. Steerforth's house, who is yery clever, and whom I
like to talk to â€” Miss Dartle â€” but 1 don't adore her."

Agnes laughed again at her own penetration, and told me
that if I were faithful to her in my confidence she thought
she should keep a little register of my violent attachments,
with the date, duration, and termination of each, like the
table of the reigns of the kings and queens, in the History of
England. Then she asked me if I had seen Uriah.

" Uriah Heep ? " said I. " No. Is he in London ? "

" He comes to the office down stairs, every day," returned
Agnes. " He was in London a week before me. I am afraid
on disagreeable business, Trotwood."

" On some business that makes you uneasy, Agnes, I see,'*
said I. " What can that be ? "

Agnes laid aside her work, and replied, folding her hands
upon one another, and looking pensively at me out of those
beautiful soft eyes of hers :

" I believe he is going to enter into partnership with
papa."

" What ? Uriah ? That mean, fawning fellow, worm- him-
self into such promotion ! " I cried, indignantly. " Have you
made no remonstrance about it, Agnes ? Consider what a
connection it is likely to be. You must speak out. You must
not allow your father to take such a mad step. You must
prevent it, Agnes, while there's time."

Still looking at me, Agnes shook her head while I was
speaking, with a faint smile at my warmth ; and then replied :

"You remember our last conversation about papa! It

362

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

was not long after that â€” not more than two or three days â€” >
when he gave me the first intimation of what I tell you. It
was sad to see him struggling between his desire to represent
it to me as a matter of choice on his part, and his inability to
conceal that it was forced upon him. I felt very sorry."

" Forced upon him, Agnes ! Who forces it upon him ? "

" Uriah," she replied, after a moment's hesitation, " has
f made himself indispensable to papa. He is subtle and watch-
ful. He has mastered papa's weaknesses, fostered them, and
taken advantage of them, until â€” to say all that I mean in a
word, Trotwood â€” until papa is afraid of him."

There was more that she might have said ; more that she
knew, or that she suspected ; I clearly saw. I could not give
her pain by asking what it was, for I knew that she withheld
it from me to spare her father. It had long been going on to
this, I was sensible : yes, I could not but feel, on the least
reflection, that it had been going on to this for a long time.
I remained silent.

" His ascendancy over papa," said Anges, " is very great.
He professes humility and gratitude â€” with truth, perhaps : I
hope so â€” but his postition is really one of power, and I fear
he makes a hard use of his power."

" I said he was a hound, which, at a moment, was a great
satisfaction to me.

" At the time I speak of as the time when papa spoke to
me," pursued Agnes, " he had told papa that he was going
away ! that he was very sorry and unwilling to leave, but that
he had better prospects. Papa was very much depressed
then, and more bowed down by care than ever you or I have
seen him ; but he seemed relieved by this expedient of the
partnership, though at the same time he seemed hurt by it
and ashamed of it."

" And how did you receive it, Agnes ? "

" I did, Trotwood," she replied, "what I hope was rigru.
Feeling sure that it was necessary for papa's peace that the
sacrifice should be made, I entreated him to make it. I said
it would lighten the load of his life â€” I hope it will ! â€” and that
it would give me increased opportunities of being his com-
panion. Oh, Trotwood ! " cried Agnes, putting her hands
before her face, as her tears started on it, " I almost feel as if
I had been papa's enemy, instead of his loving child. For I
know how he has altered, in his devotion to me. I know
how he has narrowed the circle of his sympathies and duties,

GOOD AND BAD ANGELS.

363

in the concentration of his whole mind upon me. I know
what a multitude of things he has shut out for my sake, and
how his anxious thoughts of me have shadowed his life, and
weakened his strength and energy, by turning them always
upon one idea. If I could ever set this right! If I could
ever work out his restoration, as I have so innocently been
the cause of his decline ! "

I had never before seen Agnes cry. I had seen tears in
her eyes when I had brought new honors home from school,
and I had seen them there when we last spoke about her
father, and I had seen her turn her gentle head aside when
we took leave of one another ; but I had never seen her
grieve like this. It made me so sorry that I could only say,
in a foolish, helpless manner, " Pray, Agnes, don't ! Don't,
my dear sister ! "

But Agnes was too superior to me in character and pur-
pose, as I know well now, whatever I might know or not know
then, to be long in need of my entreaties. The beautiful,
calm manner, which makes her so different in my remem-
brance from everybody else, came back again, as if a cloud
had passed from a serene sky.

"We are not likely to remain alone much longer," said
Agnes â€¢ " and while I have an opportunity, let me earnestly
entreat you, Trotwood, to be friendly to Uriah. Don't repel
him. Don't resent (as I think you have a general disposition
to do) what may be uncongenial to you in him. He may not
deserve it, for we know no certain ill of him. In any case,
think first of papa and me ! "

Agnes had no time to say more, for the room-door opened,
and Mrs. Waterbrook, who was a large lady â€” or who wore a
large dress, I don't exactly know which, for I don't know
which was dress and which was lady â€” came sailing in. I had
a dim recollection of having seen her at the theatre, as if I
had seen her in a pale magic lantern ; but she appeared to
remember me perfectly, and still to suspect me of being in a
state of intoxication.

Finding by degrees, however, that I was sober, and (I hope)
that I was a modest young gentleman, Mrs. Waterbrook soft-
ened towards me considerably, and inquired, firstly, if I went
much into the parks, and secondly, if I went much into society.
On my replying to both these questions in the negative, it oc-
curred to me that I fell again in her good opinion ; but she
concealed the fact gracefully, and invited me to dinner next

364

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

day. I accepted the invitation, and took my leave, making a
ball on Uriah in the office as I went out, and leaving a card
for him in his absence.

When I went to dinner noxt day, and, on the street-door
Wing opened, plunged into a vapor-bath of haunch of mutton,
fi divined that I was not the only guest ; for I immediately
identified the ticket-porter in disguise, assisting the family
servant, and waiting at the foot of the stairs to carry up my
lame. He looked, to the best of his ability, when he asked
me for it confidentially, as if he had never seen me before ;
but well did I know him, and well did he know me. Con-
science made cowards of us both.

I found Mr. Waterbrook to be a middle-aged gentleman,
with a short throat, and a good deal of shirt-collar, who only
wanted a black nose to be the portrait of a pug-dog. He told
me he was happy to have the honor of making my acquaint^
ance ; and when I had paid my homage to Mrs. Waterbrook -
presented me, with much ceremony, to a very awful lady in 2
black velvet dress, and a great black velvet hat, whom I re-
member as looking like a near relation of Hamlet's â€” say his
aunt.

Mrs. Henry Spiker was this lady's name ; and her husband
was there too ; so cold a man, that his head, instead of be-
ing gray, seemed to be sprinkled with hoar-frost. Immense
deference was shown to the Henry Spikers, male and female â€¢
which Agnes told me was on account of Mr. Henry Spikei
being solicitor to something or to somebody, I forget what oi
which, remotely connected with the Treasury-

I found Uriah Heap among the company, in a Suit of
black, and in deep humility. He told me, when I shook
hands with him, that he was proud to be noticed by me, and
that he really felt obliged to me for my condescension. I
could have wished he had been less obliged to me, for he
hovered about me in his gratitude all the rest of the evening ;
and whenever I said a word to Agnes, was sure, with his shad-
owless eyes and cadaverous face, to be looking gauntly down
upon us from behind.

There were other guests â€” all iced for the occasion, as it
struck me, like the wine. But there was one who attracted
my attention before he came in, on account of my hearing him
announced as Mr. Traddles ! My mind flew back to Salem
House ; and could it be Tommy, I thought, who used to draw
the skeletons 1

GOOD AND BAD ANGELS.

3^5

I looked tor Mr. Traddles with unuslial interest. He was
a sober, steady-looking young man of retiring manners, with a
comic head of hair, and eyes that were rather wide open ; and
he got into an obscure corner so soon, that I had some difficulty
in making him out. At length I had a good view of him, and
either my vision deceived me, or it was the old unfortunate
Tommy.

I made my way to Mr. Waterbrook, and said, that I be-
lieved I had the pleasure of seeing an old schoolfellow there.

" Indeed ! " said Mr. Waterbrook, surprised. " You are
too young to have been at school with Mr. Henry Spiker ? "

" Oh, I don't mean him ! " I returned. " I mean the gen-
tleman named Traddles."

" Oh ! Ay, ay ! Indeed ! " said my host, with much di-
minished interest. " Possibly."

" If it's really the same person," said I, glancing towards
him, " it was at a place called Salem House where we were
together, and he was an excellent fellow."

"Oh yes. Traddles is a good fellow," returned my host,
nodding his head with an air of toleration. " Traddles is
quite a good fellow."

"It's a curious coincidence," said I.

"It is really," returned my host, "quite a coincidence,
that Traddles should be here at all, as Traddles was only in-
vited this morning, when the place at table, intended to be
occupied by Mrs. Henry Spiker's brother, became vacant, in
consequence of his indisposition. A very gentlemanly man,
Mrs. Henry Spiker's brother, Mr. Copperfield."

I murmured an assent, which was full of feeling, consider-
ing that I knew nothing at all about him ; and I inquired what
Mr. Traddles was by profession.

"Traddles," returned Mr. Waterbrook, "is a young man
reading for the bar. Yes. He is quite a good fellow â€” no-
body's enemy but his own."

Lt Is he his own enemy? " said I, sorry to hear this.

"Well," returned Mr. Waterbrook, pursing up his mouth,
and playing with his watch-chain, in a comfortable, prosperous
sort of way. " I should say he was one of those men who
s':and in their own light. Yes, I should say he would never,
for example, be worth five hundred pound. Traddles was
recommended to me by a professional friend. Oh yes. Yes
He has a kind of talent, for drawing briefs, and stating a
case in writing, plainly. I am able to throw something in

366

DAVID CVPPERFIELD.

Traddles's way, in the course of the year ; something â€” for him
â€” considerable. Oh yes. Yes."

I was much impressed by the extremely comfortable and
satisfied manner in which Mr. Waterbrook delivered himself
of this little word " Yes," every now and then. There was
wonderful expression in it. It completely conveyed the idea
of a man who had been born, not to say with a silver spoon,
but with a scaling-ladder, and had gone on mounting all the
heights of life one after another until now he looked, from the
top of the fortifications, with the eye of a philosopher and a
patron, on the people down in the trenches.

My reflections on this theme were still in progress when
dinner was announced. Mr. Waterbrook went down with
Kamlet's aunt. Mr. Henry Spiker took Mrs. Waterbrook.
Agnes, whom I should have liked to take myself, was given to
a simpering fellow with weak legs. Uriah, Traddles, and I,
as the junior part of the company, went down last, how we
could. I was not so vexed at losing Agnes as I might have
been, since it gave me an opportunity of making myself known
to Traddles on the stairs, who greeted me with great fervor :
while Uriah writhed with such obtrusive satisfaction and self-
abasement, that I could gladly have pitched him over the
banisters.

Traddles and I were separated at table, being billeted in
two remote corners â€” he in the glare of a red velvet lady, I
in the gloom of Hamlet's aunt. The dinner was very long,
and the conversation was about the Aristocracy â€” and Blood.
Mrs. Waterbrook repeatedly told us, that if she had a weak-
ness, it was Blood.

It occurred to me several times that we should have got
on better, if we had not been quite so genteel. We were so
exceedingly genteel, that our scope was very limited. A Mr.
and Mrs. Gulpidge were of the party, who had something to
do at second-hand (at least, Mr. Gulpidge had), with the law
business of the Bank ; and what with the Bank, and what with
the Treasury, we were as exclusive as the Court Circular . To
mend the matter, Hamlet's aunt had the family failing of in-
dulging in soliloquy, and held forth in a desultory manner, by
herself, on every topic that was introduced. These were few
enough, to be sure ; but as we always fell back upon Blood,
she had as wide a field for abstract speculation as her nephew
himself.

We might have been a party of Ogres, the conversation
assumed such a sanguine complexion.

GOOD AND BAD ANGELS.

^ I confess I am of Mrs. Waterbrook's opinion," said Mr.
Waterbrook, with his wineglass at his eye. " Other things
are all very well in their way, but give me Blood ! "

" Oh ? There is nothing," observed Hamlet's aunt, " so
satisfactory to one ! There is nothing that is so much one's
beau-ideal of â€” of all that sort of thing, speaking generally.
There are some low minds (not many, I am happy to believe,
but there are some) that would prefer to do what / should call
bow down before idols. Positively idols ! Before services,
intellect, and so on. But these are intangible points. Blood
is not so. We see Blood in a nose, and we know it. We
meet with it in a chin, and we say, ' There it is ! That's
Blood ! It is an actual matter of fact. We point it out. It
admits of no doubt."

The simpering fellow with the weak legs, who had taken
Agnes down, stated the question more decisively yet, I
thought.

" Oh, you know, deuce take it," said this gentleman, look-
ing round the board with an imbecile smile, " we can't forego
Blood, you know. We must have Blood, you know. Some
young fellows, you know, may be a little behind station,
perhaps, in point of education and behavior, and may go a
little wrong, you know, and get themselves and other people
into a variety of fixes â€” and all that â€” but deuce take it, it's
delightful to reflect that they've got Blood in 'em ! Myself,
I'd rather at any time be knocked down by a man who had
got Blood in him, than I'd be picked up by a man who
hadn't ! "

This sentiment, as compressing the general question into
a nutshell, gave the utmost satisfaction, and brought the gen-
tleman into great notice until the ladies retired. After that,
I observed that Mr. Gulpidge and Mr. Henry Spiker, who
had hitherto been very distant, entered into a defensive
alliance against us, the common enemy, and exchanged a
mysterious dialogue across the table for our defeat and over-
throw.

" That affair of the first bond for four thousand five hun-
dred pounds has not taken the course that was expected.
Spiker," said Mr. Gulpidge.

" Do you mean the D. of A's ? " said Mr. Spiker.

" The C. of B's ? " said Mr. Gulpidge.

Mr. Spiker raised his eyebrows, and looked much con-
cerned.

363

DAVID COPPERFIELh*

"When the question was referred to Lord â€” I needn't
name him," said Mr. Gulpidge, checking himself â€”

"I understand," said Mr. Spiker, "N."

Mr. Gulpidge darkly nodded â€” " Was referred to him, his
answer was, ' Money, or no release.' "

" Lord bless my soul ! " cried Mr. Spiker.

" ' Money, or no release,' " repeated Mr. Gulpidge, firmly.
44 The next in reversion â€” you understand me ? "

" K.," said Mr. Spiker, with an ominous look.

" â€” K. then positively refused to sign, he was attended at
Newmarket for that purpose, and he point-blank refused to
do it."

Mr. Spiker was so interested, that he became quite stony.

" So the matter rests at this hour," said Mr. Gulpidge,,
throwing himself back in his chair. " Our friend Waterbrook
will excuse me if I forbear to explain myself generally, on ac-
count of the magnitude of the interests involved."

Mr. Waterbrcok was only too happy, as it appeared to me,
to have such interests, and such names, even hinted at, across
his table. He assumed an expression of gloomy intelligence-
(though I am persuaded he knew no more about the discus-
sion than I did), and highly approved of the discretion that
had been observed. Mr. Spiker, after the receipt of such a
confidence, naturally desired to favor his friend with a confi-
dence of his own; therefore the foregoing dialogue was succeed-
ed by another, in which it was Mr. Gulpidge's turn to be sur-
prised, and that by another in which the surprise came round
to Mr. Spiker's turn again, and so on, turn and turn about.
All this time we, the outsiders, remained oppressed by the
tremendous interests involved in the conversation ; and our
host regarded us with pride, as the victims of a salutary awe
and astonishment.

I was very glad indeed to get up stairs to Agnes, and to
talk with her in a corner, and to introduce Traddles to
her, who was shy, but agreeable, and the same good-natured
creature still. As he was obliged to leave early, on ac-
count of going away next morning for a month, I had not
nearly so much conversation with him as I could have wished ;
but we exchanged addresses, and promised ourselves the
pleasure of another meeting when he should come back to
town. He was greatly interested to hear that I knew Steer-
forth, and spoke of him with such warmth that I made him
tell Agnes what he thought of him. But Agnes only looked

GOOD AND BAD ANGELS.

369

at me the while, and very slightly shook her head when only
I observed her.

As she was not among people with whom I believed she
could be very much at home, I was almost glad to hear that
she was going away within a few days, though I was sorry at
the prospect of parting from her again so soon. This caused
me to remain until all the company were gone. 'Conversing
with her, and hearing her sing, was such a delightful reminder
to me of my happy life in the grave old house she had made
so beautiful, that I could have remained there half the night \
but, having no excuse for staying any longer, when the lights
of Mr. Waterbrook's society were all snuffed out, I took my
leave very much against my inclination. I felt then, more
than ever, that she was my better Angel ; and if I thought of
her sweet face and placid smile, as though they had shone on
me from some removed being, like an Angel, I hope I thought
no harm.

I have said that the company were all gone â€¢ but I ought
to have excepted Uriah, whom I don't include in that denom-
ination, and who had never ceased to hover near us. He
was close behind me when I went clown stairs. He was close
beside me when I walked away from the house, slowly fitting
his long skeleton fingers into the still longer fingers of a great
Guy Fawkes pair of gloves.

It was in no disposition for Uriah's company, but in re-
membrance of the entreaty Agnes had made to me, that I
asked him if he would come home to my rooms, and have
some coffee.

" Oh, really, Master Copperfield," he rejoined, â€” " I beg
your pardon, Mister Copperfield, but the other comes sc
natural, â€” I don't like that you should put a constraint upon
yourself to ask an umble person like me to your ouse."

"There is no constraint in the case," said I. "Will you
come ? "

" I should like, to very much," replied Uriah, with a writhe.
" Well, then, come along ! " said I.

I could not help being rather short with him, but he ap-
peared not to mind it. We went the nearest way, without
conversing much upon the road ; and he was so humble in
respect of those searecrow gloves, that he was still putting
them on, and seemed to have made no advance in that laborr
when we got to my place.

I led him up the dark stairs, to prevent his knocking his

37Â°

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

head against anything, and really his damp cold hand felt so
like a frog in mine, that I was tempted to drop it and run
away. Agnes and hospitality prevailed, however, and I con-
ducted him to my fireside. When I lighted my candles, he
fell into meek transports with the room that was revealed to
him ; and when I heated the coffee in an unassuming block-
tin vessel in which Mrs. Crupp delighted to prepare it (chiefly.
I believe, because it was not intended for the purpose, being
a shaving-pot, and because there was a patent invention of
great price mouldering away in the pantry), he professed so
much emotion, that I could joyfully have scalded him.

"Oh, really, Master Copperfield, â€” I mean Mister Copper-
field," said Uriah, "to see you waiting upon me is what I
never could have expected ! But, one way and another, so
onany things happen to me which I never could have expected,
I am sure, in my umble station, that it seems to rain blessings
on my ed. You have heard something, I des-say, of a change
in my expectations, Master Copperfield, â€” /should say, Mister
Copperfield ? "

As he sat on my sofa, with his long knees drawn up under
his coffee-cup, his hat and gloves upon the ground close to
him, his spoon going softly round and round, his shadowless
red eyes, which looked as if they had scorched their lashes off,
turned towards me without looking at me, the disagreeable
dints I have formerly described in his nostrils coming and
going with his breath, and a snaky undulation pervading his
frame from his chin to his boots, I decided in my own mind
that I disliked him intensely. It made me very uncomfortable
to have him for a guest, for I was young then, and unused to
-disguise what I so strongly felt.

" You have heard something, I des-say, of a change in my
expectations, Master Copperfield, â€” I should say, Mister Cop-
perfield ? " observed Uriah.

"Yes," said I, "something."

" Ah ! I thought Miss Agnes would know of it ! " he
quietly returned. " I'm glad to find Miss Agnes knows of it.
Oh, thank you, Master â€” Mister Copperfield ! "

I could have thrown my bootjack at him (it lay ready on
the rug), for having entrapped me into the disclosure of any-
thing concerning Agnes, however immaterial. But I only
drank my coffee.

" What a prophet you have shown yourself, Mister Copper-
field ! " pursued Uriah. " Dear me, what a prophet you have

GOOD AND BAD ANGELS.

37*

proved yourself to be ! Don't you remember saying to me
once, that perhaps I should be a partner in Mr. Wickfield's
business, and perhaps it might be Wickfield and Heep ? You
may not recollect it ; but when a person is umble, Master
Copperfield, a person treasures such things up ! "

" I recollect talking about it," said I, " though I certainiv
did not think it very likely then."

"Oh! who would have thought it likely, Mister Copper
field !_" returned Uriah, enthusiastically. " I am sure I didn't
myself. I recollect saying with my own lips that I was much
too umble. So I considered myself really and truly."

He sat, with that carved grin on his face, looking at the
fire, as I looked at him.

"But the umblest persons, Master Copperfield," he pres-
ently resumed, " may be the instruments of good. I am glad
to think I have been the instrument of good to Mr. Wickfield,
and that I may be more so. Oh what a worthy man he is,
Mister Copperfield, but how imprudent he has been ! "

" I am sorry to hear it," said I. I could not help adding,
rather pointedly, " on all accounts."

" Decidedly so, Mister Copperfield," replied Uriah. " On
all accounts. Miss Agnes's above all ! You don't remember
your own eloquent expressions, Master Copperfield ; but / re-
member how you said one day that everybody must admire
her, and how I thanked you for it ! You have forgot that, I
have no doubt, Master Copperfield ? "

" No," said I, drily.

" Oh how glad I am you have not ! " exclaimed Uriah.
" To think that you should be the first to kindle the sparks
of ambition in my umble breast, and that you've not for-
got it ! Oh ! â€” Would you excuse me asking for a cup more
coffee ? "

Something in the emphasis he laid upon the kindling of
those sparks, and something in the glance he directed at me
as he said it, had made me start as if I had seen him illumina-
ted by a blaze of light. Recalled by his request, preferred
in quite another tone of voice, I did the honors of the shaving-
pot ; but I did them with an unsteadiness of hand, a sudden
sense of being no match for him, and a perplexed suspicious
anxiety as to what he might be going to say next, which I felt
could not escape his observation.

He said nothing at all. He stirred his coffee round and
round, he sipped it, he felt his chin softly with his grisly

372

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

hand, he looked at the fire, he looked about the room, he
gasped rather than smiled at me, he writhed and undulated
about, in his deferential servility, he stirred and sipped again,
but he left the renewal of the conversation to me.

" So Mr. Wickfield," said I at last, " who is worth five
hundred of you â€” or me â€” " for my life, I think, I could not
have helped dividing that part of the sentence with an awk-
ward jerk â€” " has been imprudent, has he, Mr. Heep ? "

"Oh, very imprudent, indeed, Master Coppernelgl," re-
turned Uriah, sighing modestly. " Oh, very much so ! But
I wish you'd call me Uriah, if you please. It's like old
times."

" Well ! Uriah," said I, bolting it out with some difficulty,
" Thank you ! " he returned, with fervor. " Thank you,
Master Copperfield ! It's like the blowing of old breezes or
the ringing of old bellses to hear you say Uriah. I beg your
pardon. Was I making any observation ? "
" About Mr. Wickfield," I suggested.

" Oh ! Yes, truly," said Uriah. " Ah ! Great imprudence,
Master Copperfield. It's a topic that I wouldn't touch upon
to any soul but you. Even to you I can only touch upon it,
and no more. If any one else had been in my place during
the last few years, by this time he would have had Mr. Wick-
field (oh, what a worthy man he is, Master Copperfield, too !)
under his thumb. Un â€” der â€” his thumb," said Uriah, very
slowly, as he stretched out his cruel-looking hand above my
table, and pressed his own thumb down upon it, until it shook,
and shook the room.

If I had been obliged to look at him with his splay foot on
Mr. Wickfield's head, I think I could scarcely have hated him
more.

" Oh dear, yes, Master Copperfield," he proceeded, in a
soft voice, most remarkably contrasting with the action of his
thumb, which did not diminish its hard" pressure in the least
degree, " there's no doubt of it. There would have been loss,
disgrace, I don't know what all. Mr. Wickfield knows it. I
am the umble instrument of umbly serving him, and he puts
me on an eminence I hardly could have hoped to reach. How
thankful should I be ! " With his face turned towards me, as
he finished, but without looking at me, he took his crooked
thumb off the spot where he had planted it, ai.J. slowly and
thoughtfully scraped his lank jaw with it, as if he were shaving
himself.

GOOD AND BAD ANGELS.

373

1 recollect well how indignantly my heart beat, as I saw
his crafty face, with the appropriately red light of the fire
upon it, preparing for something else.

" Master Copperfield," he began â€” " but am I keeping you
up?"

" You are not keeping me up. I generally go to bed
late."

" Thank you, Master Copperfield ! I have risen from my
umble station since first you used to address me, it is true ;
but I am umble still. I hope I never shall be otherwise than
umble. You will not think the worse of my umbleness, if I
make a little confidence to you, Master Copperfield ? Wil)
you ? "

"Oh no," said I, with an effort.

" Thank you ! " He took out his pocket-handkerchief,
and began wiping the palms of his hands. " Miss Agnes,
Master Copperfield â€” "

" Well, Uriah ? "

" Oh, how pleasant to be called Uriah, spontaneously !
he cried ; and gave himself a jerk, like a convulsive fish.
"You thought her looking very beautiful to-night, Master
Copperfield? "

" I thought her looking as she always does : superior, in
all respects, to every one around her," I returned.

" Oh, thank you ! It's so true ! " he cried. " Oh, thank
you very much for that ! "

"Not at all," I said, loftily. "There is no reason why
you should thank me."

" Why that, Master Copperfield," said Uriah, " is, in fact
the confidence that I am going to take the liberty of reposing.
Umble as I am," he wiped his hands harder, and looked at
them and at the fire by turns, "umble as my mother is, and
lowly as our poor but honest roof has ever been, the image of
Miss Agnes (I don't mind trusting you with my secret, Master
Copperfield, for I have always overflowed towards you since th*
first moment I had the pleasure of beholding you in a pony-
shay) has been in my breast for years. Oh, Master Copper-
field, with what a pure affection do I love the ground my
Agnes walks on ! "

I believe I had a delirious idea of seizing the red-hot
poker out of the fire, and running him through with it. It
went from me with a shock, like a ball fired from a rifle ; but
the image of Agnes, outraged by so much as a thought of

374

DAVID COPPERFIELD

this red headed animal's, remained in my mind (when I looked
at him, sitting all awry as if his mean soul griped his body),
and made me giddy. He seemed to swell and grow before
my eyes ; the room seemed full of the echoes ot his voice ;
and the strange feeling (to which, perhaps, no one is quite a
stranger) that all this had occurred before, at some indefinite
time, and that I knew what he was going to say next, took
possession of me.

A timely observation of the sense of power that there was
in his face, did more to bring back to my remembrance the
entreaty of Agnes, in its full force, than any effort I could
have made. I asked him, with a better appearance of com-
posure than I could have thought possible a minute before,
whether he had made his feelings known to Agnes.

"Oh no, Master Copperfield ! " he returned; "oh dear,
no ! Not to any one but you. You see I am only just emerg-
ing from my lowly station. I rest a good deal of hope on
her observing how useful I am to her father (for I trust to be
very useful to him indeed, Master Copperfield), and how I
smooth the way for him, and keep him straight. She's so
much attached to her father, Master Copperfield (oh what a
lovely thing it is in a daughter !), that I think she may come,
on his account, to be kind to me."

I fathomed the depth of the rascal's whole scheme, and
understood why he laid it bare.

" If you'll have the goodness to keep my secret, Master
Copperfield," he pursued, " and not, in general, to go against
me, I shall take it as a particular favor. You wouldn't wish
to make unpleasantness. I know what a friendly heart you've
got ; but having only known me on my umble footing (on my
umblest, I should say, for I am very umble still), you might,
unbeknown, go against me rather, with my Agnes. I call her
mine, you see, Master Copperfield. There's a song that says,
1 I'd crowns resign, to call her mine ! ' I hope to do it, one
of these days."

Dear Agnes ! So much too loving and too good for any
one that I could think of, was it possible that she was reserved
to be the wife of such a wretch as this !

" There's no hurry at present, you know, Master Copper-
field," Uriah proceeded, in his slimy way, as I sat gazing at
him, with this thought in my mind. " My Agnes is very
young still ; and mother and me will have to work our way
upwards, and make a good many new arrangements, before

GOOD AND BAD ANGELS.

375

It would be quite convenient. So I shall have time gradually
to make her familiar with my hopes, as opportunities offer.
Oh, I'm so much obliged to you for this confidence ! Oh, it's
such a relief, you can't think, to know that you understand
our situation, and are certain (as you wouldn't wish to make
unpleasantness in the family) not to go against m'e ! "

He took the hand which I dared not withhold, and having
given it a damp squeeze, referred to his pale-faced watch.

" Dear me ! " he said, " it's past one. The moments slip
away so, in the confidence of old times, Master Copperfield,
that it's almost half-past one ! "

I answered that I had thought it was later. Not that I
had really thought so, but because my conversational powers
were effectually scattered."

" Dear me ! " he said, considering. " The ouse that I am
stopping at â€” a sort of a private hotel and boarding ouse,
Master Copperfield, near the New River ed â€” will have gone
to bed these two hours."

" I am sorry," I returned, " that there is only one bed
here, and that I â€” "

" Oh, don't think of mentioning beds, Master Copperfield ! "
he rejoined ecstatically, drawing up one leg. " But would you
have any objections to my laying down before the fire ? "

" If ic comes to that," I said, " pray take my bed, and I'll
lie down before the fire."

His repudiation of this offer was almost shrill enough, in
the excess of its surprise and humility, to have penetrated to
the ears of Mrs. Crupp, then sleeping, I suppose, in a distant
chamber, situated at about the level of low-water mark, soothed
in her slumbers by the ticking of an incorrigible clock, to
which she always referred me when we had any little differ-
ence on the score of punctuality, and which was never less
than three-quarters of an hour too slow, and had always been
put right in the morning by the best authorities. As no argu-
ments I could urge, in my bewildered condition, had the least,
effect upon his modesty in inducing him to accept my bed-
room, I was obliged to make the best arrangements I could,
for his repose before the fire. The mattress of the sofa
(which was a great deal too short for his lank figure), the
sofa pillows, a blanket, the table-cover, a clean breakfast-cloth,
and a great-coat, made him a bed and covering, for which he
was more than thankful. Having lent him a night-cap, which
he put on at once, and in which he made such an awful

376

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

figure, that I have never worn one since, I left him to his
rest.

I never shall forget that night. I never shall forget how
I turned and tumbled ; how I wearied myself with thinking
about Agnes and this creature ; how I considered what could
I do, and what ought I to do ; how I could come to no other
conclusion than the best course for her peace, was to do
nothing, and to keep to myself what I had heard. If I went
to sleep for a few moments, the image of Agnes with her
tender eyes, and of her father looking fondly on her, as I had
so often seen him look, arose before me with appealing faces,
and filled me with vague terrors. When I awoke, the recol-
lection that Uriah was lying in the next room, sat heavy on
me like a waking night-mare ; and oppressed me with a leaden
dread, as if I had had some meaner quality of devil for a
lodger.

The poker got into my dozing thoughts besides, and
wouldn't come out. I thought, between sleeping and waking,
that it was still red hot, and I had snatched it out of the fire,
and run him through the body. I was so haunted at last by the
idea, though I knew there was nothing in it, that I stole into
the next room to look at him. There I saw him, lying on his
back, with his legs extending to I don't know where, gurglings
taking place in his throat, stoppages in his nose, and his
mouth open like a post-office. He was so much worse in re-
ality than in my distempered fancy, that afterwards I was at-
tracted to him in very repulsion, and could not help wandering
in and out every half hour or so, and taking another look at
him. Still, the long, long night seemed heavy and hopeless
as ever, and no promise of day was in the murky sky.

When I saw him going down stairs early in the morning
(for, thank Heaven ! he would not stay to breakfast), it appeared
to me as if the night was going away in his person. When I
went out to the Commons, I charged Mrs. Crupp with partic
ular directions to leave the windows open, that my sitting-
room might be aired, and purged of his presence.

/ FALL INTO CAPTIVITY.

CHAPTER XXVI.

I FALL INTO CAPTIVITY

I saw no more of Uriah Heep until the day when Agnes
left town. I was at the coach-office to take leave of her and
see her go ; and there was he, returning to Canterbury by the
same conveyance. It was some small satisfaction to me to
observe his spare, short-waisted, high-shouldered, mulberry-
colored great-coat perched up, in company with an umbrella
like a small tent, on the edge of the back seat on the roof,
while Agnes was, of course, inside ; but what I underwent in
my efforts to be friendly with him, while Agnes looked on,
perhaps deserved that little recompense. At the coach-win-
dow, as at the dinner-party, he hovered about us without a
moment's intermission, like a great vulture, gorging himself
on every syllable that I said to Agnes, or Agnes said to me.

In the state of trouble into which his disclosure by my
fire had thrown me, I had thought very much of the words
Agnes had used in reference to the partnership : " I did what
I hope was right. Feeling sure that it was necessary for
papa's peace that the sacrifice should be made, I entreated
him to make it." A miserable foreboding that she would
yield to, and sustain herself by, the same feeling in reference
to any sacrifice for his sake, had oppressed me ever since. I
knew how she loved him. I knew what the devotion of her
nature was. I knew from her own lips that she regarded her-
self as the innocent cause of his errors, and as owing him a
great debt she ardently desired to pay. I had no consolation
in seeing how different she was from this detestable Rufus
with the mulberry-colored great-coat, for I felt that in the
very difference between them, in the self-denial of her pure soul
and the sordid baseness of his, the greatest danger lay. All
this, doubtless, he knew thoroughly, and had, in his cunning,
considered well.

Yet, I was so certain that the prospect of such a sacrifice
afar off, must destroy the happiness of Agnes ; and I was so
sure, from her manner, of its being unseen by her then, and
having cast no shadow on her yet ; that I could as soon have
injured her, as given her any warning of what impended. Thus

378

DAVID COPPERFIELD*

it was that we parted without explanation, she waving hei
hand and smiling farewell from the coach window, her evij
genius writhing on the roof, as if he had her in his clutches
and triumphed.

I could not get over this farewell glimpse of them for a
long time. When Agnes wrote to tell me of her safe arrival,
I was as miserable as when I saw her going away. Whenever
I fell into a thoughtful state, the subject was sure to present
itself, and all my uneasiness was sure to be redoubled.
Hardly a night passed without my dreaming of it. It became
a part of my life, and as inseparable from my life as my own
head.

I had ample leisure to refine upon my uneasiness, for
Steerforth was at Oxford, as he wrote to me, and when I was
not at the Commons, I was very much alone. I believe I had
at this time some lurking distrust of Steerforth. I wrote to
him most affectionately in reply to his, but I think I was glad,
upon the whole, that he could not come to London just then.
I suspect the truth to be, that the influence of Agnes was upon
me, undisturbed by the sight of him ; and that it was the more
powerful with me, because she had so large a share in my
thoughts and interest.

In the meantime, days and weeks slipped away. I was
articled to Spenlow and Jorkins. I had ninety pounds a year
(exclusive of my house-rent and sundry collateral matters)
from my aunt. My rooms were engaged for twelve months
certain ; and though I still found them dreary of an evening,
and the evenings long, I could settle down into a state of
equable low spirits, and resign myself to coffee ; which I seem,
on looking back, to have taken by the gallon at about this
period of my existence. At about this time, too, I made three
discoveries : first, that Mrs. Crupp was a martyr to a curious
disorder called " the spazzums," which was generally accom-
panied with inflammation of the nose, and required to be con-
stantly treated with peppermint ; secondly, that something
peculiar in the temperature of my pantry, made the brandy-
bottles burst ; thirdly, that I was alone in the world, and much
given to record that circumstance in fragments of English
versification.

On the day when I was articled, no festivity took place,
beyond my having sandwiches and sherry into the office for
the clerks, and going alone to the theatre at night. I went to
see " The Stranger " as a Doctors' Commons sort of play

: FALL INTO CAPTIVITY.

379

and was so dreadfully cut up, that I hardly knew myself in my
own glass when I got home. Mr. Spenlow remarked, on this
occasion, when we concluded our business, that he should have
been happy to have seen me at his house at Norwood to cele-
brate our becoming connected, but for his domestic arrange-
ments being in some disorder, on account of the expected
return of his daughter from finishing her education at Paris.
But, he intimated that when she came home he should hope
to have the pleasure of entertaining me. I knew that he
was a widower with one daughter, and expressed my acknowl-
edgments.

Mr. Spenlow was as good as his word. In a week or two,
he referred to this engagement, and said, that if I would do
him the favor to come down next Saturday, and stay till
Monday, he would be extremely happy. Of course I said I
would do him the favor ; and he was to drive me down in his
phaeton, and to bring me back.

When the day arrived, my very carpet-bag was an object
of veneration to the stipendiary clerks, to whom the house at
Norwood was a sacred mystery. One of them informed me
that he had heard that Mr. Spenlow ate entirely off plate and
china ; and another hinted at champagne being constantly on
draught, after the usual custom of table beer. The old clerk
with the wig, whose name was Mr. Tiffey, had been down on
business several times in the course of his career, and had on
each occasion penetrated to the breakfast-parlor. He de-
scribed it as an apartment of the most sumptuous nature, and
said that he had drank brown East India sherry there, of a
quality so precious as to make a man wink.

We had an adjourned cause in the Consistory that day â€” â–
about excommunicating a baker who had been objecting in a
vestry to a paving-rate â€” and as the evidence was just twice
the length of Robinson Crusoe, according to a calculation I
made, it was rather late in the day before we finished. How-
ever, we got him excommunicated for six weeks, and sen-
tenced in no end of costs ; and then the baker's proctor, and
the judge, and the advocates on both sides (who were all
nearly related), went out of town together, and Mr. Spenlow
and I drove away in the phaeton.

The phaeton was a very handsome affair ; the horses
arched their necks and lifted up their legs as if they knew
they belonged to Doctors' Commons. There was a good
deal of competition in the Commons on all points of display,

DAVID COPPERFIELD

and i> aimed out some very choice equipages then ; though
always have considered, and always shall consider, that ill
my time the great article of competition there was starch j
which I think was worn among the proctors to as great an
extent as it is in the nature of man to bear.

We were very pleasant, going down, and Mr. Spenlow
gave me some hints in reference to my profession. He said
it was the genteelest profession in the world, and must on no
account be confounded with the profession of a solicitor:
being quite another sort of thing, infinitely more exclusive^
less mechanical, and more profitable. We took things much
more easily in the Commons than they could be taken any-
where else, he observed, and that sets us, as a privileged
class, apart. He said it was impossible to conceal the dis-
agreeable fact, that we were chiefly employed by solicitors ;
but he gave me to understand that they were an inferior race
of men, universally looked down upon by all proctors of any
pretensions.

I asked Mr. Spenlow what he considered the best sort of
professional business ? He replied, that a good case of a dis-
puted will, where there was a neat little estate of thirty or
forty thousand pounds, was, perhaps, the best of all. In such
a case, he said, not only were there very pretty pickings, in
the way of arguments at every stage of the proceedings, and
mountains upon mountains of evidence on interrogatory, and
counter-interrogatory (to say nothing of an appeal lying, first
to the Delegates, and then to the Lords) ; but, the costs
being pretty sure to come out of the estate at last, both sides
went at it in a lively and spirited manner, and expense was
no consideration. Then, he launched into a general eulogium
on the Commons. What was to be particularly admired (he
said) in the Commons, was its compactness. It was the most
conveniently organized place in the world. It was the com -
plete idea of snugness. It lay in a nut-shell. For example :
You brought a divorce case, or a restitution case, into the
Consistory. Very good. You tried it in the Consistory.
You made a quiet little round game of it, among a family
group, and you played it out at leisure. Suppose you were
not satisfied with the Consistory, what did you do then ?
Why, you went into the Arches. What was the Arches ? The
same court, in the same room, with the same bar, and the
same practitioners, but another judge, for there the Consis-
tory judge could plead any court-day as an advocate. Well

I FALL LNTO CAPTLVLTY.

you played your round game out again. Still you were not
satisfied. Very good. What did you do then? Why, you
went to the Delegates. Who were the Delegates ? Why, the
Ecclesiastical Delegates were the advocates without any busi-
ness, who had looked on at the round game when it was play-
ing in both courts, and had seen the cards shuffled, and cut,
and played, and had talked to all the players about it, and
now came fresh, as judges, to settle the matter to the satisfac v
tion of everybody! Discontented people might. talk of cor
ruption in the Commons, closeness in the Commons, and
the necessity of reforming the Commons, said Mr. Spenlow
solemnly, in conclusion ; but when the price of wheat per
bushel had been highest, the Commons had been busiest ; and
a man might lay his hand upon his heart, and say this to the
whole world, â€” " Touch the Commons, and down comes the
country ! "

I listened to all this with attention ; and though, I must
say, I had my doubts whether the country was quite as much
obliged to the Commons as Mr. Spenlow made out, I respect-
fully deferred to his opinion. That about the price of wheat
per bushel, I modestly felt was too much for my strength, and
quite settled the question. I have never, to this hour, got the
better of that bushel of wheat. It has re-appeared to annihi-
late me, all through my life, in connection with all kinds of
subjects. I don't know now, exactly, what it has to do with
me, or what right it has to crush me, on an infinite variety
of occasions ; but whenever I see my old friend the bushel
brought in by the head and shoulders (as he always is, I
observe), I give up a subject for lost.

This is a digression. / was not the man to touch the
Commons, and bring down the country. I submissively ex
pressed, by my silence, rcy acquiescence in all I had heard
from my superior in years and knowledge ; and we talked
about " The Stranger " and the Drama, and the pair of horses,
until we came to Mr. Spenlow's gate.

There was a lovely garden to Mr. Spenlow's house ; and
though that was not the best time of the year for seeing a
garden, it was so beautifully kept, that I was quite enchanted.
There was a charming lawn, there were clusters of trees, and
there were perspective walks that I could just distinguish in
the dark, arched over with trellis-work, on which shrubs and
flowers grew in the growing season. " Here Miss Spenlow
walks by herself," I thought. " Dear me ! "

3*2

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

We went into the house, which was cheerfully lighted up,
and into a hall where there were all sorts of hats, caps, great*
coats, plaids, gloves, whips, and walking-sticks. " Where ia
Miss Dora ? " said Mr. Spenlow to the servant. " Dora ! " I
thought. " What a beautiful name ! "

We turned into a room near at hand (I think it was tha
identical breakfast-room, made memorable by the brown East
Indian sherry), and I heard a voice say, " Mr. Copperfield,
my daughter Dora, and my daughter Dora's confidential
friend ! " It was, no doubt, Mr. Spenlow's voice, but I didn't
know it, and I didn't care whose it was. All was over in a
moment. I had fulfilled my destiny. I was a captive and a
slave. I loved Dora Spenlow to distraction !

She was more than human to me. She was a Fairy, a
Sylph, I don't know what she was â€” any thing that no one
ever saw, and everything that everybody ever wanted. I
was swallowed up in an abyss of love in an instant. There
was no pausing on the brink ; no looking clown, or looking
back ; I was gone, headlong, before I had sense to say a
word to her.

" /," observed a well-remembered voice, when I had
oowecl and murmured something, " have seen Mr. Copper-
field before."

The speaker was not Dora. No ; the confidential friend,
Miss Murdstone !

I don't think I was much astonished. To the best of my
judgment, no capacity of astonishment was left in me. There
was nothing worth mentioning in the material world, but
Dora Spenlow, to be astonished about. I said, " How do
you do, Miss Murdstone ? I hope you are well." She an-
swered, " Very well." I said, " How is Mr. Murdstone ? "
She replied, " My brother is robust, I am obliged to you."

Mr. Spenlow, who, I suppose, had been surprised to see
lis recognize each other, then put in his word.

"I am glad to find," he said, "Copperfield, that you and
Miss Murdstone are already acquainted."

" Mr. Copperfield and myself," said Miss Murdstone, with
severe composure, " are connections. We were once slightly
acquainted. It was in his childish days. Circumstances
have separated us since. I should not have known him."

I replied that I should have known her, anywhere. Which
was true enough.

" Miss Murdstone has had the goodness," said Mr Spenlow

J FALL INTO CAPTIVITY.

to me, "to accept the office â€” if I may so describe it â€” of
my daughter Dora's confidential friend. My daughter Dora
having, unhappily, no mother, Miss Murdstone is obliging
enough to become her companion and protector."

A passing thought occurred to me that Miss ,Murdstone;
like the pocke* instrument called a life-preserver, was not sc
much designed for purposes of protection as of assault. But
as I had none but passing thoughts for any subject save Dora,
I glanced at her, directly afterwards, and was thinking that I
saw, in her prettily pettish manner, that she was not very
much inclined to be particularly confidential to her companion
and protector, when a bell rang, which Mr. Spenlow said was
the first dinner-bell, and so carried me off to dress.

The idea of dressing one's self, or doing any thing in the
way of action, in that state of love, was a little too ridiculous.
I could only sit down before my fire, biting the key of my
carpet-bag, and think of the captivating, girlish, bright-eyed,
lovely Dora. What a form she had, what a face she had,
what a graceful, variable, enchanting manner !

The bell rang again so soon that I made a mere scramble
of my dressing, instead of the careful operation I could have
wished under the circumstances, and went down stairs. There
was some company. Dora was talking to an old gentlemaxi
with a gray head. Gray as he was â€” and a great-grandfather
into the bargain, for he said so â€” I was madly jealous of him.

What a state of mind I was in ! I was jealous of every-
body. I couldn't bear the idea of anybody knowing Mr.
Spenlow better than I did. It was torturing to me to hear
them talk of occurrences in which I had had no share. When
a most amiable person, with a highly polished bald head,
asked me across the dinner-table, if that were the first occasion
of my seeing the grounds, I could have done anything to him
that was savage and revengeful.

I don't remember who was there, except Dora. I have
not the least idea what we had for dinner, besides Dora. My
impression is, that I dined off Dora entirely, and sent away
half-a-dozen plates untouched. I sat next to her. I talked
to her. She had the most delightful little voice, the gayest
little laugh, the pleasantest and most fascinating little ways,
that ever led a lost youth into hopeless slavery. She was
rather diminutive altogether. So much the more precious, 1
thought.

When she went out of the loom with Miss Murdstone (no

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

other ladies were of the party), I fell into a reverie, only disÂ«
turbed by the cruel apprehension that Miss Murdstone would
disparage me to her. The amiable creature with the polished
head told me a long story, which I think was about gardening.
I think I heard him say, " my gardener," several times. I
seemed to pay the deepest attention to him, but I was wan-
dering in a garden of Eden all the while, with Dora.

My apprehensions of being disparaged to the object of my
engrossing affection were revived when we went into the
drawing-room, by the grim and distant aspect of Miss Murd-
stone. But I was relieved of them in an unexpected manner,

"David Copperfield," said Miss Murdstone, beckoning
me aside into a window. " A word."

I confronted Miss Murdstone alone.

" David Copperfield," said Miss Murdstone, " I need not
enlarge upon family circumstances. They are not a tempting
subject."

" Far from it, ma'am," I returned.

" Far from it," assented Miss Murdstone. " I do not
wish to revive the memory of past differences, or of past out-
rages. I have received outrages from a person â€” a female, I
am sorry to say, for the credit of my sex â€” who is not to be
mentioned without scorn and disgust ; and therefore I would
rather not mention her."

I felt very fiery on my aunt's account ; but I said it would
certainly be better, if Miss Murdstone pleased, not to mention
her. I could not hear her disrespectfully mentioned, I added,
without expressing my opinion in a decided tone.

Miss Murdstone shut her eyes, and disdainfully inclined
her head ; then, slowly opening her eyes, resumed :

" David Copperfield, I shall not attempt to disguise the
fact, that I formed an unfavorable opinion of you in your
childhood. It may have been a mistaken one, or you may
have ceased to justify it. That is not in question between us
now. I belong to a family remarkable, I believe, for some
firmness ; and I am not the creature of circumstance, 01
change. I may have my opinion of you. You may have yout
opinion of me."

I inclined my head, in my turn.

" But it is not necessary," said Miss Murdstone, " that
these opinions should come into collision here. Under exist-
ing circumstances, it is as well on all accounts that they
should not. As the chances of life have brought us together

/ FALL INTO CAPTIVITY.

again, and may bring us together on other occasions, I would
say, let us meet here as distant acquaintances. Family cir-
cumstances are a sufficient reason for our only meeting on
that footing, and it is quite unnecessary that either of us
should make the other the subject of remark. " Do you
approve of this ? "

"Miss Murdstone," I returned, "I think you and Mr.
Murdstone used me very cruelly, and treated my mother with
great unkindness. I shall always think so, as long as I live.
But I quite agree in what you propose."

Miss Murdstone shut her eyes again, and bent her head.
Then, just touching the back of my hand with the tips of her
cold, stiff fingers, she walked away, arranging the little fetters
on her wrists and round her neck ; which seemed to be the
same set, in exactly the same state, as when I had seen her
last. These reminded me, in reference to Miss Murdstone's
nature, of the fetters over a jail-door ; suggesting on the out-
side, to all beholders, what was to be expected within.

All I know of the rest of the evening is, that I heard the
empress of my heart sing enchanted ballads in the French
language, generally to the effect that, whatever was the matter,
we ought always to dance, Ta ra la, Ta ra la ! accompanying
herself on a glorified instrument, resembling a guitar. That
I was lost in blissful delirium. That I refused refreshment.
That my soul recoiled from punch particularly. That when
Miss Murdstone took her into custody and led her away, she
smiled and gave me her delicious hand. That I caught a
view of myself in a mirror, looking perfectly imbecile and
idiotic. That I retired to bed in a most maudlin state of
mind, and got up in a crisis of feeble infatuation.

It was a fine morning, and early, and I thought I would
go and take a stroll down one of those wire-arched walks, and
indulge my passion by dwelling on her image. On my way
through the hall, I encountered her little dog, who was called
Jip â€” short for Gipsy. I approached him tenderly, for I loved!
even him ; but he showed his whole set of teeth, got under c%
chair expressly to snarl, and wouldn't hear of the least famili-
arity.

The garden was cool and solitary. I walked about, won>
daring what my feelings of happiness would be, if I could
ever become engaged to this dear wonder. As to marriage,
and fortune, and all that, I believe I was almost as innocently
undesigning then, as when I loved little Em'ly. To be allowed

386

IjAVID copperfield.

to call her " Dora," to write to her, to dote upon and worship
her, to have reason to think that when she was with other
people she was yet mindful of me, seemed to me the summit
of human ambition â€” I am sure it was the summit of mine.
There is no doubt whatever that I was a lackadaisical young
spooney ; but there was a purity of heart in all this still, that
prevents my having quite a contemptuous recollection of it,
let me laugh as I may.

I had not been walking long, when I turned a corner, and
met her. I tingle again from head to foot as my recollection
turns that corner, and my pen shakes in my hand.

" You â€” are â€” out early, Miss Spenlow," said I.

" It's so stupid at home," she replied, " and Miss Murd-
stone is so absurd ! She talks such nonsense about its being
necessary for the day to be aired, before I come out. Aired ! "
(She laughed, here, in the most melodious manner.) " On a
Sunday morning, when I don't practice, I must do something.
So I told papa last night I must come out. Besides, it's the
brightest time of the whole day. Don't you think so ? "

I hazarded a bold flight, and said (not without stammer-
ing) that it was very bright to me then, though it had been
very dark to me a minute before.

" Do you mean a compliment ? " said Dora, " or that the
weather has really changed ? "

I stammered worse than before, in replying that I meant
no compliment, but the plain truth ; though I was not aware
of any change having taken place in the weather. It was in
the state of my own feelings, I added bashfully, to clench
the explanation.

I never saw such curls â€” how could I, for there never were
such curls ! â€” as those she shook out to hide her blushes. As
to the straw hat and blue ribbons which was on the top of
the curls, if I could only have hung it up in my room in Buck-
ingham Street, what a priceless possession it would have
been !

" You have just come home from Paris," said T.
" Yes," said she. " Have you ever been there ? "
" No."

" Oh ! I hope you'll go soon ! You would like it so much ! "

Traces of deep-seated anguish appeared in my counte-
nance. That she should hope I would go, that she should
think it possible I could go, was insupportable. I depreciated
Paris ; I depreciated France. I said I wouldn't leave Eng-

/ FALL INTO CAPTIVITY.

387

land, under existing circumstances, for any earthly considera-
tion. Nothing should induce me. In short, she was shaking
the curls again, when the little dog came running along the
walk to our relief.

He was mortally jealous of me, and persisted in barking
at me. She took him up in her arms â€” oh my goodness ! â€” Â«
and caressed him, but he persisted upon barking still He
wouldn't let me touch him, when I tried ; and then she beat
him. It increased my sufferings greatly to see the pats she
gave him for punishment on the bridge of his blunt nose,
while he winked his eyes, and licked her hand, and still
growied within himself like a little double-bass. At length he
was quiet â€” well he might be with her dimpled chin upon his
head ! â€” and we walked away to look at a greenhouse.

"You are not very intimate with Miss Murdstone, are
you ? " said Dora. â€” " My pet."

(The two last words were to the dog. Oh if they had
only been to me !)

" No," I replied. " Not at all so."

" She is a tiresome creature," said Dora, pouting. " I can't
think what papa can have been about, when he chose such a
vexatious thing to be my companion. Who wants a protector ?
I am sure /don't want a protector. Jip can protect me a
great deal better than Miss Murdstone, â€” can't you, Jip,
dear ? "

He only winked lazily, when she kissed his ball of a head.

" Papa calls her my confidential friend, but I am sure she
is no such thing â€” is she, Jip ? We are not going to confide
in any such cross people, Jip and I. We mean to bestow our
confidence where we like, and to find out our own friends, in^
stead of having them found out for us â€” don't we, Jip ? "

Jip made a comfortable noise, in answer, a little like a tea*
kettle when it sings. As for me, every word was a new heap
of fetters, riveted above the last.

" It is very hard, because we have not a kind Mama, that
we are to have, instead, a sulky, gloomy old thing like Miss
Murdstone, always following us about â€” isn't it, Jip ? Never
mind, Jip. We won't be confidential, and we'll make our-
selves as happy as we can in spite of her, and we'll teaze her,
and not please her â€” won't we, Jip ? "

If it had lasted any longer, I think I must have gone down
on my knees on the gravel, with the probability before me ot
grazing them, and of being presently ejected from the prenv

388

DAVID COPPERFIELD

ises besides. But, by good fortune the greenhouse was not
far off, and these words brought us to it.

It contained quite a show of beautiful geraniums. We
loitered along in front of them, and Dora often stopped to
admire this one or that one, and I stopped to admire the same
one, and Dora, laughing, held the dog up childishly, to smell
the flowers ; and if we were not all three in Fairyland, cer-
tainly / was. The scent of a geranium leaf, at this day,
strikes me with a half comical, half serious wonder as to what
change has come over me in a moment ; and then I see a
straw hat and blue ribbons, and a quantity of curls, and a
little black dog being held up, in two slender arms, against a
bank of blossoms and bright leaves.

Miss Murdstone had been looking for us. She found us
here j and presented her uncongenial cheek, the little wrinkles
in it filled with hair powder, to Dora to be kissed. Then she
took Dora's arm in hers, and marched us into breakfast as if
it were a soldier's funeral.

How many cups of tea I drank, because Dora made it,
I don't know. But, I perfectly remember that I sat swilling
tea until my whole nervous system, if I had had any in those
days, must have gone by the board. By-and-by we went to
church. Miss Murdstone was between Dora and me in the
pew ; but I heard her sing, and the congregation vanished.
A sermon was delivered â€” about Dora, of course â€” and I am
afraid that is all I know of the service.

We had a quiet day. No company, a walk, a family din
ner of four, and an evening of looking over books and pic-
tures ; Miss Murdstone with a homily before her, and her eye
upon us, keeping guard vigilantly. Ah ! little did Mr. Spen-
low imagine, when he sat opposite to me after dinner that
day, with his pocket-handkerchief over his head, howferventlv
I was embracing him, in my fancy, as his son-in-law ! Little
did he think, when I took leave of him at night, that he had
just given his full consent to my being engaged to Dora, and
that I was invoking blessings on his head !

We departed early in the morning, for we had a Salvage
case coming on in the Admiralty Court, requiring a rathet
accurate knowledge of the whole science of navigation, in
which (as we couldn't be expected to know much about those
matters in the Commons) the judge had entreated two old
Trinity Masters, for charity's sake, to come and help him out.
Dora was at the breakfast-tablj to .:ia!.e the tea again, how*

I FALL INTO CAPTIVITY.

389

ever ; and I had the melancholy pleasure of taking off my
hat to her in the phaeton, as she stood on the door-step with
Jip in her arms.

What the Admiralty was to me that day ; what nonsense
I made of our case in my mind, as I listened to it ; how I
saw " Dora " engraved upon the blade of the silver oar which
they lay upon the table, as the emblem of that high jurisdic-
tion ; and how I felt when Mr. Spenlow went home with-
out me (I had had an insane hope that he might take me
back again), as if I were a mariner myself, and the ship to
which 1 belonged had sailed away and left me on a desert
island, I shall make no fruitless effort to describe. If that
sleepy old court could rouse itself, and present in any visible
form the day dreams I have had in it about Dora, it would
reveal my truth.

I don't mean the dreams that I dreamed on that day
alone, but day after day, from week to week and term to
term. I went there, not to attend to what was going on, but
to think about Dora. If ever I bestowed a thought upon the
cases, as they dragged their slow length before me, it was
only to wonder, in the matrimonial cases (remembering Dora),,
how it was that married people could ever be otherwise than
happy ; and, in the Prerogative cases, to consider, if the
money in question had been left to me, what were the fore-
most steps I should immediately have taken in regard to
Dora. Within the first week of my passion, I bought four
sumptuous waistcoats â€” not for myself; / had no pride in
them ; for Dora â€” and took to wearing straw-colored kid
gloves in the streets, and laid the foundations of all the corns
I have ever had. If the boots I wore at that period could
only be produced and compared with the natural size of my
feet, they would show what the state of my heart was, in a
most affecting manner.

And yet, wretched cripple as I made myself by this act of
homage to Dora, I walked miles upon miles daily in the hope
of seeing her. Not only was I soon as well known on the
Norwood Road as the postmen on that beat, but I pervad-
ed London likewise. I walked about the streets where the
best shops for ladies were, I haunted the Bazaar like an
unquiet spirit, I fagged through the Park again and again,
long after I was quite knocked up. Sometimes, at long in-
tervals and on rare occasions, I saw her. Perhaps I saw her
glove waved in a carriage window ; perhaps I met her, walked

39Â°

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

with her and Miss Murdstone a little way, and spoke to her.
In the latter case I was always very miserable afterwards, ta
think that I had said nothing to the purpose ; or that she had
no idea of the extent of my devotion, or that she cared noth-
ing about me. I was always looking out, as may be supposed,
for another iavitation to Mr. Spenlow's house. I was always
being disappointed, for I got none.

Mrs. Crupp must have been a woman of penetration ; for
when this attachment was but a few weeks old, and I had not
had the courage to write more explicitly even to Agnes, than
that I had been to Mr. Spenlow's house, " whose family," I
added, " consists of one daughter ; " â€” I say Mrs. Crupp must
have been a woman of penetration, for, even in that early
stage, she found it out. She came up to me one evening,
when I was very low, to ask (she being then afflicted with the
disorder I have mentioned) if I could oblige her with a little
tincture of cardamums mixed with rhubarb, and flavored with
seven drops of the essence of cloves, which was the best
remedy for her complaint ; â€” or, if I had not such a thing by
me, with a little brandy, which was the next best. It was
hot, she remarked, so palatable to her, but it was the next
best. As I had never even heard of the first remedy, and al-
ways had the second in the closet, I gave Mrs. Crupp a glass
of the second, which (that I might have no suspicion of its
being devoted to any improper use) she began to take in my
presence.

" Cheer up, sir," said Mrs. Crupp. " I can't abear to see
you so, sir, I'm a mother myself."

I did not quite perceive the application of this fact to my-
self, but I smiled on Mrs. Crupp, as benignly as was in my
power.

" Come, sir," said Mrs. Crupp. " Excuse me. I know
what it is, sir. There's a lady in the case."
" Mrs. Crupp," said I, reddening.

" Oh, bless you ! Keep a good heart, sir ! " said Mrs,
Crupp. nodding encouragement. " Never say die, sir ! If
she don't smile upon you, there's a many as will. You're a
young gentleman to be smiled on, Mr. Copperfull, and you
must learn your walue, sir."

Mrs. Crupp always called me Mr. Copperfull : firstly, no
doubt, because it was not my name ; and secondly, I am in-
clined to think, in some indistinct association with a washing
day.

/ FALL INTO CAPTIVITY.

39*

" What makes you suppose there is any young lady in the
case, Mrs. Crupp ? " said I.

" Mr. Copperfull," said Mrs. Crupp, with a great deal oi
feeling, "I'm a mother myself."

For some time Mrs. Crupp could only lay her hand upor;
her nankeen bosom, and fortify herself against returning pam
with sips of her medicine. At length she spoke again.

" When the present set were took for you by your deaf
aunt, Mr. Copperfull," said Mrs. Crupp, "my remark were, T
had now found summun I could care for. ' Thank Ev'in ! '
were the expression, ' I have now found summun I can care
for ! â€” You don't eat enough, sir, nor yet drink."

" Is that what you found your supposition on, Mrs.
Crupp ? " said I.

" Sir," said Mrs. Crupp, in atone approaching to severity,
" I've laundressed other young gentlemen besides yourself.
A young gentleman may be over-careful of himself, or he
may be under-careful of himself. He may brush his hair
too regular, or too unregular. He may wear his boots much
too large for him, or much too small. That is according as
the young gentleman has his original character formed. But
let him go to which extreme he may, sir, there's a young lady
in both of 'em."

Mrs. Crupp shook her head in such a determined manner
that I had not an inch of 'vantage-ground left.

" It was but the gentleman which died here before your-
self," said Mrs. Crupp, " that fell in love â€” with a barmaid â€” â€¢
and had his waistcoats took in directly, though much swelled
by drinking."

" Mrs. Crupp," said I, " I must beg you not to connect
the young lady in my case with a barmaid, or anything of that
sort, if you please."

"Mr. Copperfull," returned Mrs. Crupp, "I'm a mothei
myself, and not likely. I ask your pardon, sir, if I intrude. I
should never wish to intrude where I were not welcome. But
you are a young gentleman, Mr. Copperfull, and my adwice to..
you is to cheer up, sir, to keep a good heart, and to know
your own walue. If you was to take to something, sir,"
said Mrs. Crupp, " if you was to take to skittles, now, which is,
healthy, you might find it divert your mind, and do you good."'
With these words, Mrs. Crupp, affecting to be very careful
of the brandy â€” which was all gone â€” thanked me with a ma*
jestic curtsey, and retired. As her figure disappeared into

39 2 DAVID COPPERFIELD.

the gloom of the entry, this counsel certainly presented itsell
to my mind in the light of a slight liberty on Mrs. Crupp's
part ; but, at the same time, I was content to receive it, in
another point of view, as a word to the wise, and a warning in
future to keep my secret better.

CHAPTER XXVII.

TOMMY TRADDLES.

It may have been in consequence of Mrs. Crupp's advice,
and, perhaps, for no better reason than because there was a
certain similarity in the sound of the word skittles and Trad-
dies, that it cime into my head, next day, to go and look after
Traddles. The time he had mentioned was more than out.
and he lived in a little street near the Veterinary College at
Camden Town, which was principally tenanted, as one of our
clerks who lived in that direction informed me, by gentlemen
students, who bought live donkeys, and made experiments on
those quadrupeds in their private apartments. Having ob-
tained from this clerk a direction to the academic grove in
question, I set out, the same afternoon, to visit my old school-
fellow.

I found that the street was not as desirable a one as I
could have wished it to be, for the sake of Traddles. The
inhabitants appeared to have a propensity to throw any little
trifles they were not in want of, into the road ; which not only
made it rank and sloppy, but untidy too, on account of the
cabbage-leaves. The refuse was not wholly vegetable either,
for I myself saw a shoe, a doubled-up saucepan, a black bon-
net, and an umbrella, in various stages of decomposition, as
I was looking out for the number I wanted.

The general air of the place reminded me forcibly of the
-days when I lived with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. An inde-
scribable character of faded gentility that attached to the
house I sought, and made it unlike all the other houses in the
-street â€” though they were all built on one monotonous pat-
tern, and looked like the early copies of a blundering boy who
was learning to make houses, and had not yet got out of his
cramped brick-and-mortar pothooks â€” reminded me still more

COMMY TK ADDLES.

393

yji Mr. and Mrs. Micavvber. Happening to arrive at the door
as it was opened to the afternoon milkman, I was reminded
oi Mr. and Mrs. Micawber more forcibly yet.

Now said the milkman to a very youthful servant girl
*k Has that there little bill of mine been heard on? "

" Oh, master says he'll attend to it immediate," was the
reply.

" Because," said the milkman, going on as if he had re
ceived no answer, and speaking, as I judged from his tone$
rather for the edification of somebody within the house, than
of the youthful servant â€” an impression which was strengthened
by his manner of glaring down the passage â€” "because that
there little bill has been running so long, that I begin to be-
lieve it's run away altogether, and never won't be heercl of.
Now, I'm not a going to stand it, you know ! " said the milk-
man, still throwing his voice into the house, and glaring down
the passage.

As to his dealing in the mild article of milk, by-the-bye,
there never was a greater anomaly. His deportment would
have been fierce in a butcher or a brandy-merchant.

The voice of the youthful servant became faint, but she
seemed to me, from the action of her lips, again to murmur
that it would be attended to immediate.

" I tell you what," said the milkman, looking hard at her
for the first time, and taking her by the chin, " are you fond
of milk ? "

" Yes, I likes it," she replied.

" Good," said the milkman. " Then you won't have none
to-morrow. D'ye hear ? Not a fragment of milk you won't
have to-morrow."

I thought she seemed, upon the whole, relieved, by the
prospect of having any to-day. The milkman, after shaking
his head at her, darkly, released her chin, and with anything
rather than good-will opened his can, and deposited the usual
quantity in the family jug. This done, he went away, mutter-
ing, and uttered the cry of his trade next door, in a vindictive
shriek.

" Does Mr. Traddles live here ? " I then inquired.
A mysterious voice from the end of the passage replied
"Yes." Upon which the youthful servant replied ".Yes,"
" Is he at home ? " said I.

Again the mysterious voice replied in the affirmative, and
again the servant echoed it. Upon this, I walked in, and in

394

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

pursuance of the servant's directions walked up stairs ; con-
scious, as I passed the back parlor-door, that I was surveyed
by a mysterious eye, probably belonging to the mysterious
voice.

When I got to the top of the stairs â€” the house was only
a story high above the ground floor â€” Traddles was on theÂ»
landing to meet me. He was delighted to see me, and gave
me welcome, with great heartiness, to his little room. It was
in the front of the house, and extremely neat, though sparely
furnished. It was his only room, I saw ; for there was a sofa-
bedstead in it, and his blacking-brushes and blacking were
among his books â€” on the top shelf, behind a dictionary. His
table was covered with papers, and he was hard at work in an
old coat. I looked at nothing, that I know of, but I saw every-
thing, even to the prospect of a church upon his china ink-
stand, as I sat down â€” and this, too, was a faculty confirmed
in me in the old Micawber times. Various ingenious arrange-
ments he had made, for the disguise of his chest of drawers,
and the accommodation of his boots, his shaving glass, and
so forth, particularly impressed themselves upon me, as evi-
dences of the same Traddles who used to make models of
elephants' dens in writing-paper to put flies in ; and to com-
fort himself under ill usage, with the memorable works of art I
have so often mentioned.

In a corner of the room was something neatly covered up
with a large white cloth. I could not make out what that was.

" Traddles," said I, shaking hands with him again, after
I had sat down, " I am delighted to see you."

" I am delighted to see you, Copperfield," he returned.
" I am very glad indeed to see you. It was because I was
thoroughly glad to see you when we met in Ely Place, and
was sure you were thoroughly glad to see me, that I gave you
this address instead of my address at chambers."

" Oh ! You have chambers ? " said I.

" Why, I have the fourth of a room and a passage, and the
fourth of a clerk," returned Traddles. " Three others and
myself unite to have a set of chambers â€” to look business-like
â€” and we quarter the clerk too. Half-a-crown a week he costs
me."

His old simple character and good temper, and something
of his old unlucky fortune also, I thought, smiled at me in the
smile with which he made this explanation.

" It's not because I have the least pride, Copperfield, you

TOMMY TRADDLES.

395

understand," said Traddles, " that I don't usually give my
address here. It's only on account of those who come to me,
who might not like to come here. For myself, I am fighting
my way on in the world against difficulties, and it would be
ridiculous if I made a pretence of doing anything else."

" You are reading for the bar, Mr. Waterbrook informed-
me ? " said I.

" Why, yes," said Traddles, rubbing his hands slowly over
one another, " I am reading for the bar. The fact is, I have
just begun to keep my terms, after rather a long delay. It's
some time since I was articled, but the payment of that hun-
dred pounds was a great pull. A great pull ! " said Traddles,
with a wince, as if he had a tooth out.

" Do you know what I can't help thinking of, Traddles, as
I sit here looking at you ? " I asked him.

" No," said he.

" That sky-blue suit you used to wear."

" Lord, to be sure ! " cried Traddles, laughing. " Tight
in the arms and legs, you know ? Dear me ! Well ! Those
were happy times, weren't they ? "

" I think our schoolmaster might have made them happier,
without doing any harm to any of us, I acknowledge," I re-
turned.

" Perhaps he might," said Traddles. " But, dear me, there
was a good deal of fun going on. Do you remember the
nights in the bed-room ? When we used to have the suppers ?
And when you used to tell the stories ? Ha, ha, ha ! And
do you remember when I got caned for crying about Mr.
Mell ? Old Creakle ! I should like to see him again too ! "

" He was a brute to you, Traddles," said I, indignantly ;
for his good-humor made me feel as if I had seen him beaten
but yesterday.

" Do you think so ? " returned Traddles. " Really. Per-
haps he was, rather. But it's all over, a long while. Old
Creakle ! "

" You were brought up by an uncle, then ? " said I.

" Of course I was ! " said Traddles. " The one I was al-
ways going to write to. And always didn't, eh ! Ha, ha, ha !
Yes, I had an uncle then. He died soon after I left school."

" Indeed!"

" Yes. He was a retired â€” what do you call it ? â€” draper â€”
cloth-merchant â€” and had made me his heir. Bu'â€ž he didn't
like me when I grew up."

396

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Do you really mean that ? " said I. He was so composed,
that I fancied he must have some other meaning.

" Oh dear yes, Copperfield ! I mean it," replied Traddles,
" It was an unfortunate thing, but he didn't like me at all.
He said I wasn't at all what he expected, and so he married
his housekeeper."

" And what did you do ? " I asked.

" I didn't do anything in particular," said Traddles. " I
lived with them, waiting to be put out in the world, until his
gout unfortunately new to his stomach â€” and so he died, and
so she married a young man, and so I wasn't provided for."

" Did you get nothing, Traddles, after all ? "

" Oh dear yes! " said Traddles. "I got fifty pounds. I
had never been brought up to any profession, and at first I
was at a loss what to do for myself. However, I began, with
the assistance of the son of a professional man, who had been
to Salem House â€” Yawler, with his nose on one side. Do you
recollect him ? "

No. He had not been there with me ; all the noses were
straight in my day.

" It don't matter," said Traddles. " I began, by means
of his assistance, to copy law writings. That didn't answer
very well ; and then I began to state cases for them, and make
abstracts, and do that sort of work. For I am a plodding
kind of fellow, Copperfield, and had learnt the way of doing
such things pithily. Well ! That put it in my head to enter
myself as a law student ; and that ran away with all that was
left of the fifty pounds. Yawler recommended me to one or
two other offices, however â€” Mr. Waterbrook's for one â€” and I
got a good many jobs. I was fortunate enough, too, to be-
come acquainted with a person in the publishing way, who
was getting up an Encyclopaedia, and he set me to work ; and,
indeed " (glancing at his table), " I am at work for him at this
minute. I am not a bad compiler, Copperfield," said Traddles,
preserving the same air of cheerful confidence in all he said,
" but I have no invention at all ; not a particle. I suppose
there never was a young man with less originality than I
have."

As Traddles seemed to expect that I should assent to this
as a matter of course, I nodded ; and he went on, with the
same sprightly patience â€” I can find no better expression â€” as
before.

" So, by little and little, and not living high, I managed to

TOMMY TR ADDLES.

397

scrape up thejiundred pounds at last," said T/addles ; "and
thank Heaven that's paid â€” though it was â€” though it certainly
was," said Tracldles, wincing again as if he had had another
tooth out, " a pull. I am living by the sort of work I have
mentioned, still, and I hope, one of these days, ^to get con-
nected with some newspaper ; which would almost be the
making of my fortune. Now, Copperfield, you are so exactly
what you used to be, with that agreeable face, and it's so
pleasant to see you, that I sha'n't conceal anything. There-
fore you must know that I am engaged."
Engaged ! Oh Dora !

" She is a curate's daughter," said Traddles ; "one of ten,
down in Devonshire. Yes ! " For he saw me glance, involun-
tarily, at the prospect on the inkstand. "That's the church!
You come round here, to the left, out of this gate," tracing his
finger along the inkstand, " and exactly where I hold this pen,
there stands the house â€” facing, you understand, towards the
church."

The delight with which he entered into these particulars,
did not fully present itself to me until afterwards ; for my self-
ish thoughts were making a ground-plan of Mr. Spenlow's
house and garden at the same moment.

" She is such a dear girl ! " said Traddles ; " a little older
than me, but the dearest girl ! I told you I was going out of
town ? I have been down there. I walked there and I walk-
ed back, and I had the most delightful time ! I dare say ours
is likely to be a rather long engagement, but our motto is
' Wait and hope!' We always say that. 'Wait and hope,'
we always say. And she would wait, Copperfield, till she was
sixty â€” any age you can mention â€” for me ! "

Traddles rose from his chair, and, with a triumphant smile,
put his hand upon the white cloth I had observed.

" However," he said, " it's not that we haven't made a
beginning towards housekeeping. No, no ; we have begun.
We must get on by degrees, but we have begun. Here," draw-
ing the cloth off with great pride and care, " are two pieces of
furniture to commence with. This flower-pot and stand, she
bought herself. You put that in a parlor window," said Trad-
dles, falling a little back from it to survey it with the greater
admiration, " with a plant in it, and â€” and there you are ! This
little round table with the marble top (it's two feet ten in cir-
cumference), / bought. You want to lay a book down, you
know, or somebody comes to see you or your wife, and want*

39*

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

a place to stand a cup of tea upon, and â€” and there you ai3
again ! " said Traddles. " It's an admirable piece of work-
manshipâ€” firm as a rock ! "

I praised them both highly, and Traddles replaced the
covering as carefully as he had removed it.

" It's not a great deal towards the furnishing," said Trad-
dles, " but it's something. The table-cloths, and pillow-cases,
and articles of that kind, are what discourage me most, Cop-
perfield. So does the ironmongery â€” candle-boxes, and grid-
irons, and that sort of necessaries â€” because those things tell,
and mount up. However, ' wait and hope ! ' And I assure
you she's the dearest girl ! "

" I am quite certain of it," said I.

" In the meantime," said Traddles, coming back to his
chair \ " and this is the end of my prosing about myself, I get
on as well as I can. I don't make much, but I don't spend
much. In general, I board with the people down stairs, who
are very agreeable people indeed. Both Mr. and Mrs. Micaw-
ber have seen a good deal of life, and are excellent company."

" My dear Traddles ! " I quickly exclaimed. " What are
you talking about ? "

Traddles looked at me, as if he wondered what / was talk-
ing about.

" Mr. and Mrs. Micawber ! " I repeated. " Why, I am in-
timately acquainted with them ! "

An opportune double knock at the door, which I knew well
from old experience in Windsor Terrace, and which nobody
but Mr. Micawber could ever have knocked at that door, re-
solved any doubt in my mind as to their being my old friends.
I begged Traddles to ask his landlord to walk up. Traddles
accordingly did so, over the banister ; and Mr. Micawber, not
a bit changed â€” his tights, his stick, his shirt-collar, and his
eye-glass, all the same as ever â€” came into the room with a
genteel and youthful air.

" I beg your pardon, Mr. Traddles," said Mr. Micawber,
with the old roll in his voice, as he checked himself in hum-
ming a soft tune. " I was not aware that there was any indi-
vidual, alien to this tenement, in your sanctum."

Mr. Micawber slightly bowed to me, and pulled up his
shirt-collar.

" How do you do, Mr. Micawber ? " said I.

" Sir," said Mr. Micawber, " you are exceedingly obliging
t am in statu quo."

TOMMY TR ADDLED

399

" And Mrs. Micawber ? " I pursued.

" Sir," said Mr. Micawber, " she is also, thank God, in
Statu quo."

" And the children ? " Mr. Micawber.

" Sir," said Mr. Micawber, " I rejoice to reply that they
are, likewise, in the enjoyment of salubrity."

All this time, Mr. Micawber had not known me in the
least, though he had stood face to face with me. But now,
seeing me smile, he examined my features with more attention,
fell back, cried, " Is it possible ! Have I the pleasure of again
beholding Copperfield ! " and shook me by both hands with
the utmost fervor.

Good Heaven, Mr. Traddles ! " said Mr. Micawber, " to
think that I should find you acquainted with the friend of my
youth, the companion of earlier days ! My dear ! " calling
over the banisters to Mrs. Micawber, while Traddles looked
(with reason) not a little amazed at this description of me.
" Here is a gentleman in Mr. Traddle's apartment, whom he
wishes to have the pleasure of presenting to you, my love ! "

Mr. Micawber immediately reappeared, and shook hands
with me again.

" And how is our good friend the Doctor, Copperfield ? "
said Mr. Micawber, " and all the circle at Canterbury ? "

" I have none but good accounts of them," said i.

" I am most delighted to hear it," said Mr. Micawber. " It
was at Canterbury where we last met. Within the shadow/
I may figuratively say, of that religious edifice immortalized
by Chaucer, which was anciently the resort of Pilgrims from
the remotest corners of â€” in short," said Mr. Micawber, " in
the immediate neighborhood of the Cathedral."

I replied that it was. Mr. Micawber continued talking as
volubly as he could ; but not, I thought, without showing, by
some marks of concern in his countenance, that he was sensi-
ble of sounds in the next room, as of Mrs. Micawber washing
her hands, and hurriedly opening and shutting dijwers that
were uneasy in their action.

" You find us, Copperfield," said Mr. MicawDev; vith one
eye on Traddles, " at present established, on what may be
designated as a small and unassuming scale ; btÂ»t, you are
aware that I have, in the course of my career, surmounted
difficulties, and conquered obstacles. You are no stranger to
the fact, that there have been periods of my life, when it has
been requisite that I should pause, until certain expected

4.0 1Â»

DAVID COPPERFTELD

events should turn up ; when it has been necessary that 1
should fall back, before making what I trust I shall not be
accused of presumption in terming â€” a spring. The present
is one of those momentous stages in the life of man. You
find me, fallen back,y#r a spring ; and I have every reason to
believe that a vigorous leap will shortly be the result."

I was expressing my satisfaction, when Mrs. Micawber
came in ; a little more slatternly than she used to be, or so
she seemed now, to my unaccustomed eyes, but still with some
preparation of herself for company, and with a pair of browr,
gloves on.

" My dear," said Mr. Micawber, leading her towards me.
*4 Here is a gentleman of the name of Copperfield, who wishes
to renew his acquaintance with you."

It would have been better, as it turned out, to have led
gently up to his announcement, for Mrs. Micawber being in a
delicate state of health, was overcome by it, and was taken so
unwell, that Mr. Micawber was obliged, in great trepidation,
to run down to the water-butt in the back yard, and draw a
basinful to lave her brow with. She presently revived, how-
ever, and was really pleased to see me. We had half-an-
hour's talk, all together : and I asked her about the twins,;
who, she said, were " grown great creatures ; " and after Mas-
ter and Miss Micawber, whom she described as " absolute
giants," but they were not produced on that occasion.

Mr. Micawber was very anxious that I should stay to din-
ner. I should not have been averse to do so, but that I im-
agined I detected trouble, and calculation relative to the ex-
tent of the cold meat, in Mrs. Micawber's eye. I therefore
pleaded another engagement ; and observing that Mrs. Mi-
cawber's spirits were immediately lightened, I resisted all per-
suasion to forego it.

But I told Traddles, and Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, that be-
fore I could think of leaving, they must appoint a clay when
they would come and dine with me. The occupations to
which Traddles stood pledged, rendered it necessary to fix a
somewhat distant one ; but an appointment was made for the
purpose, that suited us all, and then I took my leave.

Mr. Micawber, under pretence of showing me a nearer
way than that by which I had come, accompanied me to the
corner of the street ; being anxious (he explained to me) to
say a few words to an old friend, in confidence.

" My dear Copperfield," said Mr. Micawber, " J need

MR. MICA IVBER'S GAUNTLET.

401

nardly tell you that to have beneath our roof, under existing
circumstances, a mind like that which gleams â€” if I may be
allowed the expression â€” which gleams â€” in your friend Trad-
dies, is an unspeakable comfort. With a washerwoman, who
exposes hard-bake for sale in her parlor-window, dwelling next
door, and a Bow-street officer residing over the way, you may
imagine that his society is a source of consolation to myself
and to Mrs. Micawber. I am at presenr, my dear Copper-
field, engaged in the sale of corn upon commission. It is not
an avocation of a remunerative description â€” in other words,
it does not pay â€” and some temporary embarrassments of a
pecuniary nature have been the consequence. I am, however,
delighted to add that I have now an immediate prospect of
something turning up (I am not at liberty to say in what di-
rection), which I trust will enable me to provide, permanently
both for myself and for your friend Traddles, in whom I have
an unaffected interest. You may, perhaps, be prepared to
hear that Mrs. Micawber is in a state of health which renders
it not wholly improbable that an addition may be ultimately
made to those pledges of affection which â€” in short, to the in-
fantine group. Mrs. Micawber's family have been so good as
to express their dissatisfaction at this state of things. I have
merely to observe, that I am not aware it is any business of
theirs, and that I repel that exhibition of feeling with scorn,
and with defiance ! "

Mr. Micawber then shook hands with me again, and left

me.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MR. MICAWBER'S GAUNTLET.

Until the day arrived on which I was to entertain my
newly-found old friends, I lived principally on Dora and cof-
fee. In my love-lorn condition, my appetite languished ; and
I was glad of it, for I felt as though it would have been an
act of perfidy towards Dora to have a natural relish for my
dinner. The quantity of walking exercise I took, was not in
this respect attended with its usual consequence, as the dis-
appointment counteracted the fresh air. I have my doubts,

402

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

too, founded on the acute experience acquired at this period
of my life, whether a sound enjoyment of animal food can de-
velope itself freely in any human subject who is always in
torment from tight boots. I think the extremities require to
be at peace before the stomach will conduct itself with vigor.

On the occasion of this domestic little party, I did not re-
peat my former extensive preparations. I merely provided
a pair of soles, a small leg of mutton, and a pigeon-pie. Mrs,
Crupp broke out into rebellion on my first bashful hint in ref-
erence to the cooking of the fish and joint, and said, with a
dignified sense of injury, " No ! No, sir ! You will not ask
me sich a thing, for you are better acquainted with me than
to suppose me capable of doing what I cannot do with ampial
satisfaction to my own feelings ! " But, in the end, a com-
promise was effected ; and Mrs. Crupp consented to achieve
this feat, on condition that I dined from home for a fortnight
afterwards.

And here I may remark, that what I underwent from Mrs.
Crupp, in consequence of the tyranny she established over me,
was dreadful. I never was so much afraid of any one. We
made a compromise of everything. If I hesitated, she was
taken with that wonderful disorder which was always lying in
ambush in her system, ready, at the shortest notice, to prey
upon her vitals. If I rang the bell impatiently, after half-a-
dozen unavailing modest pulls, and she appeared at last â€”
which was not by any means to be relied upon â€” she would
appear with a reproachful aspect, sink breathless on a chair
near the door, lay her hand upon her nankeen bosom, and be-
come so ill, that I was glad, at any sacrifice of brandy or any-
thing else, to get rid of her. If I objected to having my bed
made at five o'clock in the afternoon â€” which I do still think
an uncomfortable arrangement â€” one motion of her hand to-
wards the same nankeen region of wounded sensibility was
enough to make me falter an apology. In short, I would
have done anything in an honorable way rather than give Mrs.
Crupp offence ; and she was the terror of my life.

I bought a second-hand dumb-waiter for this dinner-party,
in preference to re-engaging the handy young man ; against
whom I had conceived a prejudice, in consequence of meeting
him in the Strand, one Sunday morning, in a waistcoat re-
markably like one of mine, which had been missing since the
former occasion. The " young gal " was re-engaged ; but
on the stipulation that she should only bring in the dishes

MR. MIC 4 WBER'S GAUNTLET.

and then withdraw to the lancling-plaee, beyond the outer
door ; where a habit of sniffing she had contracted would be
lost upon the guests, and where her retiring on the plates
would be a physical impossibility.

Having laid in the materials for a bowl of punch, to be
compounded by Mr. Micawber ; having provided a bottle ot
lavender-water, two wax candles, a paper of mixed pins, and
a pincushion, to assist Mrs. Micawber in her toilette, at my
dressing-table ; having also caused the fire in my bed-room
to be lighted for Mrs. Micawber's convenience ; and having
laid the cloth with my own hands, I awaited the result with
composure.

At the appointed time, my three visitors arrived together.
Mr. Micawber with more shirt-collar than usual, and a new
ribbon to his eye-glass ; Mrs. Micawber with her cap in a
whity-brown paper parcel ; Traddles carrying the parcel, and
supporting Mrs. Micawber on his arm. They were all de-
lighted with my residence. When I conducted Mrs. Micaw-
ber to my dressing-table, and she saw the scale on which it
was prepared for her, she was in such raptures, that she called
Mr. Micawber to come in and look.

" My dear Copperfield," said Mr. Micawber, " this is
luxurious. This is a way of life which reminds me of the
period when I was myself in a state of celibacy, and Mr?.
Micawber had not yet been solicited to plight her faith at the
Hymeneal altar."

"He means, solicited by him, Mr. Copperfield," said Mrs.
Micawber, archly. " He cannot answer for others."

" My dear," returned Mr. Micawber with sudden serious-
ness, " I have no desire to answer for others. I am too well
aware that when, in the inscrutable decrees of Fate, you were
reserved for me, it is possible you may have been reserved for
one, destined, after a protracted struggle, at length to fall a
victim to pecuniary involvements of a complicated nature. I
understand your allusion, my love. I regret it, but I can
bear it."

"Micawber! " exclaimed Mrs. Micawber, in tears. " Have
I deserved this ! I, who never have deserted you ; who
never will desert you, Micawber ! "

" My love," said Mr. Micawber, much affected, " you will
forgive, and our old and tried friend Copperfield will, I are
sure, forgive, the momentary laceration of a wounded spirit,
made sensitive by a recent collision with the Minion of Power

4o4 DAVID COPPERFIELD.

â€” in other words, with a ribald Turncock attached to the
waterworks â€” and will pity, not condemn, its excesses."

Mr. Micawberthen embraced Mrs. Micawber, and pressed
my hand ; leaving me to infer from this broken allusion that
his domestic supply of water had been cut off that afternoon,
in consequence of default in the payment of the company's
rates.

To divert his thoughts from this melancholy subject, I in-
formed Mr. Micawber that I relied upon him for a bowl of
punch, and led him to the lemons. His recent despondency,
not to say despair, was gone in a moment. I never saw a
man so thoroughly enjoy himself amid the fragrance of lemon-
peel and sugar, the odor of burning rum, and the steam cf
boiling water, as Mr. Micawber did that afternoon. It was
wonderful to see his face shining at us out of a thin cloud of
these delicate fumes, as he stirred, and mi^ed, and tasted, and
looked as if he were making, instead of punch, a fortune for his
family down to the latest posterity. As to Mrs. Micawber, I
don't know whether it was the effect of the cap, or the lavender-
water, or the pins, or the fire, or the wax-candles, but she
came out of my room, comparatively speaking, lovely. And
the lark was never gayer than that excellent woman

I suppose â€” I never ventured to inquire, but I suppose â€” â–
that Mrs. Crupp, after frying the soles, was taken ill. Be-
cause we broke down at that point. The leg of mutton came
up very red within, and very pale without ; besides having a
foreign substance of a gritty nature sprinkled over it, as if it had
had a fall into the ashes of that remarkable kitchen fire-place.
But we were not in a condition to judge of this fact from the
appearance of the gravy, forasmuch as the " young gal " had
dropped it all upon the stairs â€” where it remained, by-the-bye,
in a long train, until it was worn out. The pigeon-pie was
not bad, but it was a delusive pie â€” the crust being like a dis-
appointing head, phrenologically speaking â€” full of lumps and
bumps, with nothing particular underneath. In short, the
banquet was such a failure that I should have been quite un-
happyâ€” about the failure, I mean, for I was always unhappy
about Dora â€” if I had not been relieved by the great good-
humor of my company, and by a bright suggestion from Mr
Micawber.

" My dear friend Copperfield," said Mr. Micawber, "acci-
dents will occur in the best-regulated families ; and in families
not regulated by that pervading influence which sanctifies

MR. MICAWBER' S GAUNTLET.

while it enhances the â€” a â€” I would say, in short, by the in-
fluence of Woman, in the lofty character of Wife, they may be
expected with confidence, and must be borne with philosophy.
If you will allow me to take the liberty of remarking that
there are few comestibles better, in their way, than a Devil,
and that I believe, with a little division of labor, we could
accomplish a good one if the young person in attendance
could produce a gridiron, I would put it to you, that this
little misfortune may be easily repaired."

There was a gridiron in the pantry, on which my morning
rasher of bacon was cooked. We had it in, in a twinkling,
and immediately applied ourselves to carrying Mr. Micaw-
ber's idea into effect. The division of labor to which
he had referred was this : â€” Tradclles cut the mutton into
slices ; Mr. Micawber (who could do anything of this sort
to perfection) covered them with pepper, mustard, salt, and
cayenne ; I put them on the gridiron, turned them with a
fork, and took them off, under Mr. Micawber's direction ;
and Mrs. Micawber heated, and continually stirred, some
mushroom ketchup in a little saucepan. When we had
slices enough done to begin upon we fell-to, with our sleeves
still tucked up at the wrists, more slices sputtering and blazing
on the fire, and our attention divided between the mutton
on our plates, and the mutton then preparing.

What with the novelty of this cookery, the excellence of it,
the bustle of it, the frequent starting up to look after it, the
frequent sitting down to dispose of it as the crisp slices came
off the gridiron hot and hot, the being so busy, so flushed with
the fire, so amused, and in the midst of such a tempting noise
and savor, we reduced the leg of mutton to the bone. My
own appetite came back miraculously. I am ashamed to re-
cord it, but I really believe I forgot Dora for a little while. I
am satisfied that Mr. and Mrs. Micawber could not have en*
joyed the feast more, if they had sold a bed to provide it.
Traddles laughed as heartily, almost the whole time, as he
ate and worked. Indeed we all did, all at once ; and I dare
say there never was a greater success.

We were at the height of our enjoyment, and were all busily
engaged, in our several departments, endeavoring to bring the
last batch of slices to a state of perfection that should crown
the feast, when I was aware of a strange presence in the room,
and my eyes encountered those of the staid Littimer, standing
hat in hand before me

4^6

DAVID COPPERFIELD,

" What's the matter ? " I involuntarily asked.
*' I beg your pardon, sir, I was directed to come in. Is my
master not here, sir ? "
"No."

" Have you not seen him, sir ? "
" No ; don't you come from him ? "
" Not immediately so, sir."
" Did he tell you, you would find him here ? "
" Not exactly so, sir. But I should think he might be here
to-morrow, as he has not been here to-day."
" Is he coming up from Oxford ? "

" I beg, sir," he returned respectfully, "that you will be
seated, and allow me to do this." With which he took the
fork from my unresisting hand, and bent over the gridiron, as
if his whole attention were concentrated on it.

We should not have been much discomposed, I dare say,
by the appearance of Steerforth himself, but we became in a
moment the meekest of the meek before his respectable serving-
man. Mr. Micawber, humming a tune, to show that he was
quite at ease, subsided into his chair, with the handle of a
hastily concealed fork sticking out of the bosom of his coat, as
if he had stabbed himself. Mrs. Micawber put on her brown
gloves, and assumed a genteel languor. Traddles ran his
greasy hands through his hair, and stood it bolt upright, and
stared in confusion on the table-cloth. As for me, I was a
mere infant at the head of my own table ; and hardly ventured
to glance at the respectable phenomenon, who had come from
Heaven knows where, to put my establishment to rights.

Meanwhile he took the mutton off the gridiron, and gravely
handed it round. We all took some, but our appreciation of
it was gone, and we merely made a show of eating it. As we
severally pushed away our plates, he noiselessly removed them,
and set on the cheese. He took that off, too, when it was
done with ; cleared the table ; piled everything on the dumb-
waiter ; gave us our wine-glasses ; and, of his own accord,
wheeled the dumb-waiter into the pantry. All this was done
in a perfect manner, and he never raised his eyes from what
he was about. Yet, his very elbows, when he had his back
towards me, seemed to teem with the expression of his fixed
opinion that I was extremely young.

" Can I do anything more, sir ? "

I thanked him and said, No ; but would he take no dinner
himself ?

MR. MICA WEEK'S GAUNTLET

" None, I am obliged to you, sir."

* Is Mr. Steerforth coming from Oxford ? "

" I beg your pardon, sir ? "

" Is Mr. Steerforth coming from Oxford ? "

" I should imagine that he might be here to-morrow, sir.
I rather thought he might have been here to-day, sir. The mis-
take is mine, no doubt, sir."

" If you should see him first â€” " said I.

" If you'll excuse me, sir, I don't think I shall see him
first."

"In case you do," said I, "pray say that I am sorry he
was not here to-day, as an old schoolfellow of his was here."

" Indeed, sir ! " and he divided a bow between me and
Traddles, with a glance at the latter.

He was moving softly to the door, when, in a forlorn hope
of saying something naturally â€” which I never could, to this
man â€” I said :

"Oh! Littimer!"

" Sir!"

" Did you remain long at Yarmouth, that time ? *

" Not particularly so, sir."

" You saw the boat completed ? "

" Yes, sir. I remained behind on purpose to see the boat
completed."

" I know ! " He raised his eyes to mine respectfully. " Mr.
Steerforth has not seen it yet, I suppose ? "

" I really can't say, sir. I think â€” but I really can't say,
-sir. I wish you good night, sir."

He comprehended everybody present, in the respectful bow
with which he followed these words, and disappeared. My
visitors seemed to breathe more freely when he was gone ; but
my own relief was very great, for besides the constraint, aris-
ing from that extraordinary sense of being at a disadvantage
which I always had in this man's presence, my conscience had
embarrassed me with whispers that I had mistrusted his master,
and I could not repress a vague uneasy dread that he might
find it out. How was it, having so little in reality to conceal,
that I always did feel as if this man were finding me out ?

Mr. Micawber roused me from this reflection, which was
blended with a certain remorseful apprehension of seeing
Steerforth himself, by bestowing many encomiums on the
absent Littimer as a most respectable fellow, and a thoroughly
admirable servant. Mr. Micawber, I may remark, had taken

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

his full share of the general bow, and had received it with ir>
finite condescension.

" But punch, my dear Copperfield," said Mr. Micawber,
tasting it, " like time and tide, waits for no man. Ah ! it is
at the present moment in high flavor. My love, will you give
me you opinion ? "

Mrs. Micawber pronounced it excellent.

"Then I will drink," said Mr. Micawber, "if my friend
Copperfield will permit me to take that social liberty, to the
days when my friend Copperfield and myself were younger
and fought our way in the world side by side. I may say, of
myself and Copperfield, in words we have sung together before
now, that

' We twa' had run about the braes
An pu'd the gowans fine '

Mr. Micawber, at the then present moment, took a pull
at his punch. So we all did : Traddles evidently lost in
wondering at what distant time Mr. Micawber and I could
have been comrades in the battle of the world.

" Ahem ! " said Mr. Micawber, clearing his throat, and
warming with the punch and with the fire. " My dear, another
glass ? "

Mrs. Micawber said it must be very little ; but we couldn't
allow that, so it was a glassful.

"As we are quite confidential here, Mr. Copperfield," said
Mrs. Micawber, sipping her punch, " Mr. Traddles being a
part of our domesticity, I should like to have your opinion
on Mr. Micawber's prospects. For corn," said Mrs. Micawber
argumentatively, " as I have repeatedly said to Mr. Micawbe*
may be gentlemanly, but it is not remunerative. Commis-
sion to the extent of two and ninepence in a fortnight cannot
however limited our ideas, be considered remunerative."

We were all agreed upon that.

" Then," said Mrs. Micawber, who prided herself on tab
ing a clear view of things, and keeping Mr. Micawber straight
by her woman's wisdom, when he might otherwise go a little
crooked, " then I asked myself this question. If corn is not
tc be relied upon, what is ? Are coals to be relied upon ?
Not at all. We have turned our attention to that experiment,
on the suggestion of my family, and we find it fallacious."

Mr. Micawber, leaning back in his chair with his hands in
his pockets, eyed us aside, and nodded his head, as much as-
to say that the case was very clearly put.

MR. MICAWBER'S GAUNTLET.

"The articles of corn and coals," said Mrs. Micawber,
Still more argumentatively, " being equally out of the ques-
tion, Mr. Copperfield, I naturally look round the world, and
say, 1 What is there in which a person of Mr. Micawber's
talent is likely to succeed?' And I exclude the 'doing any-
thing on commission, because commission is not a certainty.
What is best suited to a person of Mr. Micawber's peculiar
temperament is, I am convinced, a certainty."

Traddles and I both expressed, by a feeling murmur, that
this great discovery was no doubt true of Mr. Micawber, and
that it did him much credit.

" I will not conceal from you, my dear Mr. Copperfield,"
said Mrs. Micawber, "that /have long felt the Brewing busi-
ness to be particularly adapted to Mr. Micawber. Look at
Barclay and Perkins ! Look at Truman, Hanbury, and Bux
ton ! It is on that extensive footing that Mr. Micawber, I
know from my own knowledge of him, is calculated to shine j
and the profits, I am told, are e-NOR â€” mous ! But if Mr.
Micawber cannot get into those firms â€” which decline to
answer his letters, when he offers his services even in an in-
ferior capacity â€” what is the use of dwelling upon that idea ?
None. I may have a conviction that Mr. Micawber's man-
nersâ€”"

" Hem ! Really, my dear," interposed Mr. Micawber,
" My love, be silent," said Mrs. Micawber, laying her
brown glove on his hand. " I may have a conviction, Mr.
Copperfield, that Mr. Micawber's manners peculiarly qualify
him for the Banking business. I may argue within myself,
that if / had a deposit at a banking-house, the manners of Mr.
Micawber, as representing that banking-house, would inspire
confidence, and must extend the connection. But if the
various banking-houses refuse to avail themselves of Mr. Mi-
cawber's abilities, or receive the offer of them with con-
tumely, what is the use of dwelling upon that idea ? None.
As to originating a banking-business, I may know that there
are members of my family who, if they choose to place their
money in Mr. Micawber's hands, might found an establish-
ment of that description. But if they do not choose to place
their money in Mr. Micawber's hands â€” which they don't â€” â–
what is the use of that ? Again I contend that we are no farther
advanced than we were before."

I shook my head, and said, " Not a bit." Traddles also
shook his head, and said, " Not a bit."

4io

DAVID COPPER FIELD.

" What do I deduce from this ? " Mrs. Micawber went on
to say, still with the same air of putting a case lucidly.
" What is the conclusion, my dear Mr. Copperfield, to which
T am irresistibly brought ? Am I wrong in saying, it is cleaf
that we must live ? "

I answered " Not at all ! " and Traddles answered " No*
at all ! '* and I found myself afterwards sagely adding, alone
that a person must either live or die.

" Just so," returned Mrs. Micawber. " It is precisely that
And the fact is, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that we can not live,
without something widely different from existing circum-
stances shortly turning up. Now I am convinced, myself,
and this I have pointed out to Mr. Micawber several time*
of late, that things cannot be expected to turn up of them-
selves. We must, in a measure, assist to turn them up. *
may be wrong, but I have formed that opinion."

Both Traddles and I applauded it highly.

" Very well," said Mrs. Micawber. " Then what do )
recommend ? Here is Mr. Micawber with a variety of quali
fications â€” with great talent â€” "

" Really, my love," said Mr. Micawber.

il Pray, my dear, allow me to conclude. Here is Mr. Mi-
cawber, with a variety of qualifications, with great talent â€” ]
should say, with genius, but that may be the partiality of a
wife â€” "

Traddles and I both murmured " No."

" And here is Mr. Micawber without any suitable position
or employment. Where does that responsibility rest ? Clearly
on society. Then I would make a fact so disgraceful known,
and boldly challenge society to set it right. It appears to
me, my dear Mr. Copperfield," said Mrs. Micawber, forcibly,
" that what Mr. Micawber has to do, is to throw down the
gauntlet to society, and say, in effect, ' Show me who will take
that up. Let the party immediately step forward.' "

I ventured to ask Mrs. Micawber how this was to be
done.

" By advertising," said Mrs. Micawber â€” 11 in all the papers.
It appears to me, that what Mr. Micawber has to do, in
justice to himself, in justice to his family, and I will even
go so far as to say in justice to society, by which he has
been hitherto overlooked, is to advertise in all the papers ; to
describe himself plainly as so-and-so, with such and such
qualifications, and to put it thus: i Now employ me, on

MR. MICAWBER'S GAUNTLET.

411

remunerative terms, and address, post-paid, to W. M.f Post

Office, Camden Town/"

"This idea of Mrs. Micawber's, my dear Copperfield,'
said Micawber, making- his shirt-collar meet in front of his
chin, and glancing at me sideways, " is, in fact, the Leap to
which I alluded, when I last had the pleasure of seeing you."

"Advertising is rather expensive," I remarked, dubiously.

"Exactly so !" said Mrs. Micawber, preserving the same
logical air. " Quite true, my dear Mr. Copperfield ! I have
made the identical observation to Mr. Micawber. It is for
that reason especially, that I think Mr. Micawber ought (as
I have already said, injustice to himself, in justice to his
family, and in justice to society) to raise a certain sum of
money â€” on a bill."

Mr. Micawber, leaning back in his chair, trifled with his
eye-glass, and cast his eyes up at the ceiling ; but I thought
him observant of Traddles, too, who was looking at the fire.

" If no member of my family," said Mrs. Micawber, "is
possessed of sufficient natural feeling to negotiate that bill â€” -
I believe there is a better business-term to express what I
mean â€” "

Mi5. Micawber, with his eyes still cast up at the ceiling,
suggested "Discount."

" To discount that bill," said Mrs. Micawber, "then my
opinion is, that Mr. Micawber should go into the City, should
take that bill into the Money Market, and should dispose of
it for what he can get. If the individuals in the Money Mar-
ket oblige Mr. Micawber to sustain a great sacrifice, that is
between themselves and their consciences. I view it, steadily,
as an investment. I recommend Mr. Micawber, my dear Mr.
Copperfield, to do the same ; to regard it as an investment
which is sure of return, and to make up his mind to any sacri-
fice."

I felt, but I am sure I don't know why, that this was self-
denying and devoted in Mrs. Micawber, and I uttered a mur-
mur to that effect. Traddles, who took his tone from me, did
likewise, still looking at the fire.

<c I will not," said Mrs. Micawber, finishing her punch and
gathering her scarf about her shoulders preparatory to her
withdrawal to my bed-room : " I will not protract these re-
marks on the subject of Mr. Micawber's pecuniary affairs.
At your fireside, my dear Mr. Copperfield, and in the presence
of Mr. Traddles, who, though not so old a friend, is quite one

412

DAVID COPPER FIELD.

of ourselves, I could not refrain from making you acquainted
with the course / advise Mr. Micawber to take. I feel that
the time is arrived when Mr. Micawber should exert himself
and â€” I will add â€” assert himself, and it appears to me that
these are the means. I am aware that I am merely a female,
and that a masculine judgment is usually considered more
competent to the discussion of such questions ; still I must
not forget that, when I lived at home with my papa and mama,
my papa was in the habit of saying, ' Emma's form is fragile,
but her grasp of a subject is inferior to none.' That my papa
was too partial, I well know ; but that he was an observer of
character in some degree, my duty and my reason equally for-
bid me to doubt."

With these words, and resisting our entreaties that she
would grace the remaining circulation of the punch with her
presence, Mrs. Micawber retired to my bed-room. And really
I felt that she was a noble woman â€” the sort of woman who
might have been a Roman matron, and done all manner of
heroic things, in times of public trouble.

In the fervor of this impression, I congratulated Mr. Mi-
cawber on the treasure he possessed. So did Traddles. Mr
Micawber extended his hand to each of us in succession, and
then covered his face with his pocket-handkerchief, which I
think had more snuff upon it than he was aware of. He then
returned to the punch, in the highest state of exhilaration.

He was full of eloquence. He gave us to understand that
in our children we lived again, and that, under the pressure
of pecuniary difficulties, any accession to their number was
doubly welcome. He said that Mrs. Micawber had latterly
had her doubts on this point, but that he had dispelled them,
and reassured her. As to her family, they were totally un-
worthy of her, and their sentiments were utterly indifferent to
him, and they might â€” I quote his own expression â€” go to the
Devil.

Mr. Micawber then delivered a warm eulogy on Traddles.
He said Traddles's was a character, to the steady virtues of
which he (Mr. Micawber) could lay no claim, but which, he
thanked Heaven, he could admire. He feelingly alluded to
the young lady, unknown, whom Traddles had honored with
his affection, and who had reciprocated that affection by hon-
oring and blessing Traddles with her affection. Mr. Micaw-
bor pledged her. So did I. Traddles thanked us both, by
saying, with a simplicity and honesty I had sense enough to

MR. MICA WEEK'S GAUNTLET.

413

be quite charmed with, " I am very much obliged to you in-
deed. And I do assure you, she's the dearest girl !â€” *"

Mr. Micawber took an early opportunity, after that, of
hinting, with the utmost delicacy and ceremony, at the state
of my affections. Nothing but the serious assurance of his
friend Copperfield to the contrary, he observed, could deprive
him of the impression that his friend Copperfield loved and was
beloved. After feeling very hot and uncomfortable for some
time, and after a good deal of blushing, stammering, and
denying, I said, having my glass in my hand, " Well ! I would
give them D. ! " which so excited and gratified Mr. Micawber,
that he ran with a glass of punch into my bed-room, in order
that Mrs. Micawber might drink D., who drank it with enthu-
siasm, crying from within, in a shrill voice, " Hear, hear ! My
dear Mr. Copperfield, I am delighted. Hear ! " and tapping
at the wall, by way of applause.

Our conversation, afterwards, took a more worldly turn ;
Mr. Micawber telling us that he found Camden Town incon-
venient, and that the first thing he contemplated doing, when
the advertisement should have been the cause of something
satisfactory turning up, was to move. He mentioned a terrace
at the western end of Oxford Street, fronting Hyde Park, on
which he had always had his eye, but which he did not expect
to attain immediately, as it would require a large establish-
ment. There would probably be an interval, he explained, in
which he should content himself with the upper part of a
house, over some respectable place of business â€” say in Picca-
dilly,â€” which would be a cheerful situation for Mrs. Micawber ;
and where, by throwing out a bow window, or carrying up the
roof another story, or making some little alteration of that
sort, they might live, comfortably and reputably, for a few
years. Whatever was reserved for him, he expressly said, or
wherever his abode might be, we might rely on this â€” there
would always be a room for Traddles, and a knife and fork for
me. We acknowledged his kindness ; and he begged us to
forgive his having launched into these practical and business-
like details, and to excuse it as natural in one who was mak-
ing entirely new arrangements in life.

Mrs. Micawber, tapping at the wall again, to know if tea
were ready, broke up this particular phase of our friendly con-
versation. She made tea for us in a most agreeable manner;
and, whenever I went near her, in handing about the tea-cups
and bread-and-butter, asked me, in a whisper, whether D. was

414

DAVID COPPERF/ELD.

fair, or dark, or whether she was short, or tall : or something
of that kind ; which I think I liked. After tea, we discussea
a variety of topics before the fire ; and Mrs. Micawber was
good enough to sing us (in a small, thin, flat voice, which I re-
membered to have considered, when I first lenew her, the very
table-beer of acoustics) the favorite ballads of " The Dashing
White Serjeant," and " Little Tafflin." For both of these
songs Mrs. Micawber had been famous when she lived at home
with her papa and mama. Mr. Micawber told us, that when
he heard her sing the first one, on the first occasion of his
seeing her beneath the parental roof, she had attracted his at-
tention in an extraordinary degree ; but that when it came to
Little Tafflin, he had resolved to win that woman or perish in
the attempt.

It was between ten and eleven o'clock when Mrs. Micaw-
ber rose to replace her cap in the whity-brown paper parcel,
and to put on her bonnet. Mr. Micawber took the opportu-
nity of Traddles putting on his great-coat, to slip a letter into
my hand, with a whispered request that I would read it at my
leisure. I also took the opportunity of my holding a candle
over the banisters to light them down, when Mr. Micawber
was going, first leading Mrs. Micawber, and Traddles was
following with the cap, to detain Traddles for a moment on
the top of the stairs.

"Traddles," said I, " Mr. Micawber don't mean any harm,
poor fellow ; but, if I were you, I wouldn't lend him anything."

" My dear Copperfieid," returned Traddles, smiling, " I
haven't got anything to lend."

" You have got a name, you know," said I.

" Oh ! You call that something to lend ? " returned Trad-
dles, with a thoughtful look.

" Certainly."

,s " Oh ! " said Traddles. " Yes, to be sure ! I am very
much obliged to you, Copperfieid ; but â€” I am afraid I have
lent him that already."

" For the bill that is to be a certain investment ? " I in-
quired.

" No," said Traddles. " Not for that one. This is the
first I have heard of that one. I have been thinking that he
will most likely propose that one, on the way home. Mine's
another."

" I hope there will be nothing wrong about it," said I.
" I hope not," said Traddles. " I should think not, though,

MR. MICAWBER'S GAUNTLET.

because he told me, only the other day, that it was provided
for. That was Mr. Micawber's expression. ' Provided for.' ';

Mr. Micawber looking up at this juncture to where we
were standing, I had only time to repeat my caution. Trad-
dies thanked me, and descended. But I was much afraid,
when I observed the good-natured manner in which he went
down with the cap in his hand, and gave Mrs. Micawber his.
arm, that he would be carried into the Money Market neck
and heels.

I returned to my fireside, and was musing, half gravely
and half laughing, on the character of Mr. Micawber and the
old relations between us, when I heard a quick step ascending
the stairs. At first, I thought it was Traddles coming back
for something Mrs. Micawber had left behind ; but as the
step approached, I knew it, and felt my heart beat high and
the blood rush to my face, for it was Steerforth's.

I was never unmindful of Agnes, and she never left that
sanctuary in my thoughts â€” if I may call it so â€” where I had
placed her from the first. But when he entered, and stood
before me with his hand out, the darkness that had fallen on
him changed to light, and I felt confounded and ashamed of
having doubted one I loved so heartily. I loved her none the
less ; I thought of her as the same benignant, gentle angel in
my life ; I reproached myself, not her, with having done him
an injury ; and I would have made him any atonement, if I
had known what to make, and how to make it.

" Why, Daisy, old boy, dumb-foundered ! " laughed Steer-
forth, shaking my hand heartily, and throwing it gayly away.
" Have I detected you in another feast, you Sybarite ! These
Doctors' Commons fellows are the gayest men in town, I be-
lieve, and beat us sober Oxford people all to nothing ! " His
bright glance went merrily round the room, as he took the seat
on the sofa opposite to me, which Mrs. Micawber had recently
vacated, and stirred the fire into a blaze.

" I was so surprised at first," said I, giving him welcome
with all the cordiality I felt, " that I had hardly breath to
greet you with, Steerforth."

" Well, the sight of me is good for sore eyes, as the Scotch
say," replied Steerforth, " and so is the sight of you, Daisy, in
full bloom. How are you, my Bacchanal ? "

" I am very well," said I ; " and not at all Bacchanalian
to-night, though I confess to another party of three."

" All of whom I met in the street, talking loud in your

4-16

DA VIA COPPERFIELD.

praise," returned Steerforth. " Who's our friend in the
tights ? "

1 gave him the best idea I could, in a few words, of Mr.
Micawber. He laughed heartily at my feeble portrait of that
gentleman, and said he was a man to know, and he must
know him.

" But who do you suppose our other friend is ? " said I, in
my turn.

" Heaven knows," said Steerforth. " Not a bore, I hope ?
I thought he looked a little like one."

" Traddles ! " I replied, triumphantly.

" Who's he ? " asked Steerforth, in his careless way.

" Don't you remember Traddles ? Traddles in our room
at Salem House ? "

" Oh ! That fellow ! " said Steerforth, beating a lump of
coal on the top of the fire, with the poker. " Is he as soft as
ever ? And where the deuce did you pick him up ? "

I extolled Traddles in reply, as highly as I could ; for I felt
that Steerforth rather slighted him. Steerforth, dismissing
the subject with a light nod, and a smile, and the remark that
he would be glad to see the old fellow too, for he had always
been an odd fish, inquired if I could give him anything to eat ?
During most of this short dialogue, when he had not been
speaking in a wild vivacious manner, he had sat idly beating
on the lump of coal with the poker. I observed that he did the
same thing while I was getting out the remains of the pigeon-
pie, and so forth.

" Why, Daisy here's a supper for a king ! " he exclaimed,
starting out of his silence with a burst, and taking his seat at
the table. " i shall do it justice, for I have come from Yar-
mouth."

" I thought you came from Oxford ? " 1 returned.
" Not I," said Steerforth. " I have been seafaring â€” better
employed."

" Littimer was here to day, to inquire for you," I remarked,
"and I understood him that you were at Oxford; though,
now I think of it, he certainly did not say so."

" Littimer is a greater fool than I thought him, to have
been inquiring for me at all," said Steerforth, jovially pouring
out a glass of wine, and drinking to me. " As to understand-
ing him, ycu are a cleverer fellow than most of us, Daisy, if
you can do that."

" That's true, indeed," saic '. I, moving my chair to the

MR. MICA WBER'S GAUNTLE T.

417

table. " So you have been at Yarmouth, Steerforth ! " inter-
ested to know all about it. " Have you been there long ? "

M No," he returned. " An escapade of a week or so."

" And how are they all ? Of course, little Emily is not
married yet ? "

" Not yet. Going to be, I believe â€” in so many weeks, or
months, or something or other. I have not seen much of 'em.
By-the-bye ; " he laid down his knife and fork, which he had
been using with great diligence, and began feeling in his pock-
ets ; " I have a letter for you."

*' From whom ? "

"Why, from your old nurse," he returned, taking some
papers out of his breast-pocket. " ' J. Steerforth, Esquire,
debtor, to the Willing Mind ; ' that's not it. Patience, and we'll
find it presently. Old what's-his-name's in a bad way, and it's
about that, I believe."

" Barkis, do you mean ? "

" Yes ! " still feeling in his pockets, and looking over their
contents : " it's all over with poor Barkis, I am afraid. I saw
a little apothecary there â€” surgeon, or whatever he is â€” who
brought your worship into the world. He was mighty learned
about the case, to me ; but the upshot of his opinion was, that
the carrier was making his last journey rather fast. â€” Put your
hand into the breast-pocket of my great-coat on the chair yon-
der, and I think you'll find the letter. Is it there ? "

" Here it is ! " said I.

" That's right ! "

It was from Peggotty ; something less legible than usual,
and brief. It informed me of her husband's hopeless state,
and hinted at his being " a little nearer " than heretofore, and
consequently more difficult to manage for his own comfort. It
said nothing of her weariness and watching, and praised him
highly. It was written with a plain, unaffected, homely piety
that I knew to be genuine, and ended with " my duty to my
ever darling " â€” meaning myself.

While I deciphered it, Steerforth continued to eat and
drink.

" It's a bad job," he said, when I had done ; " but the sur
sets every day, and people die every minute, and we mustn't
be scared by the common lot. If we failed to hold our own,
because that equal foot at all men' s doors was heard knocking
somewhere, every object in this world would slip from us.
No ! Ride on ! Rough-shod if need be, smooth-shod if that

4i3

PAVI3 COPPERFIELD.

will do, but ride on! Ride on over all obstacles, and win the
race ! "

" And win what race ? " said I.

" The race that one has started in," said he. " Ride on ! r

I noticed, I remember, as he paused, looking at me with
his handsome head a little thrown back, and his glass raised
in his hand, that, though the freshness of the sea-wind was on
his face, and it was ruddy, there were traces in it, made since
I last saw it, as if he had applied himself to some habitual
strain of the fervent energy which, when roused, was so pas-
sionately roused within him. I had it in my thoughts to re-
monstrate with him upon his desperate way of pursuing any
fancy that he took â€” such as this buffeting of rough seas, and
braving of hard weather, for example â€” when my mind glanced
off to the immediate subject of our conversation again, and
pursued that instead.

" I tell you what, Steerforth," said I, " if your high spirits
will listen to me â€” "

" They are potent spirits, and will do whatever you like,"
he answered, moving from the table to the fireside again.

"Then I tell you what, Steerforth. I think I will go>
down and see my old nurse. It is not that I can do her any
good, or render her any real service ; but she is so attached
to me that my visit will have as much effect on her, as if I
could do both. She will "ake it so kindly, that it will be a
comfort and support to her. It is no great effort to make,,
I am sure, for such a friend as she has been to me.. Wouldn't
you go a day's journey, if you were in my place ? "

His face was thoughtful, and he sat considering a little be-
fore he answered, in a low voice, " Well ! Go. You can do
no harm."

"You have just come back," said I, "and it would be in
vain to ask you to go with me ? "

" Quite," he returned. " I am for Highgate to-night. I
have not seen my mother this long time, and it lies upon my
conscience, for it's something to be loved as she loves her
prodigal son. â€” Bah ! Nonsense ! â€” You mean to go to-mor'
row, I suppose ? " he said, holding me out at arm's length
with a hand on each of my shoulders.

" Yes, I think so."

" Well, then, don't go till next day. I wanted you to
tome and stay a few days with us. Here I am, on purpose
Jo bid you, and you fry off to Yarmouth ! "

MR. MICAWBER'S GAUNTLET.

419

" You are a nice fellow to talk of flying off, Steerforth,
who are always running wild on some unknown expedition or
cither ! "

He looked at me fogr a moment without speaking, and then
rejoined, stili holding me as before, and giving me a shake :

" Come ! Say the next day, and pass as much of to-mor-
row as you can with us ! Who knows when we may meet
again, else ? Come ! Say the next day ! I want you to
stand between Rosa Dartle and me, and keep us asunder."

" Would you love each other too much, without me ? "

" Yes ; or hate," laughed Steerforth ; " no matter which
â– Come ! Say the next day ! "

I said the next day ; and he put on his great-coat and
lighted his cigar, and set off to walk home. Finding him in
this intention, I put on my own great-coat (but did not light
my own cigar, having had enough of that for one while) and
walked with him as far as the open road ; a dull road, then,
at night. He was in great spirits all the way ; and when we
parted, and I looked after him going so gallantly and airily
homeward, I thought of his saying, " Ride on over all ob-
stacles, and win the race ! " and wished, for the first time,
that he had some worthy race to run.

I was undressing in my own room, when Mr. Micawber's
letter tumbled on the floor. Thus reminded of it, I broke
the seal and read as follows. It was dated an hour and a half
before dinner. I am not sure whether I have mentioned
that, when Mr. Micawber was at any particularly desperate
crisis, he used a sort of legal phraseology, which he seemed
to think equivalent to winding up his affairs.

" Sir â€” for I dare not say my dear Copperfield.

" It is expedient that I should inform you that the under-
signed is Crushed. Some flickering efforts to spare you the
premature knowledge of his calamitous position, you may ob-
serve in him this day ; but hope has sunk beneath the horr
zon, and the undersigned is Crushed.

" The present communication is penned within the per-
sonal range (I cannot call it the society) of an individual, in a
state closely bordering on intoxication, employed by a broker.
That individual is in legal possession of the premises, under
a distress for rent. His inventory includes, not only the chat-
tels and effects of every description belonging to the under-
signed, as yearly tenant of this habitation, but also those ap*

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

pertaining to Mr. Thomas Traddles, lodger, a member of th$
Honorable Society of the Inner Temple.

" If any drop of gloom were wanting in the overflowing
cup, which is now 4 commended ' (in the language of an im-
mortal Writer) to the lips of the undersigned, it would be
found in the fact, that a friendly acceptance granted to the
undersigned, by the before mentioned Mr. Thomas Traddles,
for the sum of Â£2$ 4^ ^^d. is over due, and is not provided
for. Also, in the fact, that the living responsibilities clinging
to the undersigned, will, in the course of nature, be increased
by the sum of one more helpless victim : whose miserable ap-
pearance may be looked for â€” in round numbers â€” at the ex-
piration of a period not exceeding six lunar months from the
present date.

" After premising thus much, it would be a work of super-
erogation to add, that dust and ashes are for ever scattered
"On
"The
"Head
" Of

" WlLKINS MlCAWBER.*'

Poor Traddles ! I knew enough of Mr. Micawber by this
time, to foresee that he might be expected to recover the
blow ; but my night's rest was sorely distressed by thoughts
of Traddles, and of the curate's daughter, who was one often,
down in Devonshire, and who was such a dear girl, and who
would wait for Traddles (ominous praise ! ) until she was sixty,
or any age that could be mentioned.

CHAPTER XXIX.

I VISIT STEERFORTH AT HIS HOME, AGAIN.

I mentioned to Mr. Spenlow in the morning, that I want-
ed leave of absence for a short time ; and as I was not in the
receipt of any salary, and consequently was not obnoxious to
the implacable Jorkins, there was no difficulty about it. I
took that opportunity, with my voice sticking in my throat, and
my sight failing as I uttered the words, to express my hope
that Miss Spenlow was quite well ; to which Mr. Spenlow re-

I VISIT STEERFOR Til A T HIS HOME, A GAIN. 42 1

plied, with no more emotion than if he had been speaking of
an ordinary human being, that he was much obliged to me,
and she was very well.

We articled clerks, as germs of the patrician order of proc-
tors, were treated with so much consideration, that I was al-
most my own master at all times. As I did not care, however,
to get to Highgate before one or two o'clock in the day, and
as we had another little excommunication case in court that
morning, which was called " The office of the Judge promoted by
Tipkins against Bullock for his soul's correction," I passed an.
hour or two in attendance on it with Mr. Spenlow very agree-
ably. It arose out of a scuffle between two churchwardens,
one of whom was alleged to have pushed the other against
a pump ; the handle of which pump projecting into a school-
house, which school-house was under a gable of the church-
roof, made the push an ecclesiastical offence. It was an amus-
ing case, and sent me up to Highgate, on the box of the stage-
coach, thinking about the Commons, and what Mr. Spenlow
had said about touching the Commons and bringing down the
country.

Mrs. Steerforth was pleased to see me, and so was Rosa
Dartle. I was agreeably surprised to find that Littimer was
not there, and that we were attended by a mcdest little par-
lor-maid, with blue ribbons in her cap, whose eye it was much
more pleasant, and much less disconcerting, to catch by acci-
dent, than the eye of that respectable man. But what I par-
ticularly observed, before I had been half-an-hour in the house,
was the close and attentive watch Miss Dartle kept upon me ;
*ind the lurking manner in which she seemed to compare my
face with Steerforth's, and Steerforth's with mine, and to lie
in wait for something to come out between the two. So surely
as I looked towards her, did I see that eager visage, with its
gaunt black eyes and searching brow, intent on mine; 01
passing suddenly from mine to Steerforth's ; or comprehend
ing both of us at once. In this lynx-like scrutiny she was so
far from faltering when she saw I observed it, that at such a
time she only fixed her piercing look upon me with a more
intent expression still. Blameless as I was, and knew that I
was, in reference to any wrong she could possibly suspect me
of, I shrunk before her strange eyes, quite unable to endure
their hungry lustre.

All day, she seemed to pervade the whole house. If I
talked to Steerforth in his room, I heard her dress rustle la

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

the little gallery outside. When he and I engaged in some of
our old exercises on the lawn behind the house, I saw her face
pass from window to window, like a wandering light, until it
fixed itself in one and watched us. When we all four went
out walking in the afternoon, she closed her thin hand on my
arm like a spring, to keep me back, while Steerforth and his
mother went on out of hearing : and then spoke to me.

" You have been a long time," she said, "without coming
here. Is your profession really so engaging and interesting
as to absorb your whole attention ? I ask because I always
want to be informed, when I am ignorant. Is it really,
though ? "

I replied that I liked it well enough, but that I certainly
could not claim so much for it.

" Oh ! I am glad to know that, because I always like to be
put right when I am wrong," said Rosa Dartle. " You mean
it is a little dry, perhaps ? "

" Well," I replied ; " perhaps it was a little dry."

" Oh ! and that's a reason why you want relief and change
- â€” excitement, and all that ? " said she. " Ah ! very true !
But isn't it a little Eh ? â€” for him ; I don't mean you ? "

A quick glance of her eye towards the spot where Steer-
forth was walking, with his mother leaning on his arm, showed
me whom she meant ; but beyond that, I was quite lost. And
I looked so, I have no doubt.

" Don't it â€” I don't say that it does, mind I want to know
â€” don't it rather engross him ? Don't it make him, perhaps,
a little more remiss than usual in his visits to his blindly-
doting â€” eh ? " With another quick glance at them, and such
a glance at me as seemed to look into my innermost thoughts.

" Miss Dartle," I returned, " pray do not think "

" I don't ! " she said. " Oh dear me, don't suppose that
I think anything ! I am not suspicious. I only ask a ques-
tion. I don't state any opinion. I want to found an opinion
on what you tell me. Then, it's not so ? Well ! I am very
glad to know it."

" It certainly is not the fact," said I perplexed, " that I am
accountable for Steerforth's having been away from home
longer than usual â€” if he has been : which I really don't know
at this moment, unless I understand it from you. I have not
seen hiip this long while, until last night."

Â« No ? "

u Indeed, Miss Dartle, no i "

/ VISIT STEERFORTH AT HIS HOME, AGAIN. 42S

As she looked full at me, I saw her face grow sharper and
paler, and the marks of the old wound lengthen out until it
cut through the disfigured lip, and deep into the nether lip,
and slanted down the face. There was something positively
awful to me in this, and in the brightness of her eyes, as she
said, looking fixedly at me :

" What is he doing ? "

I repeated the words, more to myself than her, being so
amazed.

" What is he doing ? " she said, with an eagerness that
seemed enough to consume her like a fire. " In what is that
man assisting him, who never looks at me without an unscrut-
able falsehood in his eyes ? If you are honorable and faith-
ful, I don't ask you to betray your friend. I ask you only to
tell me, is it anger, is it hatred, is it pride, is it restlessness, is
it some wild fancy, is it love, what is it, that is leading him ?T*

"Miss Dartle," I returned, " how shall I tell you, so that
you will believe me, that I know of nothing in Steerforth dif-
ferent from what there was when I first came here ? I can
think of nothing. I firmly believe there is nothing. I hardly
understand even what you mean."

As she still stood looking fixedly at me, a twitching or
throbbing, from which I could not dissociate the idea of pain,
came into that cruel mark ; and lifted up the corner of her lip
as if with scorn, or with a pity that despised its object. She
put her hand upon it hurriedly â€” a hand so thin and delicate,
that when I had seen her hold it up before the fire to shade
her face, I had compared it in my thoughts to fine porcelain
â€” and saying, in a quick, fierce, passionate way, " I swear you
to secrecy about this ! " said not a word more.

Mrs. Steerforth was particularly happy in her son's socie-
ty, and Steerforth was, on this occasion, particularly attentive
and respectful to her. It was very interesting to me to see
them together, not only on account of their mutual affection, but
because of the strong personal resemblance between them, and
the manner in which what was haughty or impetuous in him
was softened by age and sex, in her, to a gracious dignity. I
thought, more than once, that it was well no serious cause of
division had ever come between them ; or two such natures â€”
I ought rather to express it two such shades of the same
nature â€” might have been harder to reconcile than the two
extremest opposites in creation. The idea did not originate
in my own discernment, I am bound to confess, but in a.
speech of liosa Dartle 's.

*24

DAVID COPPERFIELD,

She said at dinner :

" Oh, but do tell me, though, somebody, because I have
been thinking about it all day, and I want to know."

" You want to know what, Rosa ? " returned Mrs. Steer-
forth. " Pray, pray, Rosa, do not be mysterious."

" Mysterious ! " she cried. " Oh ! really ? Do you con-
sider me so ? "

" Do I constantly entreat you," said Mrs. Steerforth, " to
speak plainly in your own natural manner ? "

" Oh ! then this is not my natural manner ? " she rejoined.
" Now you must really bear with me, because I ask for infor-
mation. We never know ourselves."

" It has become a second nature, " said Mrs. Steerforth,
without any displeasure ; " but I remember â€” and so must you,
I think, â€” when your manner was different, Rosa ; when it was
not so guarded, and was more trustful."

" I am sure you are right," she returned ; " and so it is
that bad habits grow upon one ! Really ! Less guarded and
more trustful ? How can I, imperceptibly, have changed, I
wonder ! Well, that's very odd ! I must study to regain
my former self."

" I wish you would," said Mrs. Steerforth, with a smile.

" Oh ! I really will, you know ! " she answered. " I will
learn frankness from â€” let me see â€” from James."

" You cannot learn frankness, Rosa," said Mrs. Steerforth
quickly â€” for there was always some effect of sarcasm in what
Rosa Dartle said, though it was said, as this was, in the most
unconscious manner in the world â€” " in a better-school."

" That I am sure of, " she answered with uncommon fer-
vor. " If I am sure of anything, of course, you know, I am
sure of that."

Mrs. Steerforth appeared to me to regret having been a
little nettled ; for she presently said, in a kind tone :

" Well, my dear Rosa, we have not heard what it is that
you want to be satisfied about ? "

" That I want to be satisfied about ? " she replied, " Oh !
It was only whether people, who are like each other in their
moral constitution â€” is that the phrase ? "

" It's as good a phrase as another," said Steerforth.

" Thank you : whether people, who are like each other in
their moral constitution, are in greater danger than people not
so circumstanced, supposing any serious cause of variance to
arise between them, of being divided angrily and deeply I "

1 VISIT S TEE R FOR TH A T HIS HOME, AGAIN".

* 1 should say yes," said Steerforth.

" Snould you ? " she retorted. " Dear me ! Supposing
then, for instance â€” any unlikely thing will do for a supposi-
tionâ€” that you and your mother were to have a serious Quar-
rel ? "

" My dear Rosa," interposed Mrs. Steerforth, laughing
good-naturedly, " suggest some other supposition ! James and
I know our duty to each other better, I pray Heaven ! "

" Oh ! " said Miss Dartle, nodding her head thoughtfully.
" To be sure. That would prevent it ? Why, of course it
would. Ex-actly. Now, I am glad I have been so foolish as
to put the case, for it is so very good to know that your duty
to each other wouid prevent it ! Thank you very much."

One other little circumstance connected with Miss Dartle
I must not omit ; for I had reason to remember it thereafter,
when all the irremediable past was rendered plain. During
the whole of this day, but especially from this period of it,
Steerforth exerted himself with his utmost skill, and that was
with his utmost ease, to charm this singular creature into a
pleasant and pleased companion. That he should succeed,
was no matter of surprise to me. That she should struggle
against the fascinating influence of his delightful art â€” delight-
ful nature I thought it then â€” did not surprise me either j for
I knew that she was sometimes jaundiced and perverse. I
saw her features and her manner slowly change ; I saw her look
at him with growing admiration ; I saw her try, more and
more faintly, but always angrily, as if she condemned a weak-
ness in herself, to resist the captivating power that he pos-
sessed ; and finally, I saw her sharp glance soften, and her
smile become quite gentle, and I ceased to be afraid of her
as I had really been all clay, and we all sat about the fire, talk-
ing and laughing together, with as little reserve as if we had
been children.

: Whether it was because we had sat there so long, or be
cause S:eerforth was resolved not to lose the advantage he
had gained, I do not know ; but we did not remain in the
dining-room more than five minutes after her departure.
"She is playing her harp," said Steerforth, softly, at the
drawing-room d- or, "and nobody but my mother has heard
l.er do that, I believe, th.se three years." He said it with
a carious sm lc, which was gone directly ; and we went into
the room and f jund her alone.

"Don't get up," said Steerforth (w':i h she had already

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

done) " my dear Rosa, don't ! Be kind for once, and sing us
an Irish song."

" What do you care for an Irish song ? " she returned.

" Much ! " said Steerforth. " Much more than for any
other. Here is Daisy, too, loves music from his soul. Sing us
an Irish song, Rosa ! and let me sit and listen as I used to do."

He did not touch her, or the chair from which she had
risen, but sat himself near the harp. She stood beside it for
some little while, in a curious way, going through the motion
of playing it with her right hand, but not sounding it. At
length she sat down, and drew it to her with one sudden ac-
tion, and played and sang.

I don't know what it was, in her touch or voice, that
made that song the most unearthly I have ever heard in my
life, or can imagine. There was something fearful in the re-
ality of it. It was as if it had never been written, or set to
music, but sprung out of the passion within her ; which found
imperfect utterance in the low sounds of her voice, and
crouched again when all was still. I was dumb when she
leaned beside the harp again, playing it, but not sounding it,
with her right hand.

A minute more, and this had roused me from my trance :
â€” Steerforth had left his seat, and gone to her, and had put his
arm laughingly about her, and had said, " Come, Rosa, for
the future we will love each other very much ! " And she had
struck him, and had thrown him off with the fury of a wild
cat, and had burst out of the room.

"What is the matter with Rosa," said Mrs. Steerforth,
coming in.

" She has been an angel, mother," returned Steerforth,
" for a little while ; and has run into the opposite extreme
since, by way of compensation."

" You should be careful not to irritate her, James. Her
temper has been soured, remember, and ought not to be tried."

Rosa did not come back ; and no other mention was made
of her, until I went with Steerforth into his room to say Good-
night. Then he laughed about her, and asked me if I had
ever seen such a fierce little piece of incomprehensibility.

I expressed as much of my astonishment as was then
capable of expression, and asked if he could guess what it was
that she had taken so much amiss, so suddenly.

"Oh, Heaven knows," said Steerforth. "Anything you
like â€” or nothing 1 I told you she took everything, herself

/ VISIT STEERFORTH A T HIS HOME, AGAIN. 427

included, co a grindstone, and sharpened it. She is an edge>
tool, and requires great care in dealing with. She is always
dangerous. Good-night ! "

" Good-night ! " said I, " my dear Steerforth ! I shall be
gone before you wake in the morning. Good-night ! "

He was unwilling to let me go ; and stood, holding me
out, with a hand on each of my shoulders, as he had done in
my own room.

" Daisy," he said, with a smile â€” " for though that's not the
name your Godfathers and Godmothers gave you. it's the
name I like best to call you by â€” and I wish, I wish, J. wish,,
you could give it to me ! "

" Why, so I can, if I choose," said I.

" Daisy, if anything should ever separate us, you must
think of me at my best, old boy. Come ! Let us make that
bargain. Think of me at my best, if circumstances should
ever part us ! "

" You have no best to me, Steerforth," said I, " and no
worst. You are always equally loved, and cherished in my
heart."

So much compunction for having ever wronged him, even
by a shapeless thought, did I feel within me, that the con
fession of having done so was rising to my lips. But for the
reluctance I had, to betray the confidence of Agnes, but for
my uncertainty how to approach the subject with no risk of
doing so, it would have reached them before he said, " God
bless you, Daisy, and good-night ! " In my doubt, it did not
reach them ; and we shook hands, and we parted.

I was up with the dull dawn, and, having dressed as quietly
as I could, looked into his room. He was fast asleep ; lying,
easily, with his head upon his arm, as I had often seen him
He at school.

The time came in its season, and that was very soon, when
I almost wondered that nothing troubled his repose, as I
looked at him. But he slept â€” let me think of him so aga.n â€”
as I had often setn him sleep at school ; and thus, in this
silent hour, I left him.

â€” Never more, or God forgive you, Steerforth ! to touch
that passive hand in love and friendship. Never, never more I

423

DAVID COPPERFIELD,

CHAPTER XXX

A LOSS.

^ I got down to Yarmouth in the evening, and went to ths
inn. I knew that Peggotty's spare room â€” my room â€” 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 stand-
ing open. As I could obtain a perspective view of Mr. Omer
inside, smoking his pipe by the parlor-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. â€” Smoke not disagreeable, I
hope ? "

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

" What, not in your own, eh ? " Mr. Omer returned laugh-
ing. " 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 j 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 draw-
backs of our line of business. When a party's ill, we can' /ask
how the party is."

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

A LOSS.

"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 4 Omer
and J Oram's compliments, and how do you find yourself this
morning ? ' â€” or this afternoon â€” 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 I can't go and say,
'how is he?'"

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

" I'm not more self-interested, I hope, than another man,"
said Mr. Omer. " Look at me ! My wind may fail me at any
moment, and it ain't likely that, to my own knowledge, I'd be
self-interested under such circumstances. I say it ain't likely,
in a man who knows his wind will go, when it does go, as if a
pair of bellows was cut open; and that man a grandfather/'
said Mr. Omer.

I said " Not at all."

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

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

"Accordingly we're obleeged, in ascertaining how Barkis
goes on, to limit ourselves to Em'ly. She knows what our
real objects are, and she don't have any more alarms or
suspicions about us, than if we was so many lambs. Minnie
and J oram 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'lars. Will you take some-
thing ? 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 trouble-
some 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 /'ll find passages, my dear.' "

43Â°

DAVID COPPERFIELD

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

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

" Why so ? " I inquired.

"Well, she's unsettled at present," said Mr. Omer. It
ain't that she's not as pretty as ever, for she's prettier â€” 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 under-
stand," said Mr. Omer, after rubbing his chin again, and
smoking a little, " what I mean in a general way by the ex-
pression, ' A long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether,
my hearties, hurrah ? ' I should say to you, that that was â€” in
a general way â€” 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,
1 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 he?
tmcie," 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?"

Â£, LOSS.

43*

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

" Therefore, I mentioned to them," said Mr. Ower, in a
tomfortable, easy-going tone, " this. I said, ' Now, don't
consider Em'ly nailed down in point of time, at all. Make it
your own time. Her services have been more valuable than
was supposed ; her learning has been quicker than was sup-
posed ; Omer and Joran can run their pen through what
remains ; and she's free when you wish. If she likes to make
any little arrangement, afterwards, in the way of doing any
little thing for us at home, very well. If she don't, very well
still. We're no losers, anyhow.' For â€” 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 â€” 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
consin 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 parlor ; and but for Barkis's illness having
taken this bad turn, poor fellow, they would have been man
and wife â€” 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
death needn't put it off much, but his lingering might. Any
way, it's an uncertain state of matters, you see."

" I see," said I.

4r Consequently," pursued Mr. Omer, " Em'ly's still a
little down and a little fluttered ; perhaps, upon the whole,

432

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

she's more so than she was. Every day she seems to gel
fonder and fonder of her unck, and more loth to part from
all of us. A kind word from me brings the tears into hei
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 favorable an oppuitunity, it occurred to me to,
ask Mr. Omer, before o ir conversation should be interrupted
by the return of his daughter and her husband, whether he
knew anything of Martha.

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

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

Their report was, that Mr. Barkis was " as bad as bad
could be ? " that he was quite unconscious ; and that Mr
Chillip had mournfully said in the kitchen, on going away
just now, that the College of Physicians, the College of Sur-
geons, and Apothecaries' Hall, if they were all called in to-
gether, 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. Joran ; and directed my steps
thither, with a solemn feeling, which made Mr. Barkis quite
a new and different creature.

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

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

We spoke in whispers ; listening between whiles, for any
Round in the room above. I had not thought of it on the

A LOSS.

433

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. Peg1
gotty.

" It's oncommon kind," said Ham.

"Em'ly, my dear," cried Mr. Peggotty. "See here 5
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.
â€” it's nat'ral."

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

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

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

" Let you stay with your uncle ? Why, you doen't
mean to ask me that ! Stay with your uncle, Moppet ? When
your husband that'll be so soon, is here fur to take you home ?
Now a person wouldn't think it, fur to see this little thing
alongside a rough-weather chap like me," said Mr. Peggotty,
'ooking 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
â€”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 â€” a
married man like you â€” or what's as good â€” 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 care on, 7know.r

434

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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

" Now, I'm a going 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 ? â€” Well ! come
along with me â€” come ! If her uncle was turned out of house
and home, and forced to lay down in a dyke, Mas'r Davy,"
said Mr. Peggotty, with no less pride than before, " it's my
belief she'd go along with him, now ! But there'll be some
one else, soon, â€” 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 impres-
sion 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 â€” which, added to what Mr. Omer
had told me, I took to be the cause of her being so unlike
herself â€” and I had leisure, before Peggotty came down, even
to think more leniently of the weakness of it, as I sat count-
ing 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 savr 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 divinr

A LOSS.

43$

my rod I had seen him use, he had required to have it placed or*
the chair at the bed-side, where he had ever since embraced it,
night and day. His arm lay on it now. Time and the world'
were slipping from beneath him, but the box was there ; and
the last words he had uttered were (in an explanatory tone)
* Old clothes ! "

" Barkis, my dear ! " said Peggotty, almost- cheerfully^
bending over him, while her brother and I stood at the bed's
foot. " Here's my dear boy â€” 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 â€” not properly born, till flood. He'?-
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 owr
till past the flood, and go out with the next tide."

We remained there, watching him, a long time â€” 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 oi:t with the tide

436

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

CHAPTER XXXI.

A GREATER LOSS.

It was not difficult for me, on Peggotty's solicitation, to
resolve to stay where I was, until after the remains of the pool
carrier should have made their last journey to Blunderstone.
She had long ago bought, out of her own savings, a little piece
of ground in our old churchyard near the grave "of her sweet
girl," as she always called my mother; and there they were to
rest.

In keeping Peggotty company, and doing all I could for
her (little enough at the utmost), I was as grateful, I rejoice
to think, as even now I could wish myself to have been. But
I am afraid I had a supreme satisfaction, of a personal and
professional nature, in taking charge of Mr. Barkis's will, and
'expounding its contents.

I may claim the merit of having originated the suggesticr
that the will should be looked for in the box. After some
search, it was found in the box, at the bottom of a horse's
nose-bag ; wherein (besides hay) there was discovered an old
,gold watch, with chain and seals, which Mr. Barkis had worn
-on his wedding-day, and which had never been seen before or
since ; a silver tobacco-stopper, in the form of a leg ; an imita-
tion lemon, full of minute cups and saucers, which I have some
idea Mr. 'Barkis must have purchased to present to me when
I was a child, and afterwards found himself unable to part
with ; eighty-seven guineas and a half, in guineas and 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 colors on the inside.
I conclude that Mr. Barkis had some general ideas about
pearls, which never resolved themselves into anything del
inite.

For years and years, Mr. Barkis had carried this box, on
all his journeys, every day. That it might the better es-
cape notice, he had invented a fiction that it belonged to
"Mr. Blackboy," and was ;< to be left with Barkis till called

A GREATER LOSS.

437

for a fable he had elaborately written on the lid, in char-
acters 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 intention, pronounced it
perfectly formal in all respects, made a pencil-mark or so in
the margin, and thought it rather extraordinary that I knew so
*nuch.

In this abstruse pursuit ; in making an account for Peg-
gotty, of all the property into which she had come ; in arrang-
ing all the affairs in an orderly manner ; and in being her
'eferee and adviser on every point, to our joint delight ; I
passed the week before the funeral. I did not see little Emily
in that interval, but they told me she was to be privately mar-
ried 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 Blun-
derstone early in the morning, and was in the churchyard when
it came only attended by Peggotty and her brother. The mad
gentleman looked on, out of my little window ; Mr. â€¢ 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, afte*
{ill 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 dis-
tant 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.

tt is no worse, because I write of it. It would be no better^

438

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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
Teturn 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 or two from the Ferry I have 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 floun-
dering 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, look-
ing (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 fret-
ling 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."

A GREATER LOSS.

439

"* Thank you, Mr. Peggotty, I am sure of that. Well
Peggotty f 99 said I, giving her a kiss. " And how are you, old
woman ? "

" Ha, ha ! 99 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 â€” as I tell her â€” that need to feel
more easy in her mind than her ! She done her dooty by the
departed, and the departed know'd it j and the departed done
what was right by her, as she done what was right by the de
parted ; â€” and â€” and â€” and it's all right ! "

Mrs. Gummidge groaned.

" Gheer up, my pretty mawther ! 99 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
ral ! "

" Not to me, Dan'l ! " returned Mrs. Gummidge. " Noth-
ink's nat'ral to me but to be lone and lorn."

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

" Yes, yes, Dan'l ! " said Mrs. Gummidge. " I ain't a per-
son to live with them as has money left. Thinks go too con-
trary 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 ! 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. Gum-
midge 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 ! " 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

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

ath ain't over light or cheerful arter dark ; and when. Vtk
ere at the hour as she's a comin' home, I puts the light in
the winder. That, you see," said Mr. Peggotty, bending ovei
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. Â»
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 toâ€”
consider on, you know. / doen't care, bless you ! Now 1
tell you. When I go a looking and looking about that theer
pritty house of our Em'ly's, I'm â€” I'm Gormed," said Mr.
Peggotty, with sudden emphasis â€” " theer ! I can't say more â€” â–
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 â€” 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 de-
,ighted face, after some further rubbing of his legs, " as this
is along of my havin' played with her so much, and made be-
lieve as we was Turks and French, and sharks, and every
variety of forinners â€” bless you, yes ; and lions and whales,
and I doen't know what all ! â€” 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, gleefully holding out
his hand towards it, " / know wery well that arter she's mar-
ried 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 fVe, pretending I'm
expecting of her, like I'm a doing now. There s a babby ioi

A GREATER LOSS.

441

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 Dabby 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 nam. 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 ! â€” " Oh, for his broken heart, how dread-
fully 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 ? "

" My love, Mas'r Davy â€” the pride and hope of my art â€”
her that I'd have died for, and would die for now â€” 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 associ-
ated 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 ? "

442

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 :

" 4 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 ! "

'When I leave my dear homeâ€” my dear homeâ€” oh, my dear home ! â€” in the morning.*

the letter bore date on the previous night :

' â€” 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! 1 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 affectionate and kind you have all been to me â€” don't remember
we were ever to be married â€” 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 far all. My part-
ing love to uncle. My last tears, and my last thanks, for uncle I "

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 endeavor 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 re-
mained in the same state, and no one dared to disturb him.

Slowly, at last he moved his eyes from my face, as if h$
were walking from a vision, and cast them round the room
Then he said, in a low voice ;

A GREATER LOSS.

443

"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
js it ? "

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

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

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

" For some time past," Ham faltered, " there's been a ser-
vant 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 â€” â€¢
our poor girl â€” 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'? arm round my neck, but I could not have
moved if the house had been about to fall upon me.

" A strange chay and hosses 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,
w it ain't no fault of yourn â€” and I am far from laying of
it to you â€” 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.

14 I'm a going to seek my niece. I'm a going to seek tcy

444-

DAVID COPPER FIELD.

Em'ly. I'm a going, first to stave in that theerboat, an<! sink
;t where I would have drowned kim, 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, but I'd
have drowned him, and thought it right ! â€” I'm agoing 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 '11 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'lâ€”-
what have my contrairies ever been to this ! â€” 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 sor-
row 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 Steerf orth, yielded to a better feeling. My overcharged
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 Steer-
forth better than when the ties that bound me to him were

THE BEGINNING OE A LONG JOURNEY.

broken. In the keen distress of the discovery of his unworth-
iness, I thought more of all that was brilliant in him, I soft-
ened 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 un-
conscious 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 â€” though he fascinated me no longer â€” 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 â€” thay were light enough,
perhaps, and easily dismissed â€” 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
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 morn-
ing, 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 deli-
cacv. The seafaring men kept apart, when those two were
teen 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 it-
self : then lying beneath a dark sky, waveless â€” yet with a.
heavy roll upon it, as if it breathed in its rest â€” and touched,,
on the horizon, with a strip of silvery light from the unseen
sun.

446

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

"We have had a mort of talk, sir," said Mr. Peggotty tfc
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 â€” not that his face was angry, for it was not ; I recall
nothing but an expression of stern determination in it â€” that
if ever he encountered Steerforth, he would kill him.

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

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're agree-
able, to-morrow."

We walked again, for a while, in silence.

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

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

" My station, Mas'r Davy," he returned, " ain't there no
longer â€¢ 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 nighter to't, and to peep in, may-
be, 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 hej
<o\d bed, and rest her weary head where it was once so gay.''
I could not speak to him in reply, though I tried.

THE BEGINNfNG OF A LONG JOURNEY.

" 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, doen't you go nigh
it. Let it be her â€” not you â€” that sees my fallen child ' "

He walked a little in front of us, and kept before us foi
some minutes. During this interval, I glanced at Ham again, V
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 â€” 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 â€” 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," â€” 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 connection 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. Trys
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 windows

448

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

where she sedulously employed herself in repairing some shirts
and other clothes belonging to Mr. Peggotty, and neatly fold-
ing 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 alius 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 tG
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 foi
you " (Mrs. Gummidge meant a home), " again you come back
â€” 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 â€” as oars, nets, sails, cordage, spars, lobster-pots,
bags of ballast, and the like ; and though there was abund^
ance of assistance rendered, there being not a pair of working
hands on all that shore but would have labored 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 un-
necessary errands. As to deploring her misfortunes, she ap-
peared to have entirely lost the recollection of ever having
had any. She preserved an equable cheerfulness 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 to-
gether, and he having fallen asleep in perfect exhaustion, shs

THE BEGINNING OF A LONG JOURNEY.

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 afiTiction : 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, endeavoring 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 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
2ruel, to herself and him ! "

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

'-â– 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,
ever 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 heaa
clown 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 our
to take care of her. Leaving them together, I went home to

DAVID COPPERFIELD

Peggotty's ; more melancholy myself, if possible, than I. had
been yet.

That good creature â€” I mean Peggottyâ€” 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 Peg-
gotty 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 1
was recalled from my wanderings by a knock at the door.
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 incon-
venient 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 ? 71

She motioned to me with her short right arm, to shut the
umbreiia ior her; and passing me hurriedly, went into the
kitchen. When I had closed the door, and followed, with the
umbreiia in my hand, I found her sitting on the corner cf the
fender â€” it was a low iron one, with two flat bars at top to
stand piates upon â€” in the shadow of the boiler, swaying her-
self backwards and forwards, and chafing her hands upon her
knees iiKe a person in pain.

THE BEGINNING OF A LONG JOURNEY.

45*

Quite alarmed at being the only recipient of this" untimely
visit, and the only spectator of this portentous behavior, 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. "J am ill 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 " â€” 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 sur-
prised 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 â€” hard,
Mr. Copperfield â€” 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 ot her-
self) addressed herself to him, or the like of him, because of
her misfortunes, when do you suppose her small voice would

45 2

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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, with
out 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 play-
thing 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, and 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 unfortu-
nate girl, that time when I saw you both at the inn ? "

The great bonnet on Miss Movvcher's head, and the
greater bonnet on the wall, began to go backwards and for-
wards 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 littlt
woman, holding up her forefinger between me and her spark-
ling eyes ; " and ten times more confound that wicked ser-
vant ; but I believed it was you who had a boyish passion for
her ! "

" 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 ? "

THE BEGINNING OF A LONG JOURNEY.

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 hex
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 â€” more for your sake than for
hers â€” 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 â€” what did I think â€” 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 â€” I need be, to get through
Ibe world at all ! â€” and they deceived me altogether, and I
gave the poor unfortunate girl a letter, which I fully believe
was the beginning of her ever speaking to Littimer, who was
left behind on purpose ! "

I stood amazed at the revelation of all this perfidy, look-
ing 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 â€” which was strange â€” 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

454

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

and fretting, that she turned round on the fender, putting hei
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
j 'ate. 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 reason."

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, and 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 â€” my ears are always open ; I can't afford to spare what
powers I have â€” 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 faith-
fully, please Heaven ! And Littimer had better have a blood*
hound 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

THE BEGINNING OE A LONG JOURNEY.

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 distressed 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, with-
out the least appearance of having anybody underneath it,
except when a heavier fall than usual from some overcharged
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 w.'tii
Ham earnestly.

" Thankee. Thankee, very kind, sir. One thing furder
I'm in good employ, you know, Mas'r Davy, and I han't nC
way now of spending what I gets. Money's of no use to me n<5
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 1
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.

456

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" No, sir," he said, shaking his head, " all that's past and
ewer 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 be-
quest of his late brother-in-law, I promised to do so. We then
took leave of each other. I cannot leave him even now with-
out remembering with a pang, at once his modest fortitude and
his great sorrow.

As to Mrs. Gummidge, it I were to endeavor 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 sit-
ting on a bakers 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 chandler's 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 explana-
tion 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
bed-room. 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 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

THE BEGINNING OF A LONG JOURNEY.

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 â€” 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 â€” which was closed against me henceforth
â€”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 resem-
blance was not lost on my companion.

She sat upright in her arm-chair, with a stately, immovable,
passionless air, that it seemed as if nothing could disturb. She
looked very steadfastly at Mr. Peggotty when he stood before
her ; and he looked quite as steadfastly 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 clown 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 ? "

He put his hat under his arm, and, feeling in his breast for
Emily's letter, took it out, unfolded it, and gave it to her. *

" Please to read that, ma'am. That's my niece's hand ! "

She read it, in the same stately and impassive way, â€” un-
touched by its contents, as far as I could see, â€” and returned
it to him.

" 4 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.

45Â»

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" It is impossible. He would disgrace himself. You can-
not 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. "/
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 connections would render such
a thing impossible, if nothing else did.''*

"Hark to this, ma'am," he returned, slowly and quietly.
*l You know what it is to love your child. So do I. If she
was a hundred times my child, I couldn't love her more. You
doen't know what it is to lose your child. I do. All the heaps
of riches in the wureld would be nowt to me (if they was mine)
to buy her back ! But save her from this disgrace, and she
shall never be disgraced by us. Not one of us that she's
growed up among, not one of us that's lived along with her,
and had her for their all in all, these many year, will ever look
upon her pritty face again. We'll be content to let her be ;
we'll be content to think of her, far off, as if she was under-
neath another sun and sky ; we'll be content to trust her to
her husband, â€” to her little children, p'raps, â€” and bide the
time when all of us shall be alike in quality afore our God ! "

The rugged eloquence with which he spoke was not devoid
of all effect. She still preserved her proud manner, but there
was a touch of softness in her voice, as she answered :

" I justify nothing. I make no Â©ounter-accusations. But
I am sorry to repeat, it is impossible. Such a marriage would
irretrievably blight my son's career, and ruin his prospects.
Nothing is more certain than that it never can take place, and
never will. If there is any other compensation "

" I am looking at the likeness of the face," interrupted Mr.
Peggotty, with a steady but a kindling eye, " that has looked
at me, in my home, at my fireside, in my boat â€” wheer not ? â€”
smiling and friendly, when it was so treacherous, that I go
half wild when I think of it. If the likeness of that face don't
turn to burning fire, at the thought of offering money to me for
my child's blight and ruin, it's as bad. I doen't know, being a
lady's, but what it's worse."

She changed now, in a moment. An angry flush over-
spread her features ; and she said, in an intolerant manner,
grasping the arm-chair tightly with her hands :

THE BEGINNING OF A LONG JOURNEY.

"What compensation can you make to me for opening
such a pit between me and my son? What is your love to
mine ? What is your separation to ours? "

Miss Dartle softly touched her, and bent down her head
*o whisper, but she would not hear a word.

" No, Rosa, not a word ! Let the man listen ^o what I
say ! My son, who has been the object of my life, to whom
its every thought has been devoted, whom 1 have gratified
from a child in every wish, from whom I have had no separate
existence since his birth, â€” to take up in a moment with a
miserable girl, and avoid me ! To repay my confidence with
systematic deception, for her sake, and quit me for her ! 1 c
set this wretched fancy against his mother's claims upon his
duty, love, respect, gratitude â€” claims that every day and hour
of his life should have strengthened into ties that nothing
could be proof against ! Is this no injury ? "

Again Rosa Dartle tried to soothe her ; again ineffectu-
ally.

" I say, Rosa, not a word ! If he can stake his all upon
the lightest object, I can stake my all upon a greater pur-
pose. Let him go where he will, with the means that my love
has secured to him ! Does he think to reduce me by long
absence ? He knows his mother very little if he does. Let
him put away his whim now, and he is welcome back. Let
him not put her away now, and he never shall come near me,
living or dying, while I can raise my hand to make a sign
against it, unless being rid of her for ever, he comes humbly to
me and begs for my forgiveness. This is my right. This is
the acknowledgment I will have. This is the separation that
there is between us ! And is this," she added, looking at her
visitor with the proud intolerant air with which she had begun,
" no injury ? "

While I heard and saw the mother as she said these words,
I seem to hear and see the son, defying them. All that I had
ever seen in him of an unyielding, wilful spirit, I saw in her.
All the understanding that I had now of his misdirected en-
ergy, became an understanding of her character too, and a
perception that it was, in its strongest springs, the same.

She now observed to me, aloud, resuming her former re-
straint, that it was useless to hear more, or to say more, and
that she begged to put an end to the interview. She rose
with an air of dignity to leave the room, when Mr. Peggotty
signified that it was needless.

460

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Doen't fear me being any hindrance to you, I have nd
more to say, ma'am," he remarked as he moved towards
the door. " I come heer with no hope, and I take away no
hope. I have done what I thowt should be done, but I never
looked fur any good to come of my stan'ning where I do.
This has been too evil a house fur me and mine, fur me to
be in my right senses and expect it."

With this, we departed; leaving her standing by her
Ubow-chair, a picture of a noble presence and a handsome
face.

We had, on our way out, to cross a paved hall, with glass
sides and roof, over which a vine was trained. Its leaves
and shoots were green then, and the day being sunny, a pair
of glass doors leading to the garden were thrown open.
Rosa Dartle, entering this way with a noiseless step, when we
were close to them, addressed herself to me :

"You do well," she said, " indeed, to bring this fellow
here ! "

Such a concentration of rage and scorn as darkened her
face, and flashed in her jet-black eyes, I could not have
thought compressible even into that face. The scar made by
the hammer was, as usual in this excited state of her features,
strongly marked. When the throbbing I had seen before
came into it as I looked at her, she absolutely lifted up her
hand and struck it.

" This is a fellow," she said, " to champion and bring here,
is he not ? You are a true man ! "

"Miss Dartle," I returned, "you are surely not so unjust
as to condemn me!"

" Why do you bring division between these two mad
creatures ? " she returned. " Don't you know that they are
both mad with their own self-will and pride ? "

" Is it my doing ? " I returned.

" Is it your doing ! " she retorted. " Why do you bring
this man here ? "

"He is a deeply injured man, Miss Dartle," I replied. " You
may not know it."

" I know that James Steerforth," she said, with her hand
on her bosom, as if to prevent the storm that was raging there,
from being loud, " has a false, conupt heart, and is a traitor.
But what need I know or care about this fellow, and his com-
mon niece ? "

" Miss Dartle," I returned, " you deepen the injury. It is

THE BEGINNING OF A LONG JOURNEY. 461

sufficient already. I will only say, at parting, that you do him
a great wrong."

" I do him wrong," she returned. " They are a depraved,
worthless set. I would have her whipped ! "

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

<; Oh, shame, Miss Dartle ! shame ! " I said indignantly
lc 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 sen-
sible, but a weak impression of the passion by which she
was possessed, and which made itself articulate in her whole
figure, though her voice, instead of being raised, was lower
than usual. No description I could give of her would do jus-
tice to my recollection of her, or to her entire deliverance 01
herself to her anger. I have seen passion in many forms, but
I have never seen it in such a form as that.

When I joined Mr. Peggotty, he was walking slowly and
thoughtfully down the hill. He told me, as soon as I came
up with him, that having now discharged his mind of what he
had purposed doing in London, he meant " to set out on his
travels," that night. I asked him where he meant to go ? He
only answered, " I'm a going, sir, to seek my niece."

We went back to the little lodging over the chandler's
shop, and there I found an opportunity of repeating to Peg-
gotty what he had said to me. She informed me, in return,,
that he had said the same to her that morning. She knew no
more than I did, where he was going, but she thought he had
some project shaped out in his mind.

I did not like to leave him, under such circumstances, and
we all three dined together off a beefsteak pie â€” which was one
of the many good things for which Peggotty was famous â€” and
which was curiously flavored on this occasion, I recollect well,
by a miscellaneous taste of tea, coffee, butter, bacon, cheese.

462

DAVID COPPERFIELD

new loaves, firewood, candles, and walnut ketchup, continu
ally ascending from the shop. After dinner we sat for an houi
or so near the window, without talking much ; and then Mr.
Peggotty got up, and brought his oilskin bag and his stout
stick, and laid them on the table.

He accepted, from his sister's stock of ready money, a
small sum on account of his legacy ; barely enough, I should
have thought, to keep him for a month. He promised to
communicate with me, when anything befell him ; and he slung
his bag about him, took his hat and stick, and bade us both
" Good-bye ! "

"All good attend you, dear old woman," he said, embrac-
ing Peggotty, " and you too, Mas'r Davy ! " shaking hands
with me. " I'm a goi^t~ to seek her, fur and wide. If she
should come home while I'm away, â€” but ah, that ain't like to
be ! â€” 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 darKng
child, and I forgive her ! ' "

He said this solemnly, bare-headed ; then, putting on his
hat, he went down the stairs, and away. We followed to the
door. It was a warm, dusty evening, just the time when, in
the great main thoroughfare out of which that by-way turned,
there was a temporary lull in the eternal tread of feet upon
the pavement, and a strong red sunshine. He turned, alone,
at the corner of our shady street, into a glow of light, in which
we lost him.

Rarely did that hour of the evening come, rarely did I
wake at night, rarely did I look up at the moon, or stars, or
watch the falling rain, or hear the wind, but I thought of his
solitary figure toiling on, poor pilgrim, and recalled the words .

" I'm a going to seek her, fur and wide. If any b'^rt
should come to me, remember that the last words I left for
her was, ' My unchanged lore is with my darling child, and I
forgive her 1 ' "

BLISSFUL.

*6j

CHAPTER XXXIII.

P; i:SFUL.

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 J
sought Idy consolation in the image of Dora. The greater the
accumulation oi 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 â€¢
but I am quite sure I should have scouted the notion of her
being simply human, like any Mher young lady, with indigna-
tion and contempt.

If I may so express it, I was steeped in Dora. I was nor
merely over head and ears in love with her, but I was satu-
rated 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 meN
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
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 â€” I don't exactly know what f romr
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 implements,

464

DAVID COPPE R FIELD.

busily making the tour of my wardrobe, that I imparted to
her, in a sufficiently roundabout way, my great secret. Peg-
gotty was strongly interested, but I could not get her into my
view of the case at all. She was audaciously prejudiced in
my favor, 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 stationary. 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
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 Lin-
wood's Exhibition, which I remember as a Mausoleum of
needle-work, favorable 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 circum-
stances : except, I think, St. Paul's, which, from her long
attachment to her workbox. became a rival of the picture on

BLISSFUL.

465

the lid, and was, in some particulars, vanquished, she consid-
ered, 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 clown 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 license ; 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 license clients. Therefore I
hinted to Peggotty that she would find Mr. Spenlow much
recovered from the shock of Mr. Barkis's decease ; and indeed
he came in like a bridegroom.

But neither Peggotty nor I had eyes for him, when we saw,
in company with him, Mr. Murdstone. He was very little
changed. His hair looked as thick, and was certainly as
black, as ever ; and his glance was as little to be trusted as
of old.

" Ah, Copperfield ? " said Mr. Spenlow. " You know this
gentleman, I believe ? "

I made my gentleman a distant bow, and Peggotty barely
recognized him. He was, at first, somewhat disconcerted to
meet us two together â€¢ but quickly decided what to do, and
came up to me.

" I hope," he said, " that ycu are doing well ? "

" It can hardly be interesting to you," said I. " Yes, if
you wish to know."

J We looked at each other, and he addressed himself to
Peggotty.

" And you," said he. " I am sorry to observe that you
hare 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, â€”
nobody to answer for it."

" Ha ! " said he ; " that's a comfortable reflection. You
have done your duty ? "

" I have not worn anybodv's life away," said Peggotty,

466

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" I am thankful to think ! No, Mr. Murdstone, I have not
worried and frightened any sweet creetur to an early grave ! "

He eyed her gloomily â€” remorsefully I thought â€” for an in-
stant ; and said, turning his head towards me, but looking at
my feet :

" 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 al-
ways rebelled against my just authority, exerted for your ben-
efit and reformation, should owe me any good-will now. There
is an antipathy between us "

" An old one, I believe ? " said I, interrupting him.

He smiled, and shot as evil a glance at me as could come
from his dark eyes.

" It rankled in your baby breast," he said. " It embittered
the life of your poor mother. You are right. I hope you may
do better, yet ; I hope you may correct yourself."

Here he ended the dialogue, which had been carried on in
a low voice, in a corner of the outer office, by passing into
Mr. Spenlow's room, and saying aloud, in his smoothest man-
ner :

" 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 li-
cense ; 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 impres-
sing upon Peggotty (who was only angry on my account, good
creature !) that we were not in a place for recrimination, and
that I besought her to hold her peace. She was so unusually
roused, that I was glad to compound for an affectionate hug,
elicited by this revival in her mind of our old injuries, and to
make the best I could of it, before Mr. Spenlow and the
clerks.

Mr. Spenlow did not appear to know what the connection
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 com-

BLISSFUL.

467

manded by somebody else â€” so I gathered at least from what
he said, while we were waiting for Mr. Tiffey to make out
Peggotty's bill of costs.

" Miss Trotwood," he remarked, " is very firm, no doubt>
and not likely to give way to opposition. I have an admira-
tion for her character, and I may congratulate ^you, Copper-
field, on being on the right side. Differences between rela-
tions are much to be deplored â€” but they are extremely general
â€”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. Spen-
low.

I explained that I knew nothing about it.

" Indeed ! " he said. " Speaking from the few words Mr.
Murdstone dropped â€” as a man frequently does on these oc-
casionsâ€” and from what Miss Murdstone let fall, I should saj
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 emphati-
cally 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 de-
precatory air â€” as if it were all Jorkins's doing â€” 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 lib-
erty to consult my own wishes. I have a partner â€” Mr. Jor-
kins."

As he said this with a gentle melancholy, which was the
next thing to making no charge at all, I expressed my ac-
knowledgments on Peggotty's behalf, and paid Tiffey in 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,

DAVID COPPERFIELD

but in virtue of which I have seen several marriages annul-
led), of which the merits were these. The husband, whose
name was Thomas Benjamin, had taken out his marriage li-
cense as Thomas only ; suppressing the Benjamin, in case he
should not find himself as comfortable as he expected. Nol
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 sat-
isfaction.

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 Com-
mons. Mr. Spenlow replied that he would particularly ad-
vise 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 â€” for our man was unmarried by this time, and
we were out of Court, and strolling past the Prerogative Office
â€” I submitted that I thought the Prerogative Office rather a
queerly managed institution. Mr. Spenlow inquired in what
respect ? I replied, with all due deference to his experience
(but with more deference, I am afraid, to his being Dora's
father), that perhaps it was a little nonsensical that the Regis-
try of that Court, containing the original wills of all persons
leaving effects within the immense province of Canterbury,
for three whole centuries, should be an accidental building,
never designed for the purpose, leased by the registrars for
their own private emolument, unsafe, not even ascertained to
be fire-proof, choked with the important documents it held,
and positively, from the roof to the basement, a mercenary
speculation of the registrars, who took great fees from the

BLISSFUL.

469

public, and crammed the public's wills away anyhow and any-
where, having no other object than to get rid of them cheaply.
That, perhaps, it was a little unreasonable that these regis-
trars in the receipt of profits amounting to eight or nine thou-
sand pounds a year (to say nothing of the profits of the dep-
uty 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 need-
ful accommodation, should be an enormous sinecurist in vir-
tue of that post (and might be, besides, a clergyman, a plu-
ralist, 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 altogethei
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, 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 inser-
tion 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 con-
sidered 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

47Â°

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

it has Â«ot only lasted to the present moment, but has clone s$
in the teeth of a great parliamentary report made (not too will-
ingly) 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 â€¢
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 clown, 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 saun
ter 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 mere driveller next
day, on receipt of a little lace-edged sheet of note paper, " Fa-
vored 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 re-
member 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 declara-
tion. 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 gray, 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 tc
be anxiously looking for it, I committed two small fooleries
which other young gentlemen in my circumstances might have
committed â€” because they came so very natural to me. But
oh ! when I did find the house, and did dismount at the gar-
den gate, and drag those stony-hearted boots across the lawn
to Dora sitting on a garden seat under a lilac tree, what 3
spectacle she was, upon that beautiful morning, among the
butterflies, in a white chip bonnet and a dress of celestial
blue 1

BLISSFUL.

47 8

There war a young lady with her â€” comparative.y stricken
m years â€” 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 ! 99
said Dora.

I had had an intention of saying (and had been studying the
best form of words for three miles) that I thought them beau-
tiful 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 imagi-
nary 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 Muidstone 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 ! " sair1. 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, per-
haps, I might refer that wise benignity of manner which I
had already noticed. I found, in the course of the day, that

472

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

this was the case : Miss Mills having been unhappy in a mis-
placed affection, and being understood to have retired from
the world on her awful stock of experience, but still to take a
calm interest in the unblighted hopes and loves of youth.

But now Mr. Spenlow came out of the house, and Dora
went to him, saying, " Look, papa, what beautiful flowers ! "
And Miss Mills smiled thoughtfully, as who should say, " Ye
May-flies enjoy your brief existence in the bright morning of
life ! " And we all walked from the lawn towards the carriage,
which was getting ready.

I shall never have such a ride again. I have never had
such another. There were only those three, their hamper, my
hamper, and the guitar-case, in the phaeton ; and of course,
the phaeton was open ; and I rode behind it, and Dora sat with
her back to the horses, looking towards me. She kept the
bouquet close to her on the cushion, and wouldn't allow Jip to
sit on that side of her at all, for fear he should crush it. She
often carried it in her hand, often refreshed herself with its
fragrance. Our eyes at those times often met ; and my great
astonishment is that I didn't go over the head of my gallant
gray 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 remon-
strated 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 com-
fort is, Miss Mills understood me. Miss Mills alone could
enter into my feelings thoroughly.

I don't know how long we were going, and to this hour I
know as little where we went. Perhaps it was near Guildford.
Perhaps some Arabian-night magician opened up the place for
the day, and shut it up for ever when we came away. It was
a green spot, on a hill, carpeted with soft turf. There were
shady trees, and heather, and, as far as the eye could see, a
rich landscape.

It was a trying thing to find people here, waiting for us ;
and my jealousy, even of the ladies, knew no bounds. But all
of my own sex â€” especially one impostor, three or four years
my elder, with a red whisker, on which he established an

BLISSFUL.

473

amount of presumption not to be endured â€” were my mortal
*oes.

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 pub-
lic 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 at-
tached myself to a young creature in pink, with little eyes, and
flirted with her desperately. She received my attentions with
favor ; but whether on my account solely, or because she had
any designs on Red Whisker, I can't say. Dora's health was
drunk. When I drank it, I affected to interrupt my conversation
for that purpose, and to resume it immediately afterwards. I
caught Dora's eye as I bowed to her, and I thought it looked
appealing. But it looked at me over the head of Red Whisker,
and I was adamant.

The young creature in pink had a mother in green ; and I
rather think the latter separated us from motives of policy.
Howbeit, there was a general breaking up of the party, while
the remnants of the dinner were being put away : and I strolled
off by myself among the trees, in a raging and remorseful state.
I was debating whether I should pretend that I was not wel1
and fly â€” I don't know where â€” upon my gallant gray, when
Dora and Miss Mills met me.

" Mr. Copperfield," said Miss Mills, " you are dull."

I begged her pardon. Not at all.

"And Dora," said Miss Mills, "you are dull."

Oh dear no ! Not in the least.

"Mr. Copperfield and Dora," said Miss Mills, with a&
almost venerable air. " Enough of this. Do not allow a trivial
misunderstanding to wither the blossoms of spring, which, once
put forth and blighted, can not be renewed. I speak," said

474

DAVID COPPHRFIELD.

Miss Mills, " from experience of the past â€” the remote irrevo-
cable 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 â€” and she let me ! I kissed Miss Mills's hand ; and we all
seemed, to my thinking, to go straight up to the seventh
heaven.

We did not come down again. We stayed up there all the
evening. At first we strayed to and fro among the trees : I
with Dora's shy arm drawn through mine : and Heaven knows,
folly as it all was, it would have been a happy fate to have
been struck immortal with those foolish feelings, and have
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 mo-
ment; 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 leved her, and all the others might applaud as much
as they liked, but they had nothing to do with it !

I was intoxicated with joy. I was afraid it was too happy
to be real, and that I should wake in Buckingham Street
presently, and hear Mrs. Crupp clinking the teacups in getting
breakfast ready. But Dora sang, and others sang, and Miss
Mills sang â€” about the slumbering echoes in the caverns of
Memory ; as if she were a hundred years old â€” 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 â€” honor 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 !
â€” 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 â€” oh, what a dear little hand it looked upon a horse 1

BLISSFUL.

475

â€” 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
besran 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 ac-
count 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 â€” if you can spare a moment. I want
to speak to you."

Behold me, on my gallant gray, 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."

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 appre-
ciated 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 car-
riage to talk to me, and we talked all the rest of the way ;
and I rode my gallant gray so close to the wheel that I grazed
his near fore leg against it, and "took the bark off," as his
owner told me, " to the tune of three pun' sivin " â€” 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 suf-
ficient consciousness to take my leave. So we parted ; I rid-
ing all the way to London with the farewell touch of Dora's
hand still light on mine, recalling every incident and word ten

476

DAVID COPPER FIELD.

thousand times ; lying down in my own bed at last, as enray-
tured a young noodle as ever was carried out of his five wits
by love.

When I awoke next morning, I was resolute to declare m}
passion to Dora, and know my fate. Happiness or miserj
was now the question. There was no other question that }
knew of in the world, and only Dora could give the answer tc
it. I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness, torturing
myself by putting every conceivable variety of discouraging
construction on all that had ever taken place between Dora
and me. At last, arrayed for the purpose at a vast expense,
I went to Miss Mills's, fraught with a declaration.

How many times I went up and down the street, and
round the square â€” painfully aware of being a much better an-
swer to the old riddle than the original one â€” 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
Mr0 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
recognized my own flowers ; the identical Covent Garden
Market purchase ! I cannot say that they were very like, or
that they particularly resembled any flowers that have ever
come under my observation ; but I knew from the paper
round them, which was accurately copied, what the composi-
tion 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 min-
utes, 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 thfcik I would do it to-day.

BLISSFUL.

477

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

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

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

" Ye â€” 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 â€” I had sat, in the interval, in a burning fever, and
with my legs in a very rigid state â€”

" You didn't seem to be sensible of that happiness your-
self, 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 inter-
cepted Jip. I had Dora in my arms. I was full of eloquence.
I never stopped for a word. I told her how I loved her. I
told her I should die without her. I told her that I idolized
and worshipped her. JijD 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 min-
ute, day and night, since I first saw her. I loved her at that
minute to distraction. I should always love her, every min-
ute, to distraction. Lovers had loved before, and 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 peace-

478

DAV2D CC PPERFIELD.

fully at me. It was off my mind. I was in a state of pel
feet rapture. Dora and 1 were engaged.

I suppose we had some notion that this was to end in mar1
riage. 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 we really looked
before as or behind Ub ; or had any aspiration beyond ^he
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 dishonorable in that.

Miss Mills was more than usually pensive when Dora,
going to find her, brought her back ; â€” I apprehend, because
there was a tendency in what had passed to awaken the slum-
bering echoes in the caverns of Memory. But she gave us
her blessing, and the assurance of her lasting friendship, and
â€¢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 â€” 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 ol
being beloved, so much, that if I had walked the air I could not
have been more above the people not so situated, who were
creeping on the earth !

When we had those meetings in the garden of the square,
and sat within the dingy summer-house, so happy, that I love
the London sparrows to this hour, for nothing else, and see
the plumage of the tropics in their smoky feathers !

When we had our first great quarrel (within a week of our
betrothal), and when Dora sent me back the ring, enclosed
in a despairing cocked-hat note, wherein she used the terrible
expression that " our love had begun in folly, and ended in
madness ! " which dreadful words occasioned me to tear my
hair, and cry that all was over !

When, under cover of the night, I flew to Miss Mills,
whom I saw by stealth in a back kitchen where there was a

MY AUJV7 'ASTONISHES ME:

479

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 !

â€¢ 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 c f correspondence through
Miss Mills, always to comprehend at least one letter on each
side every day !

What an idle time ! What an unsubstantial, happy, fool
ish time ! Of all the times of mine that Time has in his grip,
there is none that in one retrospect I can smile at half so
much, and think of half so tenderly.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

MY AUNT ASTONISHES ME.

1 wrote to Agnes as soon as Dora and I were engaged. I
wrote her a long letter, in which I tried to make her comprehend
how blest I was, and what a darling Dora was. I entreated
Agnes not to regard this as a thoughtless passion which could
ever yield to ' any other, or had the least resemblance to the
boyish fancies that we used to joke about. I assured her
that its profundity was quite unfathomable, and expressed
my belief that nothing like it had ever been known.

Somehow, as I wrote to Agnes on a fine evening by my
open window, and the remembrance of her clear calm eyes
and gentle face came stealing over me, it shed such a peace
ful influence upon the hurry and agitation in which I haa
been living lately, and of which my very happiness partook in
some degree, that it soothed me into tears. I remember that
I sat resting my head upon my hand, when the letter was half
done, cherishing a general fancy as if Agnes were one of the
elements of my natural home. As if, in the retirement of the
house made almost sacred to me by her presence, Dora and 1
must be happier than anywhere. As if, in love, joy, sorrow,
hope, or disappointment â€” in all emotions â€” my heart turned
naturally there, and found its refuge and best friend.

r>AVID iJOPPERFIELD.

Of Steerforth I said nothing. I only told her there had

been cad grief at Yarmouth, on account of Emily's flight ; and
that on me it made a double wound, by reason of the circum-
stances 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 (who always
volunteered that information to whomsoever would receive
it ), that she was my old nurse, he had established a good-hu-
mored 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 conversa-
tions respecting Peggotty, in a very high-pitched voice, on the
staircase â€” with some invisible Familiar it would appear, for
corporeally speaking she was quite alone at those times â€” ad-
dressed 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 differ-
ent days, but that at all periods of her existence she had had
a constitutional objection to spies, intruders, and informers.
She named no names, she said ; let them the cap fitted, wear
it ; but spies, intruders, and informers, especially in widders'
weeds (this clause was underlined), she had ever accustomed
herself to look down upon. If a gentleman was the victim
of spies, intruders, and informers (but still naming no names),
that was his own pleasure. He had a right to please himself ;
so let him do. All that she, Mrs. Crupp, stipulated for, was,
that she should not be " brought in contract " with such per-
sons. 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 j and further men*

MY AUNT ASTONISHES ME.

tioned that her little book would be found upon the breakfast*
table every Saturday morning, when she requested an imme-
diate settlement of the same, with the benevolent view of sav-
ing trouble, " and ill-conwenience " to all parties.

After this, Mrs. Crupp confined herself to making pitfalls
on the stairs, principally with pitchers, and endeavoring 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 ap-
pearing 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 â€” "

" Yes, yes, I know," said Traddles, " of course. Yours
lives in London, I think."

" What did you say ? "

" She â€” excuse me â€” Miss D., you know," said Traddles,
coloring in his great delicacy, " lives in London, I believe ? "
" Oh yes. Near London."

" Mine, perhaps you recollect," said Traddles, with a se-
rious look, " lives down in Devonshire â€” one of ten. Conse-
quently, I am not so much engaged as you â€” in that sense."

" I wonder you can bear," I returned, " to see her so sel-
dom."

" Hah ! " said Traddles, thoughtfully. " It does seem a
wonder. I suppose it is, Copperfield, because there's no help
for it ? "

" I suppose so," I replied with a smile, and not without a
blush. " And because you have so much constancy and pa-
tience, 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 extraordinary dear girl her-
self, 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 :

482

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Not, of co'irse, but that my Sophy â€” pretty name, Cop*
perfield, 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 â€” " he seemed to be de-
scribing clouds about himself, with both hands : " Splendid,
you know," said Traddles, energetically.

" Indeed ! " said I.

" Oh, I assure you," said Traddles, " something very
uncommon indeed ! Then, you know, being formed for so
ciety 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 humor ! "

" Is Sophy the youngest ? " I hazarded.

" Oh dear, no ! " said Traddles, stroking his chin. " The
two youngest are only nine and ten. Sophy educates 'em."

" The second daughter, perhaps ? " I hazarded.

" No," said Traddles. " Sarah's the second. Sarah has
something the matter with her spine, poor girl. The malady
will wear out by-and-bye, the doctors say, but in the meantime
she has to lie down for a twelvemonth. Sophy nurses her.
Sophy's the fourth."

"Is the mother living ?" I inquired.

" Oh yes," said Traddles, " she is alive. She is a very su-
perior woman indeed, but the damp country is not adapted to
her constitution, and â€” 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,
u I am not living with him at present."

" No?"

MY AUNT ASTONISHES ME.

433

â€¢'No. You see the truth is," said Traddles* in a whisper,
uhe has changed his name to Mortimer, in consequence of
his temporary embarrassments ; and he don't come out till
after dark â€” and then in spectacles. There was an execution
out 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 matttr
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 execu-
tion came in. It broke up the establishment. I have been
living in a furnished apartment since then, and the Mortimers
nave been very private indeed. I hope you won't think it
selfish, Copperfield, if I mention that the broker carried off
jiy 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 â€” 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 â€” I can show it her from
round the corner of the next street â€” and make the best bar
gain for them, as if they were for herself, that she can ! "

The delight with which Traddles propounded this plan tv>
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.

484

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" My dear Copperfield," said Traddles, " I have already
done so, because I begin to feel that I have not only been in-
considerate, but that I have been positively unjust to Sophy.
My word being passed to myself, there is no longer any ap-
prehension ; but I pledge it to you, too, with the greatest
readiness. That first unlucky obligation, I have paid. I have na
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 if
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 ; Trad-
dies declining to pass the evening with me, both because he
endured the liveliest apprehensions that his property would
be bought by somebody else before he could re-purchase it,
and because it was the evening he always devoted to writing
to the dearest girl in the world.

I never shall forget him peeping round the corner of the
street in Tottenham Court Road, while Peggotty was bargain-
ing for the precious articles ; or his agitation when she came
slowly towards us after vainly offering a price, and was hailed'
Dy the relenting broker, and went back again. The end of
"he 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 favor, I hope you would not think
it absurd, Copperfield ? "

I said beforehand, certainly not.

"Then if you would be good enough," said Traddles to
Peggotty, " to get the flower-pot now, I thin'k I should like
(it being Sophy's, Copperfield) to carry it home myself ! "

Peggotty was glad to get it for him, and he overwhelmed
her with thanks, and went his way up Tottenham Court Road,
carrying the flower-pot affectionately in his arms, with one of
the most delighted expressions of countenance I ever saw.

We then turned back towards my chambers. As the shops
had charms for Peggotty which I never knew them possess in
the same degree for anybody else, I sauntered easily along,,
amused by her staring in at the windows, and waiting for he*

MY AUNT ASTONISHES ME.

as often as she chose. We were thus a. ^ood while 1 a 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, com
ing higher up, to find my outer door standing open (which 1
had shut), and to hear voices inside.

We looked at one another, without knowing what to make
o'f 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 fry,
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 clear relations.

" Holloa ! " said my aunt to Peggotty, who quailed before
her awful presence. " How are you ? "

" You remember my aunt, Peggotty ? " said I.

"For the love of goodness, child," exclaimed my aunt,,
don't call the woman by that South Sea Island name ! If
she married and got rid of it, which was the best thing she
could do, why don't you give her the benefit of the change ?
What's your name now, â€” P ? " said my aunt, as a compromise
for the obnoxious appellation.

" Barkis, ma'am," said Peggotty, with a curtsey.

" Well ! That's human. It sounds less as if you wanted
a Missionary. How d 'ye do, Barkis ? I hope you're well ? "

Encouraged by these gracious words, and by my aunt's
extending her hand, Barkis came forward, and took the hand,
and curtseyed her acknowledgments.

"We are older than we were, I see," said my aunt. "We
have only met each other once before, you know. A nice
business we made of it then ! Trot, my dear, another cup."

I handed it dutifully to my aunt, who was in her usual in-
flexible state of figure ; and ventured a remonstrance with her
on the subject of her sitting on a box.

486

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Let me draw the sofa here, or the easy chair., aunt," said
I. " Why should you be so uncomfortable ? "

"Thank you, Trot," replied my aunt, "I prefer to sit upon
my property." Here my aunt looked hard at Mrs. Crupp,
and observed, " We needn't trouble you to wait, ma'am."

" Shall I put a little more tea in the pot afore I go, ma'am ? "
said Mrs. Crupp.

" No, I thank you, ma'am," replied my aunt.

" Would you let me fetch another pat of butter, ma'am ? "
said Mrs. Crupp. " Or would you be persuaded to try a new-
laid hegg ? or should I brile a rasher ? Ain't there nothing I
could do for your dear aunt, Mr. Copperfuli ? "

" Nothing, ma'am," returned my aunt. " I shall do very
well, I thank you."

Mrs. Crupp, who had been incessantly smiling to express
sweet temper, and incessantly holding her head on one side,
to express a general feebleness of constitution, and incessantly
rubbing her hands, to express a desire to be of service to alL
deserving objects, gradually smiled herself, one-sided her-
self, and rubbed herself, out of the room.

"Dick!" said my aunt. "You know what I told you
about time-servers and wealth-worshippers ? "

Mr. Dick â€” with rather a scared look, as if he had forgotten,
it â€” returned a hasty answer in the affirmative.

" Mrs. Crupp is one of them," said my aunt. " Barkis, I'll
trouble you to look after the tea, and let me have another cup,
for I don't fancy that woman's pouring out ! "

I knew my aunt sufficiently well to know that she had
something of importance on her mind, and that there was
far more matter in this arrival than a stranger might have
supposed. I noticed how her eye lighted on me, when she
thought my attention otherwise occupied ; and what a curious
process of hesitation appeared to be going on within her,
while she preserved her outward stiffness and composure,
I began to reflect whether I had done anything to offend her ?
and my conscience whispered me that I had not yet told her
about Dora. Could it by any means be that, I wondered !

As I knew she would only speak in her own good time, I
sat down near her, and spoke to the birds, and played with
the cat, and was as easy as I could be. But I was very far from
being really easy ; and I should still have been so, even if Mr.
Dick, leaning over the great kite behind my aunt, had not
taken every secret opportunity of shaking his head darkly at
aie, and pointing at her.

DEPRESSION.

487

w Trot," said my aunt at last, when she had finished her
tea and carefully smoothed down her dress, and wiped her lip
â– â€” " you needn't go, Barkis ! â€” Trot, have you got to be firm
and self-reliant ? "

" I hope so, aunt."

"What do you think? " inquired Miss Betsey.
" I think so, aunt."

" Then why, my love," said my aunt, looking earnestly al
me, " why do you think I prefer to sit upon this property of
mine to-night ? "

I shook my head, unable to guess.

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

If the house, and every one of us, had tumbled out into the
river together. I could hardly have received a greater shock.

" Dick knows it," said my aunt, laying her hand calmly on
my shoulder. " I am ruined, my dear Trot ! All I have in
the ^vorld is in this room, except the cottage ; and that I have
left J met to let. Barkis, I want to get a bed for this gentle-
man 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 â€”
I am sure, for her â€” by her falling on my neck for a moment,
and crying that she only grieved for me. In another she sup-
pressed this emotion ; and said with an aspect more trium-
phant 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 Me.

488

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Peggotty had lately vacated. The chandler's shop being in
Hungerford Market, and Hungerford Market being a very dif-
ferent 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 flavors I have already mentioned,
and perhaps the want of a little more elbow-room, he was per-
fectly charmed with his accommodation. Mrs. Crupp had in*
dignantly 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 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 ! " Thai
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 pro-
voked into explaining to him that ruin meant distress, want,
and starvation ; but I was soon bitterly reproved for this harsh
ness, by seeing his face turn pale, and tears course down his
lengthened cheeks; while he fixed upon me a look of such un-
utterable 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 con-
fident, merely because of his faith in the wisest and most won-
derful of women, and his unbounded reliance on my intellect-
ual 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 â€” "

DEPRESSION.

489

u To be sure there is," said I. " But all we can do jus*
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 im-
plored 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 at-
tempts at" concealment. All the evening his eyes wandered
to my aunt's face, with an expression of the most dismal ap-
prehension, as if he saw her growing thin on the spot. lie
was conscious of this, and put a constraint upon his head ; but
his keeping that immovable, and sitting rolling his eyes like a
piece of machinery, did not mend the matter at all. I saw
him look at the loaf at supper (which happened to be a small
one), as if nothing else stood between us and famine ; and
when my aunt insisted on his making his customary repast, I
detected him in the act of pocketing fragments of his bread
and cheese ; I have no doubt for the purpose of reviving us with
those savings,when we should have reached an advanced stage
of attenuation.

My aunt, on the other hand, was in a composed frame of
mind, which was a lesson to all of us â€” to me, I am sure. She
was extremely gracious to Peggotty, except when I inadver-
tently 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 satisfac-
tion 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 oppor-
tunity 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 monumenf of human misery.

49Â°

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

My aunt was walking up and down the room when I r&
turned crimping the borders of her nigjrtcap with her fingers,
I warmed the ale and made the toast on the usual infallible prin-
ciples. 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 J
" 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 teaspoon, 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, rub-
bing 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 verv aggravating. However, she's Barkis
now. That's some comfort. Barkis is uncommonly fond of
you, Trot."

" There is nothing she would leave undone to prove it,"
said I.

" Nothing, I believe," returned my aunt. "Here the poor
fool has been begging and praying about handing over some
of her money â€” because she has got too much of it ! A simple-
ton ! "

My aunt's tears of pleasure were positively trickling down
into the warm ale.

" She's the most ridiculous creature that ever was born,1*
said my aunt. " I knew, from the first moment when I saw
her with that poor dear blessed baby of a mother of youri

DEPRESSION.

491

that she was the most ridiculous of mortals. But there are
good points in Barkis ! "

Affecting to laugh, she got an opportunity of putting her
hand to her eyes. Having availed herself of it, she resumed
her toast and her discourse together.

" Ah ! Mercy upon us ! " sighed my aunt. " I know all
about it, Trot ! Barkis and myself had quite a gossip while
you were out with Dick. I know all about it. I don't know
where these wretched girls expect to go to, for my part. I
wonder they don't knock out their brains against â€” against
mantlepieces," 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," said my aunt. " She
should have thought of that, before she caused so much misery 1
Give me a kiss, Trot. I am sorry for your early experience."

As I bent forward, she put her tumbler on my knee to de-
tain me, and said :

" Oh, Trot, Trot ! And so you fancy yourself in love !
Do you ? "

" Fancy, aunt ! " I exclaimed, as red as I could be. " I
adore her with my whole soul ! "

" Dora, indeed ! " returned my aunt. " And you mean to
say the little thing is very fascinating, I suppose ? "

" My dear aunt," I replied, " no one can form the least-
idea what she is ! "

" Ah ! And not silly ? " said my aunt.

" Silly, aunt ! "

I seriously believe it had never once entered my head for
a single moment, to consider whether she was or not. I re-
sented the idea, of course â€¢ 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 depre-
ciate 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 aii;
half playful and half sorrowful, that I was quite touched.

192

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

"We are young and inexperienced, aunt, I know," 1 re
plied ; " 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 j I don't know what I should do â€” 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 earnest-
ness 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 earn-
estness."

" If you only knew the earnestness of Dora, aunt ! " I
cried.

" Oh, Trot !" she said again ; " blind, blind ! " and with-
out knowing why, I felt a vague unhappy loss or want of
something overshadow me like a cloud.

" However," said my aunt, " I don't want to put two young
creatures out. of conceit with themselves, or to make them
unhappy ; so, though it is a girl and boy attachment, and girl
and boy attachments very often â€” mind ! I don't say always !
â€” come to nothing, still we'll be serious about it, and hope for
a prosperous issue one of these days. There's time enough
for it to come to anything ! "

This was not upon the whole very comforting to a raptur-
ous 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 bed-room.

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 & shabby coat, and to be

DEPRESSION.

493

able to carry Dora no little presents, and to ride no gallant
grays, and to show myself in no agreeable light ! Sordid and
selfish as I knew it was, and as I tortured myself by knowing
that it was, to let my mind run on my own distress so much,
I was so devoted to Dora that I could not help it. I knew
that it was base in me not to think more of my aunt, and less
of myself ; but, so far, selfishness was inseparable from Dora,
and I could not put Dora on one side for any mortal creature.
How exceedingly miserable I was, that night !

As to sleep, I had dreams of poverty in all sorts of shapes,
but I seemed to dream without the previous ceremony of
going to sleep. Now I was ragged, wanting to sell Dora
matches, six bundles for a halfpenny \ now I was at the office
in a night-gown 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 TifTey's
daily biscuit, regularly eaten when St. Paul's struck one ;
now I was hopelessly endeavoring to get a license to marry
Dora, having nothing but one of Uriah Heep's gloves to offer
in exchange, which the whole Commons rejected ; and still,
more or less conscious of my own room, I was always tossing
about like a distressed ship in a sea of bed-clothes.

My aunt was restless, too, for I frequently heard her
walking to and fro. Two or three times in the course of the
night, attired in a long flannel wrapper in which she looked
seven feet high, she appeared, like a disturbed ghost, in my
room, and came to the side of the sofa on which I lay. On
the first occasion I started up in alarm, to learn that she in'
ferred 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 danc-
ing 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,

494

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 â€” it may be there still â€” â€¢
in which I have had many a cold plunge. Dressing myself
as quietly as I could, and leaving Peggotty to look after my
aunt, I tumbled head foremost into it, and then went for a
walk to Hampstead. I had a hope that this brisk treatment
might freshen my wits a little ; and I think it did them good,
for I soon came to the conclusion that the first step I ought
to take was to try if my articles could be cancelled and the
premium recovered. I got some breakfast on the Heath, and
walked back to Doctors' Commons, along the watered roads
and through a pleasant smell of summer flowers, growing in
gardens and carried into town on hucksters' heads, intent on
this first effort to meet our altered circumstances.

I arrived at the office so soon, after all, that I had half an
hour's loitering about the Commons, before old Tiffey, who
was always first, appeared with his key. Then I sat down in
my shady corner, looking up at the sunlight on the opposite
chimney-pots, and thinking about Dora ; until Mr. Spenlow
came in, crisp and curly.

" How are you, Copperfield ? " said he. " Fine morning ! "

" Beautiful morning, sir," said I. " Could I say a word
to you before you go into Court ? "

"'By all means," said he. " Come into my room."

I followed him into his room, and he began putting on his
gown, and touching himself up before a little glass he had,
hanging inside a closet door.

" I am sorry to say," said I, " that I have some rather dis
heartening intelligence from my aunt."

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

" It has no reference to her health, sir," I replied. " She
*ias 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 pos-
sibleâ€” at a sacrifice on our part of some portion of the premium,
of course," I put in this, on the spur of the moment, warned
by the blank expression of his face â€” " to cancel my articles ? "

DEPRESSION.

495

What it cost me to make this proposal, nobody knows. It
was like asking, as a favor, to be sentenced to transportation
from Dora.

" To cancel your articles, Copperfield ? Cancel ? "

I explained with tolerable firmness, that I really did not
know where my means of subsistence were to come from, un-
less I could earn them for myself. I had no fearjor the future,
jl said â€” 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 clays â€” 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 arti-
cles 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 â€” "

" You are very good, sir," I murmured, anticipating a con-
cession.

"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 â€” if I had not a partner â€” Mr. Jor-
kins â€” "

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 â€” "

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 propo-
sition of this peculiar nature. Mr. Jorkins is very difficult to
move from the beaten track. You know what he is ! "

I am sure I knew nothing about him, except that he had
originally been alone in the business, and now lived by him-
self in a house near Montague 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 â€¢ 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.

496

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

u By no means," said Mr. Spenlow. " But I have some
experience of Mr. Jorkins, Copperfield. 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. Jor-
kins pretty much as I had stated it to Mr. Spenlow. Mr. Jor-
kins 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 intro-
duced his name.

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

I was obliged to admit that Mr. Spenlow had considered
it probable.

" I am sorry to say, Mr. Copperfield, I can't advance your
object," said Mr. Jorkins, nervously. "The fact is â€” but I
have an appointment at the Bank, if you'll have the goodness,
to excuse me."

With that he rose in a great hurry, and was going out of
the room, when I made bold to say that I feared, then, there
was no way of arranging the matter ?

" No ! " said Mr. Jorkins, stopping at the door to shake
his head. "Oh, no! I object, you know," which he said very
rapidly, and went out. "You must be aware, Mr. Copperfield, "
he added, looking restlessly in at the door again, "if Mr.
Spenlow objects â€” "

" Personally, he does not object, sir," said I.

" Ob ! Personally ! " repeated Mr. Jorkins, in an impatient
manner. " I assure you there's an objection, Mr. Copperfield,

DEPRESSION:

49?

Hopeless ! What you wish to be done, can't he done. I â€” 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.

" Copporfiekl," 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 at-
tribute any degree of artifice to Mr. forking. But Mr. Jorkins.
has a way of stating his objections which often deceives peo-
ple. No, Copperfield ! " shaking his head, " Mr. Jorkins is
not to be moved, believe me ! "

I was completely bewildered between Ml Spenlow and.
Mr. Jorkins, as to which of them really was the objecting,
partner ; but I saw with sufficient clearness that there was
obduracy somewhere in the firm, and that the recovery of my
aunt's thousand pounds was out of the question. In a state
of despondency, which I remember with anyth'.ng but satisfac-
tion, for I know it still had too much reference to myself
(though always in connection with Dora), I left the office, and
went homeward.

I was trying to familiarize my mind with the worst, and to;
'present to myself the arrangements wre should have to make
for the future in their sternest aspect, when a hackney chariot
coming after me, and stopping at my very feet, occasioned me
to look up. A fair hand was stretched forth to me from the
window ; and the face I had never seen without a feeling of
serenity and happiness, from the moment when it first turned
back on the old oak staircase with the great broad balustrade,
and when I associated its softened beauty w*Â£h the stained
glass window in the church, was smiling o*i ~fle.

"Agnes!" I joyfully exclaimed. "Oh, my dear Agnes,
of all people in the world, what a pWs*:re to see you ! "

" Is it, indeed ? " she said, in hev cordial voice.

" I want to talk to you so mnch ! " said I. " It's such a
lightening of my bean, only *o look at you ! If I had had a
conjuror's can, there is no one I should have wished for but
you ! "

" What ? " returned Agnes.

49S

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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

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

" But you next ! " said I. " Where are you going ? "

She was going to my rooms to see my aunt. The day
being very fine, she was glad to come out of the chariot,
which smelt (I had my head in it all this time) like a stable
â– 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 â€”
very little longer than a Bank note â€” 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
bad quite made up her mind to it, and was so well that no-
body 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
- â€” and Uriah Heep.

" And now they are partners," said I. " Confound him ! "

" Yes," said Agnes. " They have some business here ;
.and I took advantage of their coming, to come too. You
must not think my visit all friendly and disinterested, Trot-
wood, for â€” I am afraid I may be cruelly prejudiced â€” 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 deal
old house. They live with us now."

" They ? " said I.

" Mr. Heep and his mother. He sleeps in your old room,S!*
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 ? "

DEPRESSION. '

499

u It is just the same," said Agnes, smiling. " I am glad
you think of it so pleasantly. We were very happy/'
"We were, indeed," said I.

"I keep that room to myself still; but I cannot always
desert Mrs. Heep, you know. And so," said Agnes, quietly,
" I feel obliged to bear her company, when I might prefer to
be alone. But I have no other reason to complain of her.
If she tires me, sometimes, by her praises of her son, it is only
natural in a mother. He is a very good son to her."

I looked at Agnes when she said these words, without
detecting in her any consciousness of Uriah's design. Hei
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 â€” â–
Uriah Heep being so much between us â€” 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, hi 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 circum-
stances 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 in-
different to spasms on the part of Mrs. Crupp, had cut the dis-
pute 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 ex-
pressed her intention of bringing before a " British Judy " â€” â–
meaning, it was supposed, the bulwark of our national liberties.

My aunt, however, having had time to cool, while Peggotty
was out showing Mr. Dick the soldiers at the Horse Guards
â€”and being, besides, greatly pleased to see Agnes â€” rather
plumed herself on the affair than otherwise, and received u?Â»

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

with unimpaired good humor. When Agnes laid her bonner.
on the table, and sat down beside her, I could not but think,
looking on her mild eyes and her radiant forehead, how nat-
ural 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 â€” I suppose I must say,
young man now â€” and I am proud of you, my dear. So far so
good. Now, Trot and Agnes, let us look the case of Betsey
Trotwood in the face, and see how it stands."

I observed Agnes turn pale, as she looked very attentively
at my aunt. My aunt, patting her cat, looked very attentively
at Agnes.

" Betsey Trotwood," said my aunt, who had always kept
her money matters to herself : " â€” I don't mean your sister.
Trot, my dear, but myself â€” 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 â€” I am alluding to your father, Agnes â€” and she took it
into her head to lay it out for herself. So she took her pigs,"
said my aunt, " to a foreign market ; and a very bad market
it turned out to be. First, she lost in the mining way, and
then she lost in the diving way â€” 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 bank-
ing 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 1 "

depression:

My aunt concluded this philosophical summary, by fixing
her eyes with a kind of triumph on Agnes, whose color 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. Hei
color 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 ! â€” That's all we've
got," said my aunt ; with whom it was an idiosyncrasy, as it is
with some horses, to stop very short when she appeared to be
in a fair way of going on for a long while.

" Then," said my aunt, after a rest, " there's Dick. He's
good for a hundred a-year, but of course that must be expended
on himself. I would sooner send him away, though I know
I am the only person who appreciates him, than have him,
and not spend his money on himself. How can Trot and I
do best, upon our means ? What do you say, Agnes ? "
) " / 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 having any knockings on the
head in this family, if you please, sir."

I was about to explain that I was not desirous of introdu-
cing 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 aon't believe. The last man

5Â°2

DAVID COPPERFIELD

died here. Five people out of six would die â€” of course â€” 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 bed-room
hard by."

I thought it my duty to hint at the discomfort my aunt
would sustain, from living in a continual state of guerilla war
fare 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 â€” "

" I have a good deal of time, Agnes. I am always disen-
gaged after four or five o'clock, and I have time early in the
morning. In one way and another," said I, conscious of
reddening a little as I thought of the hours and hours I had
devoted to fagging about town, and to and fro upon the Nor-
wood Road, " I have abundance of time."

" I know you would not mind," said Agnes, coming tome,
and speaking in a low voice, so full of sweet and hopeful con-
sideration 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 favorite 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 â€” and that prob-
ably my leisure would suit his requirements very well. I was
scarcely more delighted with the prospect of earning my own
bread, than with the hope of earning it under my old master
in short, acting on the advice of Agnes, I sat down and wrote
a letter to the Doctor, stating my object, and appointing to
call on him next day at ten in the forenoon. This I addressed
to Highgate â€” for in that place, so memorable to me, he lived
â€”and went and posted, myself, without losing a minute.

Wherever Agnes was. some agreeable token of her noise-

DEPRESSION.

less presence seemed inseparable from the place. When 1
came back, I found my aunt's birds hanging, just as they had
hung so long in the parlor window of the cottage ; and my easy
chair imitating my aunt's much easier chair in its position at
the open window ; and even the round green fan, which my
aunt had brought away with her, screwed on to the window-
sill. I knew who had done all this, by its seeming to have
quietly done itself ; and I should have known in a moment
who had arranged my neglected books in the old order of my
school days, even if I had supposed Agnes to be miles away,
instead of seeing her busy with them, and smiling at the dis
order 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, think-
ing 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 prom-
ised me that he would come."

I opened the door, and admitted, not only Mr. Wickfield,
but Uriah Heep. I had not seen Mr. Wickfield for some
time. I was prepared for a great change in him, after what
I had heard from Agnes, but his appearance shocked me.

It was not that he looked many years older, though still
dressed with the old scrupulous cleanliness ; or that there
was an unwholesome ruddiness upon his face ; or that his
eyes were full and bloodshot ; or that there was a nervous
trembling in his hand, the cause of which I knew, and had
for some years seen at work. It was not that he had lost
his good looks or his old bearing of a gentleman â€” for that
he had not â€” but the thing that struck me most was, that with
the evidences of his native superiority still upon him, he
should submit himself to that crawling impersonation of
meanness, Uriah Heep. The reversal of the two natures, in
their relative positions, Uriah's of power and Mr. Wickfield's
of. dependence, was a sight more painful to me than I can ex-
press. If I had seen an Ape taking command of a Man, I
should baldly have thought it a more degrading spectacle.

5Â°4

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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, â€” and Trotwood,
whom you have not seen for a long while ! " and then he ap-
proached, 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-favored 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. " 1 have been telling your daughter
how well I have been disposing of my money for myself, be-
cause I couldn't trust it to you, as you were growing rusty in
business matters. We have been taking counsel together, and
getting on very well, all things considered. Agnes is worth,
the whole firm, in my opinion."

"If I may umbly make the remark," said Uriah Heep,
with a writhe, " I fully agree with Miss Betsey Trotwood, and
should be only too appy if Miss Agnes was a partner."

" You're a partner yourself, you know," returned my aunt,
" and that's about enough for you, I expect. How do you
find yourself, sir ? "

In acknowledgment of this question, addressed to him
with extraordinary curtness, Mr. Heep, uncomfortably clutch-
ing the blue bag he carried, replied that he was pretty well, he
thanked my aunt, and hoped she was the same.

"And you, Master â€” I should say, Mister Copperfield,"
pursued Uriah. " I hope I see you well ! I am rejoiced to
see you, Mister Copperfield, even under present circum-
stances." I believe that ; for he seemed to relish them very
much. " Present circumstances is not what your friends
would wish for you, Mister Copperfield, but it isn't money
makes the man : it's â€” I am really unequal with my umble
powers to express what it is," said Uriah, with a fawning jerk,
" but it isn't money ! " * _ "

DEPRESSION.

Here he shook hands with me : not in the common way,
but standing at a good distance from me, and lifting my hand
up and down like a pump handle, that he was a little afraid
of.

" And how do you think we are looking, Master Copper-
field, â€” I should say, Mister ? " fawned Uriah. " Don't you
find Mr. Wickfield blooming, sir ? Years don'tjell much in
our firm, Master Copperfield, except in raising up the umble,
namely, mother and self â€” and in developing," he added, as
an after thought, " the beautiful, namely, Miss Agnes."

He jerked himself about, after this compliment, in such
an intolerable manner, that my aunt, who had sat looking
straight at him, lost all patience.

"Deuce take the man ! " said my aunt, sternly, "what's
he about ? Don't be galvanic, sir ! "

"I ask your pardon, Miss Trotwood," returned Uriah;
" I'm aware you're nervous."

" Go along with you, sir ! " said my aunt, anything but
appeased. " Don't presume to say so ! I am nothing of the
sort. If you're an eel, sir, conduct yourself like one. If
you're a man, control your limbs, sir ! Good God ! " said
my aunt, with great indignation, " I am not going to be ser-
pentined and cork-screwed out of my senses ! "

Mr. Heep was rather abashed, as most people might have
been, by this explosion ; which derived great additional force
from the indignant manner in which my aunt afterwards
moved in her chair, and shook her head as if she were making
snaps or bounces at him. But, he said to me aside in a meek
voice :

" I am well aware, Master Copperfield, that Miss Trotwood,
though an excellent lady, has a quick temper (indeed I think
I had the pleasure of knowing her, when I was an umble
clerk, before you did, Master Copperfield), and it's only natu-
ral, I am sure, that it should be made quicker by present
circumstances. The wonder is, that it isn't much worse ! I
only called to say that if there was anything we could do, in
present circumstances, mother or self, or Wickfield and Heep.
we should be really glad. I may go so far ? " said Uriah,
with a sickly smile at his partner.

" Uriah Heep," said Mr. Wickfield, in a monotonous
forced way, " is active in the business, Trotwood. What he
says, I quite concur in. You know I had an old interest in
you. Apart from that, what Uriah says I quite concur in ! "

5o6

DAVID COPPERFIELD,

" Oh, what a reward it is," said Uriah, drawing up one
leg, at the risk of bringing down upon himself another visita-
tion from my aunt, " to be so trusted in ! But I hope I am
able to do something to relieve him from the fatigues of busi-
ness, Master Copperfield ! "

" Uriah Heep is a great relief to me/' said Mr. Wickfield,
in the same dull voice. " It's a load off my mind, Trotwoodj
to have such a partner."

The red fox made him say all this, I knew, to exhibit him
to me in the light he had indicated on the night when he
poisoned my rest. I saw the same ill-favored smile upon his
face again, and saw how he watched me.

" You are not going, papa ? " said Agnes, anxiously " Will
you not walk back with Trotwood and me ? "

He would have looked to Uriah, I believe, before replying,
if that worthy had not anticipated him.

"I am bespoke myself," said Uriah, "on business; other-
wise I should have been appy to have kept with my friends.
But I leave my partner to represent the firm. Miss Agnes,
ever yours ! I wish you good-day, Master Copperfield, and
leave my umble respects for Miss Betsey Trotwood."

With those words, he retired, kissing his great hand, and
leering at us like a mask.

We sat there, talking about our pleasant old Canterbury
days, an hour or two. Mr. Wickfield, left to Agnes, soon be-
came more like his former self ; though there was a settled
depression upon him, which he never shook off*. For all that,
lie 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 Peg-
gotty, in the inner room) would not accompany, us to the
place where they were staying, but insisted on my going ; and
J 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 â€” like a child â€” 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

ENTHUSIASM.

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 â€” I know not how, she was too modest and gentle to
advise me in many words â€” the wandering ardor and unsettled
purpose within me, that all the little good I have done, and
all the harm I have forborne, I solemnly believe I may refer
to her.

And how she spoke to me of Dora, sitting at the window
in the dark ; listened to my praises of her ; praised again ;
and round the little fairy-figure shed some glimpses of her
own pure light, that made it yet more precious and more
innocent to me ! Oh, Agnes, sister of my boyhood, if I had
known then, what I knew long afterwards ! â€”

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 iA he
were an echo of the morning :

" Blind ! Blind ! Blind t "

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 yearn-
ings after gallant grays. 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 diffi*

5o8

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

culty, 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, pur-
suing 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 dis-
courage me. With the new life, came new purpose, new in-
tention. Great was the labor ; priceless the reward. Dora
was the reward, and Dora must be won.

I got into such a transport, that I felt quite sorry my coat
was not a little shabby already. I wanted to be cutting at
those trees in the forest of difficulty, under circumstances
that should prove my strength. I had a good mind to ask an
old man, in wire spectacles, who was breaking stones upon
the road, to lend me his hammer for a little while, and let me
begin to beat a path to Dora out of granite. I stimulated
myself into such a heat, and got so out of breath, that I felt
as if I had been earning I don't know how much. In this
state, I went into a cottage that I saw was to let, and ex-
amined it narrowly, â€” 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 present-
able.

My first care, after putting myself under this necessary
course of preparation, was to find the Doctor's house. It
was not in that part of Highgate where Mrs. Steerforth lived,
but quite on the opposite side of the little town. When I had
made this discovery, I went back, in an attraction I could not
resist, to a lane by Mrs. Steerforth's, and looked over the
corner of the garden wall. His room was shut up close.
The conservatory doors were standing open, and Rosa Dartle
was walking, bareheaded, with a quick impetuous step, up
and down a gravel walk on one side of the lawn. She gave
me the idea of some fierce thing, that was dragging the length
of its chain to and fro upon a beaten track, and wearing its
heart out.

I came softly away from my place of observation, and
avoiding that part of the neighborhood, and wishing I had

ENTHUSIASM.

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 re-
collect it.

When I approached the Doctor's cottage â€” a pretty old
place, on which he seemed to have expended some money, if v
I might judge from the embellishments and repairs that had
the look of being just completed â€” 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 com-
panions about him, too ; for there were plenty of high trees
in the neighborhood, 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 thought-
fully 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 â€” yes â€” 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
favorite. She said so, last night, when I showed her your
letter. And â€” yes, to be sure â€” you recollect Mr. Jack Mal>
don, 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 Mai-
den couldn't bear the climate, my dear. Mrs. Markleham^
you have not forgotten Mrs. Markleham ? "

Forgotten the Old Soldier ! And in that short time !

" Mrs. Markleham," said the Doctor, " was quite vexed

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 Copperfielcl, 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 to 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," returned the Doctor, " that's true. Certainly,
your having a profession, and being actually engaged in study-
ing it, makes a difference. But, my good young friend,
what's seventy pounds a-year ? "

" It doubles our income, Doctor Strong," said I.

" Dear me ! " replied the Doctor. " To think of that !
Not that I mean to say it's rigidly limited to seventy pounds
a-year, because I have always contemplated making any young
friend I might thus employ, a present too. Undoubtedly,"
said the Doctor, still walking me up and down with his hand
on my shoulder. " I have always taken an annual present
into account."

" My dear tutor," said I (now, really, without any non-
sense), " to whom I owe more obligations already than I ever
can acknowledge â€” "

" No, no," interposed the Doctor. " Pardon me ! "

" If you will take such time as I have, and that is my
mornings and evenings, and can think it worth seventy pounds
a-year, you will do me such a service as I cannot express."

" Dear me ! " said the Doctor innocently. " To think
that so little should go for so much ! Dear, dear ! And when
you can do better, you will ! On your word, now ? " said the
Doctor, â€” which he had always made a very grave appeal to
the honor of us boys.

ENTHUSIASM.

" On my word, sir ! " I returned, answering in cur old
school manner.

" Then be it so," said the Doctor, clapping me on the
shoulder, and still keeping his hand there, as we still walked
up and down.

" And I shall be twenty times happier, sir," said I, with a
little â€” I hope innocent â€” flattery, " if my employment is to be
on the Dictionary."

The Doctor stopped, smilingly clapped me on the shoulder
again, and exclaimed, with a triumph most delightful to be-
hold, 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 direc-
tions. He told me that since his retirement from scholastic life,
he had been advancing with it wonderfully ; and that noth-
ing could suit him better than the proposed arrangements
for morning and evening work, as \t 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 amanu-
ensis, and not being accustomed to that occupation ; but
we should soon put right what was amiss, and go on swim-
mingly. Afterwards when we were fairly at our work, I
found Mr. Jack Maldon's efforts more troublesome to me than.
I had expected, as he had not confined himself to making
numerous mistakes, but had sketched so many soldiers, and
ladies' heads, over the Doctor's manuscript, that I often be-
came 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, cf
course, I was to rest also, and I considered these very easy
terms.

Our plans being thus arranged to our mutual satisfaction,
tne Doctor took me into the house to present me to Mrs.
Strong, whom we found in the Doctor's new study, dusting
his books, â€” a freedom which he never permitted anybody else
to take with those sacred favorites.

They had postponed their breakfast on my account, and

5I2

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

we sat down to table together. We had not been seated long,
when I saw an approaching arrival in Mrs. Strong's face, be-
fore 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 parlor, whip in hand. It was Mr. Jack Maldon :
and Mr. Jack Maldon was not at all improved by India, I
thought. I was in a state of ferocious virtue, however, as ta
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 alto-
gether was quite a wonderful sight ; except when he addressed
himself to his cousin Annie.

" Have you breakfasted this morning, Mr. Jack ? " said
the Doctor.

" I hardly ever take breakfast, sir," he replied, with his
head thrown back in an easy chair. " I find it bores me."

" Is there any news to-day ? " inquired the Doctor.

" Nothing at all, sir," replied Mr. Maldon. " There's an
account about the people being hungry and discontented
â€¢down in the North, but they are always being hungry and dis-
contented 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 mur-
der," 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 qualit'
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
t was new to me, but it certainly did not tend to exalt my
pinion of, or to strengthen my confidence in, Mr. Jack Mai-
on.

ENTHUSIASM.

5*3

" 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," relaps-
ing 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 prefet
to remain at home. I would much rather remain at home."

Without looking at her cousin, she then addressed me, and
asked me about Agnes, and whether she should see her, and
whether she was not likely to come that day ; and was so
much disturbed, that I wondered how even the Doctor, butter-
ing 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 engage-
ment for her, and Mr. Jack Maldon was to come back to din-
ner. This concluded, he went to his Patent place, I suppose ;
but at all events went away on his horse, looking very idle.

I was curious to find out next morning, whether she had
been. She had not, but had sent into London to put her
cousin off ; and had gone out in the afternoon to see Agnes,
and had prevailed upon the Doctor to go with her ; and they
had walked home by the fields, the Doctor told me, the evening
being delightful. 1 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 bad seen it looking at him as he read.

5*4

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

T -#as 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 tc deserve Dora. I had not revealed
myself in my altered character to Dora yet, because she was
coming to see Miss Mills in a few days, and I deferred all I
had to tell her until then ; merely informing her in my letters,
(all our communications were secretly forwarded through Miss
Mills), that I had much to tell her. In the meantime, I put
myself on a short allowance of bear's grease, wholly abandoned
scented soap and lavender water, and sold off three waistcoats
at a prodigious sacrifice, as being too luxurious for my stern
career.

Not satisfied with all these proceedings, but burning with
impatience to do something more, I went to see Traddles, now
lodging up behind the parapet of a house in Castle Street,
Holborn. Mr. Dick, who had been with me to Highgate twice
already, and had resumed his companionship with the Doctor,
I took with me.

I took Mr. Dick with me, because, acutely sensitive to my
aunt's reverses, and sincerely believing that no galley-slave or
convict worked as I did, he had begun to fret and worry him-
self out of spirits and appetite, as having nothing useful to do.
In this condition, he felt more incapable of finishing the Me-
morial than ever ; and the harder he worked at it, the oftener
that unlucky head of King Charles the First got into it. Seri-
ously apprehending that his malady would increase, unless
we put some innocent deception upon him and caused him to
believe that he was useful, or unless we could put him in the
way of being really useful (which would be better), I made up
my mind to try if Traddles could help us. Before we went, I
wrote Traddles a full statement of all that had happened, and
Traddles wrote me back a capital answer, expressive of his
sympathy and friendship.

We found him hard at work with his inkstand and papers,
refreshed by the sight of the flowerpot-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 be-
fore, and we both said, " Very likely."

The first subject on which I had to consult Traddles was
this. â€” I had heard that many men distinguished in various

ENTHUSIASM.

5*5

pursuits had begun life by reporting the debates in Pailiament.
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 at-
tained, by dint of perseverance, in the course of a few years.
Traddles reasonably supposed that this would settle the busi-
ness ; 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 ; I'll work at it at the Commons, where I haven't half
enough to do ; I'll take down the speeches in our court for
practice â€” 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 ta me. I passed that off, and brought Mr. Dick on
the cvp^t.

e* / ju see," said Mr. Dick, wistfully, "if I could exert my-
self, Vr. Traddles â€” if I could beat a drum â€” or blow any*
thing ! "

Poor fellow! I have little doubt he would have preferred
such an employment in his heart to all others. Traddles, who
would not have smiled for the world, replied composedly :

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

" Excellent ! " said I. And indeed he was. He wrote with
extraordinary neatness.

" Don't you think," said Traddles, "you could copy writ-
ings, sir, if I got them for you ? "

Mr. Dick looked doubtfully at me. " Eh, Trotwood ? "

I shook mv head. Mr. Dick shook his, and sighed. " Te3
him about the Memorial," said Mr. Dick.

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 consider-
ation. " 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 â€” which was to make,
I forget how many copies of a legal document about some
right of way â€” and on another table we spread the last unfin-
ished 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 di-
vided his attentions between the two ; but that, finding this
confuse and fatigue him, and having his copy there, plainly
before his eyes, he soon sat at it in an orderly business-like
manner, and postponed the Memorial to a more convenient
time. In a word, although we took great care that he should
have no more to do than was good for him, and although he
did not begin with the beginning of a week, he earned by the
following Saturday night ten shillings and nine pence ; and
never, while I live, shall I forget his going about to all the
shops in the neighborhood to change this treasure into six-
pences, or his bringing them to my aunt arranged in the form
of a heart upon a waiter, with tears of joy and pride in his
eyes. He was like one under the propitious influence of a
charm, from the moment of his being usefully employed ; and
if there were a happy man in the world, that Saturday night,
it was the grateful creature who thought my aunt the most
wonderful woman in existence, and me the most wonderfu]
young man.

ENTHUSIASM.

5*7

M 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 ol
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 op-
portunity of writing a letter) was addressed to me, " By the
kindness of T. Traddles, Esquire, of the Inner Temple." It
ran thus :

" My dear Copperfield,

" You may possibly not be unprepared to receive the
intimation that something has turned up. I may have men-
tioned 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 favored island (where the society may be de*
scribed as a happy admixture of the agricultural and the
clerical), in immediate connection with one of the learned
professions. Mrs. Micawber and our offspring will accom-
pany 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 repu-
tation, 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. Micaw-
ber 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 oui
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
'Â« Whc
44 Is
" Ever yours,
" Wilkins Micawber/'

jT8 DAVID COPPERFIELD. "]

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 honor to it ; and we went off together to the lodging
which Mr. Micawber occupied as Mr. Mortimer, and which
was situated near the top of the Gray's Inn Road.

The resources of this lodging were so limited, that we
found the twins, now some eight or nine years old, reposing
in a turn-up bedstead in the family sitting-room, where Mr.
Micawber had prepared, in a wash-hand-stand jug, what he
called a " Brew " of the agreeable beverage for which he was
famous. I had the pleasure, on this occasion, of renewing
the acquaintance of Master Micawber, whom I found a prom-
ising boy of about twelve or thirteen, very subject to that
restlessness of limb which is not an unfrequent phenomenon
in youths of his age. I also became once more known to his
sister, Miss Micawber, in whom, as Mr. Micawber told us, " her
mother renewed her youth, like the Phcenix."

"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,
nvy 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 conclu-
sion I derived from it was, that I never could desert Mr. Mi-
cawber. 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 th*
sort."

ENTHUSIASM.

5-9

I am aware, my dear Mr. Copperfield," pursued Mrs,
Micawber, " that I am now about to cast my lot among stran-
gers j and I am also aware that the various members of my
family, to whom Mr. Micawber has written in the most gentle-
manly terms, announcing that fact, have not taken the least
notice of Mr. Micawber's communication. Indeed I may be
superstitious," said Mrs. Micawber, " but it appears to me that
Mr. Micawber is destined never to receive any answers what-
ever to the great majority of the communications he writes,
I may augur from the silence of my family, that they object
to the resolution I have taken ; but I should not allow myself
to be swerved from the path of duty, Mr. Copperfield, even
by my papa and mama, were they still living."

I expressed my opinion that this was going in the right
direction.

" It may be a sacrifice," said Mrs. Micawber, " to immure
one's self in a Cathedral town ; but surely, Mr. Copperfield,
if it is a sacrifice in me, it is much more a sacrifice in a man
of Mr. Micawber's abilities."

" Oh ! You are going to a Cathedral town ? " said I.

Mr. Micawber, who had been helping us all, out of the
wash-hand-stand jug, replied :

" To Canterbury. In fact, my dear Copperfield, I have
entered into arrangements, by virtue of which I stand pledged
and contracted to our friend Heep, to assist and serve him in
the capacity of â€” and to be â€” 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 re-
sult. The gauntlet, to which Mrs. Micawber referred upon a
former occasion, being thrown down in the form of an adver
tisement, was taken up by my friend Heep, and led to a mu-
tual recognition. Of my friend Heep," said Mr. Micawber^
" who is a man of remarkable shrewdness, I desire to speak
with all possible respect. My friend Heep has not fixed the
positive remuneration at too high a figure, but he has made
a great deal, in the way of extrication from the pressure of
pecuniary difficulties, contingent on the value of my services ;
and on the value of those services, I pin my faith. Such ad-
dress and intelligence as I chance to possess," said Mr. Mi-
cawber, boastfully disparaging himself, with the old genteel
air, " will be devoted to my frier.:! Heep's service. I have

52Â°

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

already some acquaintance with the law â€” as a defendant on
civil process â€” 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 ob-
| servations made that evening, were interrupted by Mrs, Mi-
' cawber's discovering that Master Micawbex 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 dis-
tances 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 pro-
found air, " a Judge, or even say a Chancellor. Does an
individual place himself beyond the pale of those preferments
by entering on such an office as Mr. Micawber has accepted ? "

"My dear," observed Mr. Micawber â€” but glancing inquis-
itively at Traddles, too ; " we have time enough before us, for
the consideration of those questions."

''â€¢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 com-
prehensive 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 â€” 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 knowâ€”"

ENTHUSIASM.

521

*" 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."

" â€” Is," said Traddles, " that this branch of the law, even
if Mr. Micawber were a regular solicitor â€” "

" Exactly so," returned Mrs. Micawber. ("Wilkins, you
are squinting, and will not be able to get your eyes back.")

" â€” Has nothing," pursued Traddles, " to do with that.
Only a barrister is eligible for such preferments ; and Mr.
â€¢ 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 suf-
ficient. If such is the case, and Mr. Micawber forfeits no
privilege by entering on these duties, my anxiety is set at rest.
I speak," said Mrs. Micawber, " as a female, necessarily ; but
I have always been of opinion that Mr. Micawber possesses
what I have heard my papa call, when I lived at home, the
judicial mind ; and I hope Mr. Micawber is now entering on
a field where that mind will develope itself, and take a com-
manding station."

I quite believe that Mr. Micawber saw himself, in his
judicial mind's eye, on the woolsack. He passed his hand
complacently over his bald head, and said with ostentatious
resignation :

" My dear, we will not anticipate the decrees of fortune.
If I am reserved to wear a wig, I am at least prepared, exter-
nally," in allusion to his baldness, "for that distinction. I do
not," said Mr. Micawber, " regret my hair, and I may have
been deprived of it for a specific purpose. I cannot say. It
is my intention, my dear Copperfield, to educate my son for
the Church ; I will not deny that I should be happy, on his
account, to attain to eminence."

" For the Church," said I, still pondering, betweenwhiles,
on Uriah Heep.

" Yes," said Mr. Micawber. " He has a remarkable head-
foice, and will commence as a chorister. Our residence at
Canterbury, and our local connection, will, no doubt, enable

522

DAVID COPPER FIELD.

h> in to take advantage of any vacancy that may arise in the
Cathedral corps."

On looking at Master Micawber again, I saw that he had
a certain expression of face, as if his voice were behind his
eyebrows ; where it presently appeared to be, on his singing
us (as an alternative between that and bed), " The Wood-
Pecker tapping." After many compliments on this per-
formance, we fell into some general conversation ; and as 1
was too full of my desperate intentions to keep my altered cir-
cumstances to myself, I made them known to Mr. and Mrs.
Micawber. I cannot express how extremely delighted they
both were, by the idea of my aunt's being in difficulties ; and
how comfortable and friendly it made them.

When we were nearly come to the last round of the punch, I
addressed myself to Traddles, and reminded him that we must
not separate, without wishing our friends health, happiness,
and success in their new career. I begged Mr. Micawber to
fill us bumpers, and proposed the toast in due form ; shaking
hands with him across the table, and kissing Mrs. Micawber,
to commemorate that eventful occasion. Traddles imitated
me in the first particular, but did not consider himself a suffi-
ciently 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 com
panion of my youth : if I may be allowed the expression â€” and
my esteemed friend Traddles : if I may be permitted to call
him so â€” 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 ex-
pected that on the eve of a migration which will consign us to
a perfectly new existence," Mr. Micawber spoke as if they were
going five hundred thousand miles, " I should offer a few val-
edictory remarks to two such friends as I see before me. But
all that I have to say in this way, I have said. Whatevei
station in society I may attain, through the medium of the
learned profession of which I am about to become an un-
worthy member, I shall endeavor not to disgrace, and Mrs.
Micawber will be safe to adorn. Under the temporary pres-
sure of pecuniary liabilities, contracted with a view to their
immediate liquidation, but remaining unliquidated through a
combination of circumstances, I have been under the neces
sity of assuming a garb from which my natural instincts recoil
â€”I allude to spectacles â€” and possessing myself of a cogno-

ENTHUSIASM.

523

men, 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 â€” my name, Micawber ! "

Mr. Micawber resumed his seat on the close of these re-
marks, 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 h
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 â€” 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, eigh-
teen, six, two. These sums, united, make a total, if my calcu-
lation is correct, amounting to forty-one, ten, eleven and a half.
My friend Copperfield will perhaps do me the favor to check
that total ? "

I did so and found it correct.

"To leave this metropolis," said Mr. Micawber, " and my
friend Mr. Thomas Traddles, without acquitting myself of the
pecuniary part of this obligation, would weigh upon my mind
to an insupportable extent. I have, therefore, prepared for
my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles, and I now hold in my hand,
a document, which accomplishes the desired object. I beg to
hand to my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles my I. O. U. for forty-
one, ten, eleven and a half, and I am happy to recover my
moral dignity, and to know that I can once more walk erect
before my fellow man ! "

With this introduction (which greatly affected him), Mr.
Micawber placed his I. O. U. in the hands of Traddles, and
said he wished him well in every relation of life. I am per-
suaded, 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, o\
the strength of this virtuous action, that his chest looked half
as broad again when he lighted us down stairs. We parted

524 DAVID COPPERFIELD.

with great heartiness on both sides ; and when I had seen
Traddles to his own door, and was going home alone, I thought,
among the other odd and contradictory things I mused upon,
that, slippery as Mr. Micawber was, I was probably indebted
to some compassionate recollection he retained of me as his
boy-lodger, for never having been asked by him for money.
I certainly should not have had the moral courage to refuse
it ; and I have no doubt he knew that (to his credit be it writ-
ten), quite as well as I did.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

A LITTLE COLD WATER.

My new life had lasted for more than a week, and I was
Stronger than ever in those tremendous practical resolutions
that I felt the crisis required. I continued to walk extremely
fast, and to have a general idea that I was getting on. I made
it a rule to take as much out of myself as I possibly could, in
my way of doing everything to which I applied my energies.
I made a perfect victim of myself. I even entertained some
idea of putting myself on a vegetable diet, vaguely conceiving
that, in becoming a graminivorous animal, I should sacrifice
to Dora.

As yet, little Dora was quite unconscious of my desperate
firmness, otherwise than as my letters darkly shadowed it
forth. But, another Saturday came, and on that Saturday
evening she was to be at Miss Mills's ; and when Mr. Mills
had gone to his whist-club (telegraphed to me in the street, by
a bird cage in the drawing-room middle window), I was to go
there to tea.

By this time, we were quite settled down in Buckingham
Street, where Mr. Dick continued his copying in a state of
absolute felicity. My aunt had obtained a signal victory over
Mrs. Crupp, by paying her off, throwing the first pitcher she
planted on the stairs out of window, and protecting in person,
up and down the staircase, a supernumerary whom she engaged
from the outer world. These vigorous measures struck such
terror to the breast of Mrs. Crupp, that she subsided into

4 LITTLE COLD WATER.

525

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 favoring 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 endeavor to hide her portly form
behind doors â€” leaving visible, however, a wide margin of flan-
nel petticoat â€” or would shrink into dark cornersT 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 pur-
chased 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 labors ; and, although she still
retained something of her old sentiment of awe in reference
to my aunt, had received so many marks of encouragement
and confidence, that they were the best friends possible. But
the time had now come (I am speaking of the Saturday when I
was to take tea at Miss Mills's) when it was necessary for
her to return home, and enter on the discharge of the duties
she had undertaken in behalf of Ham. " So good-bye,
Barkis," said my aunt, " and take care of yourself ! I am
sure I never thought I could be sorry to lose you ! "

I took Peggotty to the coach-office and saw her off. She
cried at parting, and confided her brother to my friendship
as Ham had done. We had heard nothing of him since he
went away, that sunny afternoon.

" And now, my own dear Davy," said Peggotty, " if, while
you're a prentice, you should want any money to spend ; or if,
when you're out of your time, my dear, you should want
any to set you up (and you must do one or other, or both, my
darling) ; who has such a good right to ask leave to lend it
you, as my sweet girl's own old stupid me ! "

I was not so savagely independent as to say anything in

526

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

reply, but that if ever I borrowed money of anyone, I would
borrow it of her. Next to accepting a large sum on the spot,
I believe this gave Peggotty more comfort than anything I
could have done.

"And, my dear!" whispered Peggotty, ^ tell the pretty
little angel that I should so have liked to see her, only for a
minute ! And tell her that before she marries my boy, I'll
come and make your house so beautiful for you, if you'll let
me!"

I declared that nobody else should touch it ; and this gave
Poggotty such delight, that she went away in good spirits.

I fatigued myself as much as I possibly could in the Com-
mons all day, by a variety of devices, and at the appointed
time in the evening repaired to Mr. Mills's street. Mr.
Mills, who was a terrible fellow to fall asleep after dinner,
had not yet gone out, and there was no bird-cage in the mid-
dle 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 'â€¢ and we all three went in, as
happy and loving as could be. I soon carried desolation into
the bosom of our joys â€” not that I meant to do it, but that 1
was so full of the subject â€” by asking Dora, without the small
est 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
nis 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,
u Love a beggar ! "

"Dora, my own dearest ! " said I. "/am a beggar ! "

" How can you be such a silly thing," replied Dora, slap-
ping 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

A LITTLE COLD WATER.

to me, but it has necessary to be explicit, and I solemnly re-
peated :

" 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 anx:ous, then began to cry. That
was dreadful. I fell upon my knees before the sofa, caress-
ing her, and imploring her not to rend my heart ; but, for some
time, poor little Dora did nothing but exclaim Oh dear ! Oh
dear ! And oh, she was so frightened ! And where was Julia
Mills ! And oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please !
until I was almost beside myself.

At last, after an agony of supplication and protestation, I
got Dora to look at me, with a horrified expression of face,
which I gradually soothed until it was only loving, and her
soft, pretty cheek was lying against mine. Then I told her,
with my arms clasped round her, how I loved her, so dearly,
and so dearly ; how I felt it right to offer to release her from her
engagement, because now I was poor ; how I never could bear
it, or recover it, if I lost her ; how I had no fears of poverty,
if she had none, my arm being nerved and my heart inspired
by her ; how I was already working with a courage such as
none but lovers knew ; how I had begun to be practical, and
look into the future ; how a crust well-earned was sweeter far
than a feast inherited ; and much more to the same purpose,
which I delivered in a burst of passionate eloquence quite
surprising to myself, though I had been thinking about it, day
and night, ever since my aunt had astonished me.

" Is your heart mine still, dear Dora ? " said I, rapturously,
for I knew by her clinging to me that it was.

" Oh, yes ! " cried Dora. " Oh, yes, it's all yours. Ob,
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 â€” "

" Oh, yes ; but I don't want to hear any more about crusts ! "
said Dora. "And Jip must have a mutton-chop everyday
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

528

DAVID COPPEKFIELD.

his accustomed regularity. I drew a picture of our frugal
home made independent by my labor â€” sketching in the
little house I had seen at Highgate, and my aunt in her
room upstairs.

",1 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 ardor, to find that ardor so difficult of
communication to her. I made another trial. When she was
quite herself again, and was curling Jip's ears, as he lay upon
her lap, I became grave and said :

" My own ! May I mention something ? "

" Oh, please don't be practical ! " said Dora coaxingly.
" Because it frightens me so ! "

" 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, shak-
ing her curls. " Have I, Jip ? Oh, do kiss Jip, and be agree-
able ! "

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 â€” rewarding myself after-
wards for my obedience â€” 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 â€” not
despondingly, you know ; far from that ! â€” but if you will some
times think â€” just to encourage yourself â€” that you are engaged
to a poor man â€” "

A LITTLE COLD WATER.

* Don't, don't! Pray don't ! " cried Dora. " It's so very
dreadful ! "

" My soul, not at all ! " said I cheerfully. " If you will
sometimes think of that, and look about now and then at your
papa's housekeeping, and endeavor to acquire a little habit â€”
of accounts, for instance â€” "

Poor little Dora received this suggestion with something
that was half a sob and half a scream.

" â€” It would be so useful to us afterwards," I went on.
" And if you would promise me to read a little â€” a little Cook-
ery Book that I would send you, it would be so excellent for
both of us. For our path in life, my Dora," said I, warming
with the subject, " is stony and rugged now, and it rests with
us to smooth it. We must fight our way onward. We must
be brave. There are obstacles to be met, and we must meet,
and crush them ! "

I was going on at a great rate, with a clenched hand, and
a most enthusiastic countenance ; but it was quite unnecessary
to proceed. I had said enough. I had done it again. Oh,
she was so frightened ! Oh, where was Julia Mills ! Oh,
take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please ! So that, in
short, I was quite distracted, and raved about the drawing-
room.

I thought I had killed her, this time. I sprinkled water
on her face. I went clown on my knees. I plucked at my
hair. I denounced myself as a remorseless brute and a ruth-
less 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, succoring
her friend.

I replied, " f, Miss Mills ! /have done it ! Behold the
destroyer ! " â€” or words to that effect â€” and hid my face from
the light, in the sofa cushion.

At first Miss Mills thought it was a quarrel, and that we
were verging on the Desert of Sahara ; but she soon found
out how matters stood, for my dear affectionate little Dora,
embracing her, began exclaiming that I was " a poor laborer ; "
and then cried for me, and embraced me, and asked me would

53Â°

DAVID COPPERFJELD.

I let her give me all her money to keep, and then fell on Misa
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 frcm me in a few words what it was all about,
comforted Dora, and gradually convinced her that I was not a
laborer â€” 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 â€” and so
brought us together in peace. When we were quite composed,
and Dora had gone up stairs to put some rose-water to her
eyes, Miss Mills rang for tea. In the ensuing interval, I told
Miss Mills that she was evermore my friend, and that my heart
must cease to vibrate ere I could forget her sympathy.

I then expounded to Miss Mills what I had endeavored,
so very unsuccessfully, to expound to Dora. Miss Mills re-
plied, on general principles, that the Cottage of content was
better than the Palace of cold splendor, 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 ob-
serving, with despondency, that it were well indeed for some
hearts if this were so, I explained that I begged leave to re-
strict 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
suffering and trial supply, in some natures, the place of years,
and I will be as plain with you as if I were a Lady Abbess.
No. The suggestion is not appropriate to our Dora. Our
dearest Dora is a favorite 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 â€” " 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

A LITTLE COLD WATER

53*

could insinuate it upon Dora's acceptance, without frighten-
ing 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 un-
luckily 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 W7atchman, I am unable to say ; but it made a great
impression on her, and she neither played nor sang any
more.

It was still on her mind when I bade her adieu ; and she
said to me, in her pretty coaxing way â€” as if I were a doll, I
used to think â€”

" 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 ? M

It was impossible to say to that sweet little surprised face,
otherwise than lightly and playfully, that we must work, to
I've.

" Oh ! How ridiculous ! " cried Dora.

" How shall we live without, Dora ? " said I.

" How ? Any how ! " said Dora.

She seemed to think she had quite settled the question,
and gave me such a triumphant little kiss, direct from her in-
nocent heart, that I would hardly have put her out of conceit
with her answer, for a fortune.

Well ! I loved her, and I went on loving her, most ab'
sorbingly, entirely, and completely. But going on, too, work-

532

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

ing 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 gray.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

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 won-
derful vagaries that were played by circles ; the unaccount-
able consequences that resulted from marks like flies' legs ;
the tremendous effects of a curve in a wrong place ; not only
troubled my waking hours, but reappeared before me in my
sleep. When I had groped my way, blindly, through these
difficulties, and had mastered the alphabet, which was an
Egyptian Temple in itself, there then appeared a procession
of new horrors, called arbitrary characters ; the most despotic
characters I have ever known ; who insisted, for instance, that
a thing like the beginning of a cobweb, meant expectation,
and that a pen-and-ink sky-rocket stood for disadvantageous.
When I had fixed these wretches in my mind, I found that
they had driven everything else out of it ; then, beginning
again, I forgot them ; while I was picking them up, I dropped
the other fragments of the system ; in short, it was almost
heart-breaking.

It might have been quite heart-breaking, but for Dora, who
was the stay and anchor of my tempest- driven bark. Every

A DISSOLUTION OF PARTNERSHIP.

533

scratch in the scheme was a gnarled oak in the forest of diffi-
culty, and I went on cutting them down, one after another,
with such vigor, that in three or four months I was in a condi-
tion 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 weak-
ness. Very grateful for this friendly aid, I accepted the pro-
posal ; and night after night, almost every night, for a long
time, we had a sort of private Parliament in Buckingham
Street, after I came home from the Doctor's.

I should like to see such a Parliament anywhere else ! My
aunt and Mr. Dick represented the Government or the Oppo-
sition (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 denun-
ciations 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 recklessness of Traddles were
not to be exceeded by any real politician. He was for any
description of policy, in the compass of a week ; and nailed
all sorts of colors to every denomination of mast. My aunt,
looking very like an immovable Chancellor of the Exchequer,
would occasionally throw in an interruption or two, as " Hear ! 'f
or " No ! " or " Oh ! " when the text seemed to require it.'
which was always a signal to Mr. Dick (a perfect country gen-
tleman) 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 conse-
quences, 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 constitu-
tion, and the ruin of the country.

534

DAVID COPPERFIEL D.

Often and often we pursued these debates until the clock
pointed to midnight, and the candles were burning down.
The result of so much good practice was, that by-and-by I
began to keep pace with Traddles pretty well, and should have
been quite triumphant if I had had the least idea what my
notes were about. But, as to reading them after I had got
them, I might as well have copied the Chinese inscriptions on
an immense collection of tea-chests, or the golden characters
on all the great red and green bottles in the chemists' shops 1

There was nothing for it, but to turn back and begin all
over again. It was very hard, but I turned back, though with
a heavy heart, and began laboriously and methodically to plod
over the same tedious ground at a snail's pace ; stopping to
examine minutely every speck in the way, on all sides, and
making the most desperate efforts to know these elusive
characters by sight wherever I met them. I was always
punctual at the office ; at the Doctor's too : and I really did
work, as the common expression is, like a cart-horse.

One day, when I went to the Commons as usual, I found
Mr. Spenlow in the doorway looking extremely grave, and
talking to himself. As he was in the habit of complaining of
pains in his head â€” he had naturally a short throat, and I do
seriously believe he overstarched himself â€” I was at first
alarmed by the idea that he was not quite right in that direc-
tion ; but he soon relieved my uneasiness.

Instead of returning my ;' Good morning " with his usual'
affability, he looked at me in a distant, ceremonious manner,
and coldly requested me to accompany him to a certain cof-
fee-house, which, in those days, had a door opening into the
Commons, just within the little archway in St. Paul's church-
yard. I complied, in a very uncomfortable state, and with a
warm shooting all over me, as if my apprehensions were
breaking out into buds. When I allowed him to go on a
little before, on account of the narrowness of the way, I ob- -
served that he carried his head with a lofty air that was par-
ticularly unpromising ; and my mind misgave me that he had
found out about my darling Dora.

If I had not guessed this, on the way to the coffee-house,,
I could hardly have failed to know what was the matter when
I followed him into an up stairs room, and found Miss Murd-
stone there, supported by a background of sideboard, on
which were several inverted tumblers sustaining lemons, and
two of those extraordinary boxes, all corners and flutings, tot

A DISSOLUTION OF PARTNERSHIP,

535

Sticking knives and forks in, which, happily for mankind, are
Dow obsolete.

Miss Murdstone gave me her chilly finger-nails, and sat
severely rigid. Mr. Spenlow shut the door, motioned me to
a chair, and stood on the hearth-rug in front of the fireplace,

" Have the goodness to show Mr. Copperfield," said Mr.
Spenlow, " what you have in your reticule, Miss Murdstone."

I believe it was the old identical steel-clasped reticule of
my childhood, that shut up like a bite. Compressing her lips,
in sympathy with the snap, Miss Murdstone opened it â€” Â»
opening her mouth a little at the same time â€” and produced
my last letter to Dora, teeming with expressions of devoted
affection.

" I believe that is your writing, Mr. Copperfield ? " said
Mr. Spenlow.

I was very hot, and the voice I heard was very unlike mine,
when I said, " It is, sir ! "

"If I am not mistaken," said Mr. Spenlow, as Miss Murd-
stone brought a parcel of letters out of her reticule, tied round
with the dearest bit of blue ribbon, " those are also from your
pen, Mr. Copperfield ? "

I took them from her with a most desolate sensation ; and,
glancing at such phrases at the top, as " My ever dearest and
own Dora," " My best beloved angel," " My blessed one for
ever," and the like, blushed deeply, and inclined my head.

" No, thank you ! " said Mr. Spenlow, coldly, as I me-
chanically offered them back to him. " I will not deprive you
of them. Miss Murdstone, be so good as to proceed ! "

That gentle creature, after a moment's thoughtful survey
of the carpet, delivered herself with much dry unction as fol-
lows :

" I must confess to having entertained my suspicions of
Miss Spenlow, in reference to David Copperfield, for some
time. I observed Miss Spenlow and David Copperfield, when
they first met ; and the impression made upon me tnen was
not. agreeable. The depravity of the human heart is such â€” "

"You will oblige me, ma'am," interrupted Mr. Spenlow,
by confining yourself to facts."

Miss Murdstone cast down her eyes, shook her head as if
protesting against this unseemly interruption, and with frown-
ing dignity resumed :

" Since I am to confine myself to facts, I will state them
as dryly as I can Perhaps that will be considered an accept-

536

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

able course of proceeding. I have already said, sir, that 1
have had my suspicions of Miss Spenlow, in reference to Da*
vid Copperfield, for some time. I have frequently endeavored
to find decisive corroboration of those suspicions, but with-
out effect. I have therefore forborne to mention them to Miss
Spenlow's father ; " looking severely at him ; " knowing how
little disposition there usually is in such cases, to acknowledge
the conscientious discharge of duty."

Mr. Spenlow seemed quite cowed by the gentlemanly stern-
ness of Miss Murdstone's manner, and deprecated her severity
with a conciliatory little wave of his hand.

" On my return to Norwood, after the period of absence
occasioned by my brother's marriage," pursued Miss Murd-
stone in a disdainful voice, " and on the return of Miss Spen-
low from her visit to her friend Miss Mills, I imagined that
the manner of Miss Spenlow gave me greater occasion for
suspicion than before. Therefore I watched Miss Spenlow
closely."

Dear, tender little Dora, so unconscious of this Dragon's
eye.

" Still," resumed Miss Murdstone, "I found no proof until
last night. It appeared to me that Miss Spenlow received too
many letters from her friend Miss Mills ; but Miss Mills be-
ing her friend with her father's full concurrence," another tell-
ing 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 â€” I must â€” 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,
1 Dora, what is that the dog has in his mouth ? It's paper/
Miss Spenlow immediately put her hand to her frock, gave 2
sudden cry, and ran to the dog. I interposed, and saic^
c Dora, my love, you must permit me.' "

Oh Jip, miserable Spaniel, this wretchedness, then, was
your work !

" Miss Spenlow endeavored," said Miss Murdstone, " to
bribe me with kisses, work-boxes, and small articles of jewel-
leryâ€” that, of course, I pass over. The little dog retreated
under the sofa on my approaching him, and was with greaS
difficulty dislodged by the fire-irons. Even when dislodged,

A DISSOLUTION OF PARTNERSHIP.

537

he still kept the letter in his mouth ; and on my endeavoring 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 posses-
sion ; and ultimately obtained from her, the packet which is
now in David Copperfield's hand."

Here she ceased ; and snapping her reticule again, and
shutting her mouth, looked as if she might be broken, but
could never be bent.

" You have heard Miss Murdstone," said Mr. Spenlow,
turning to me. " I beg to ask, Mr. Copperfield, if you have
anything to say in reply ? "

The picture I had before me, of the beautiful little treas-
ure of my heart, sobbing and crying all night â€” of her being
alone, frightened, and wretched, then â€” of her having so pit-
eously begged and prayed that stony-hearted woman to forgive
her â€” of her having vainly offered her those kisses, work-boxes,
and trinkets â€” of her being in such grievous distress, and all
for me â€” very much impaired the little dignity I had been able
to muster. I am afraid I was in a tremulous state for a min-
ute 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 â€” "

"Miss Spenlow, if you please," said her father, majesti-
cally.

" â€” was induced and persuaded by me," I went on, swal-
lowing that colder designation, " to consent to this conceal-
ment, 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 ac-
count of the stiffness of his cravat and spine. " You have
done a stealthy and unbecoming action, Mr. Copperfield.
When I take a gentleman to my house, no matter whether he
is nineteen, twenty-nine, or ninety, I take him there in a spirit
of confidence. If he abuses my confidence, he commits a dis-
honorable action, Mr. Copperfield."

" I feel it, sir, I assure you," I returned. " But I never
thought so before. Sincerely, honestly, indeed Mr. Spenlow,
I never thought so, before. I love Miss Spenlow to that ex-
tentâ€”"

538

JjAVID copperfield.

" Pooh ! nonsense ! " said Mr. Spenlow, reddening. " Pray
don't tell me to my face that you love my daughter, Mr. Cop-
perfield ! "

" 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 con-
fidence that should subsist between my daughter and myself?
Have you considered my daughter's station in life, the pro-
jects I may contemplate for her advancement, the testamen-
tary 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 ex-
plained it to you, we were already engaged â€” "

" I beg," said Mr. Spenlow, more like Punch than I had
ever seen him, as he energetically struck one hand upon the
other â€” I could not help noticing that even in my despair \
" that you will not talk to me of engagements, Mr. Copper-
field ! "

The otherwise immovable Miss Murdstone laughed con-
temptuously in one short syllable.

" When I explained my altered position to you, sir," I be-
gan again substituting a new form of expression for what was
so unpalatable to him, " this concealment, into which I am so
unhappy as to have led Miss Spenlow, had begun. Since I
have been in that altered position, I have strained every nerve,
I have exerted every energy, to improve it. I am sure I shall
improve it in time. Will you grant me time â€” any length of
time ? We are both so young, sir, â€” "

"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 re-
stricted to the Commons here, we will agree to make no further
mention of the past. Come, Mr. Copperfield, you don't want
sense ; and this is the sensible course."

No. I couldn't think of agreeing to it. I was very soriy

A DISSOLUTION OF PARTNERSHIP.

539

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 reso-
lute upon it. I don't think I made myself very ridiculous, but
I know I was resolute.

" Very well, Mr. Copperfield," said Mr. Spenlow, " I must
try my influence with my daughter."

Miss Murdstone, by an expressive sound, a long-drawn
respiration, which was neither a sigh nor a moan, but was like
both, gave it as her opinion that he should have done this at
first.

" I must try," said Mr. Spenlow, confirmed by this support,
" my influence with my daughter. Do you decline to take
those letters, Mr. Copperfield ? " For I had laid them on the
table.

Yes. I told him I hoped he would not think it wrong, but
I couldn't possibly take them from Miss Murdstone.
" Nor from me ? " said Mr. Spenlow.

No, I replied with the profoundest respect; nor from him.
" Very well ! " said Mr. Spenlow.

A silence succeeding, I was undecided whether to go or
stay. At length I was moving quietly towards the door, with
the intention of saying that perhaps I should consult his
feelings best by withdrawing : when he said, with his hands in
his coat pockets, into which it was as much as he could do to
get them ; and with what I should call, upon the whole, a
decidedly pious air :

" You are probably aware, Mr. Copperfield, that I am not
altogether destitute of worldly possessions, and that my
daughter is my nearest and dearest relative ? "

I hurriedly made him a reply to the effect, that I hoped
the error into which I had been betrayed by the desperate
nature of my love, did not induce him to think me mercenary
too?

"I don't allude to the matter in that light," said Mr.
Spenlow. " It would be better for yourself, and all of us, if
you ivere mercenary, Mr. Copperfield â€” I mean, if you were
more discreet, and less influenced by all this youthful non-
sense. No. I merely say, with quite another view, you are
probably aware I have some property to bequeath to my
child J "

I certainly supposed so.

54o

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

"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 â€” of all
subjects, the one on which perhaps the strangest revelations
of human inconsistency are to be met with â€” but that mine
are made ? "

I inclined my head in acquiescence.

" I should not allow," said Mr. Spenlow, with an evident
increase of pious sentiment, and slowly shaking his head as
he poised himself upon his toes and heels alternately, " my
suitable provision for my child to be influenced by a piece of
youthful folly like the present. It is mere folly. Mere non-
sense. In a little while, it will wreigh lighter than any feather.
But I might â€” I might â€” 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 â€” clearly had his affairs in such perfect train, and so
systematically wound up â€” 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
Â«my 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 â€” I say her eyebrows rather than hei
eyes, because they were much more important in her face-^

A DISSOLUTION OF PARTNERSHIP

54Â»

and she looked so exactly as she used to look, at about that
hour of the morning, in our parlor at Blunderstone, that I
could have fancied I had been breaking down in my lessons
again, and that the dead weight on my mind was that horrible
old spelling-book with oval woodcuts, shaped, to my youth-
ful fancy, like the glasses out of spectacles.

When I got to the office, and, shutting out bid 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 excruciat-
ing, that it impelled me to write a wild letter to Mr. Spenlow,
beseeching him not to visit upon her the consequences of my
awful destiny. I implored him to spare her gentle nature â€” â–
not to crush a fragile flower â€” 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 I sealed and laid upon his desk before he returned ;
and when he came in, I saw him, through the half-opened
door of his room, take it up and read it.

He said nothing about it all the morning ; but before he
went away in the afternoon he called me in, and told me that
I need not make myself at all uneasy about his daughter's
happiness. He had assured her, he said, that it was all
nonsense ; and he had nothing more to say to her. He
believed he was an indulgent father (as indeed he was), and I
might spare myself any solicitude on her account.

" You may make it necessary, if you are foolish or
obstinate, Mr. Copperfield," he observed, "for me to send my
daughter abroad again, for a term ; but I have a better
opinion of you. I hope you will be wiser than that, in a few
days. As to Miss Murdstone," for I had alluded to her in
the letter, " I respect that lady's vigilance, and feel obliged to
her ; but she has strict charge to avoid the subject. All I
desire, Mr. Copperfield, is, that it should be forgotten. All
you have got to do, Mr. Copperfield, is to foiget it."

All ! In the note I wrote to Miss Mills, I bitterly quoted
this sentiment. All I had to do, I said, with gloomy sarcasm,
was to forget Dora. That was all, and what was that ? I
entreated Miss Mills to see^me, that evening. If it could not

542

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

be done with Mr. Mills's sanction and concurrence, I besought
a clandestine interview in the back kitchen where the mangle
was. I informed her that my reason was tottering on
its throne, and only she, Miss Mills, could prevent its
being deposed. I signed myself, hers distractedly ; and
I couldn't help feeling, while I read this composition over,
before sending it by a porter, that it was something in
the style of Mr. Micawber.

However, I sent it. At night I repaired to Miss Mills's
street, and walked up and down, until I was stealthily fetched
in by Miss Mills's maid, and taken the area way to the
back kitchen. 1 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 Saraha.

Miss Mills had a wonderful flow of words, and liked to
pour them out. I could not help feeling, though she mingled
her tears wit limine, that she had a dreadful luxury in our af-
flictions. She petted them, as I may say, and made the most
of them. A deep gulf, she observed, had opened between
Dora and me, and Love could only span it with its rainbow.
Love must suffer in this stern world ; it ever had been so, it
ever would be so. No matter, Miss Mills remarked. Hearts
confined by cobwebs would burst at last, and then Love was
avenged.

This was small consolation, but Miss Mills wouldn't en-
courage fallacious hopes. She made me much more wretched
than I was before, and I felt (and told her with the deepest
gratitude) that she was indeed a friend. We resolved that
she should go to Dora the first thing in the morning, and find
some means of assuring her, either by looks or words, of my
devotion and misery. We parted, overwhelmed with grief ;
and I think Miss Mills enjoyed herself completely.

I confided all to my aunt when I got home ; and in spite of
all she could say to me, went to _beol despairing. I got up de*

A DISSOLUTION OF PARTNERSHIP.

545

spairing, and went out despairing. It was Saturday mornings
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 TifTey, 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 themf
coming round me.

" No ! " said I, looking from face to face.
".Mr. Spenlow," said TifTey.
" 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, un-
tied 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 phae-
ton by himself," said TifTey, " having sent his own groom home
by the coach, as he sometimes did, you know â€” "

" Well ? "

" The phaeton went home without him. The horses stopped
at the stable gate. The man went out with a lantern. No-
body in the carriage."

" Had they run away ? "

" They were not hot," said TifTey, putting on his glasses ;
a 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 di-
rectly, and three of them went out along the road. They
found him a mile off."

" More than a mile off, Mr. TifTey," interposed a junior.

"Was it? I believe you are right," said Tiffey, â€” "more
than a mile off â€” not far from the church â€” lying partly on the
road-side, and partly on the path, upon his face. Whether he

544

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

fell out in a fit, or got out, feeling ill before the fit came on-
er even whether he was quite dead then, though there is no
doubt he was quite insensible â€” 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 â€” 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 â€” the indefinable impossibility of separating him from
the place, and feeling, when the door opened, as if he might
come in â€” 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 clay, and gorged themselves
with the subject â€” this is easily intelligible to any one. What
I cannot describe is, how, in the innermost recesses of my
own heart, I had a lurking jealousy even of Death. How I
felt as if its might would push me from my ground in Dora's
thoughts. How I was, in a grudging way I have no words for,
envious of her grief. How it made me restless to think of her
weeping to others, or being consoled by others. How I had
a grasping, avaricious wish to shut out everybody from her but
myself, and to be all in all to her, at that unseasonable time
of all times.

In the trouble of this state of mind â€” not exclusively my
own, I hope, but known to others â€” 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
1 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 mem-
ory. 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
Â£o me, had only cried, asjshft was always crying, " Oh, deai

A DISSOLUTION OF PARTNERSHIP.

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 occur-
rence, came to the office a few days afterwards. He and
TifTey were closeted together for some few moments, and
then TifTey looked out at the door and beckoned me in.

"Oh ! " said Mr. Jorkins. "Mr. Tiffey and myself, Mr.
Copperfield, are about to examine the desk, the drawers, and
other such repositories of the deceased, with the view of seal-
ing up his private papers, and searching for a Will. There
is no trace of any, elsewhere. It may be as well for you to
assist us, if you please."

I had been in agony to obtain some knowledge of the cir-
cumstances in which my Dora would be placed â€” as, in whose
guardianship, and so forth â€” 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 ex-
actly the same words tc 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 lastsaw him," said I, "he told
me that he had, and that his affairs were long since settled."

Mr. Jorkins and old Tiffey shook their heads with one
accord.

"That looks unpromising," said TifTey.
"Very unpromising," said Mr. Jorkins.
"Surely you don't doubt â€” " 1 began.

"My good Mr. Copperfield ! " said TifTey, 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
sc inconsistent, and so little to be trusted."

546

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

u Why, bless my soul, he made that very remark ! " I r&
plied persistently.

" I should call that almost final," observed Tiffey. " My
opinion is â€” no will."

It appeared a wonderful thing to me, but it turned out
that there was no will. He had never so much as thought of
making one, so far as his papers afforded any evidence ; for
there was no kind of hint, sketch, or memorandum, of any
testamentary intention whatever. What was scarcely less as-
tonishing 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 in-
deed. There was a sale of the furniture and lease, at Nor-
wood ; 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 suf-
fered 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 auntsf
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 con-
sidered themselves privileged to be invited to dinner, they had
expressed their opinion in writing, that it was " better for the
happiness of all parties " that they should stay away. Since
which they had gone their road, and their brother had gone
his.

These two ladies now emerged from their retirement, and
proposed to take Dora to live at Putney. Dora, clinging to

DISSOLUTION OF PARTNERSHIP.

547

them both, and weeping, exclaimed, " Oh, yes, aunts ! Please
cake 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 neighborhood 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 ! â€” â–

" Monday. My sweet D. still much depressed. Head-
ache. Called attention to J. as being beautifully sleek. D.
fondled J. Associations thus awakened, opened floodgates of
sorrow. Rush of grief admitted. (Are tears the dewdrops of
the heart ? J. M.)

"Tuesday. D. weak and nervous. Beautiful in pallor.
{Do we not remark this in moon likewise ? J. M.) D. J. M.
and J. took airing in carriage. J. looking out of window, and
barking violently at dustman, occasioned smile to overspread
features of D. (Of such slight links is chain of life com-
posed ! J. M.)

" Wednesday. D. comparatively cheerful. Sang to her,
as congenial melody, Evening Bells. Effect not soothing, but
reverse. D. inexpressibly affected. Found sobbing afterwards,
in own room. Quoted verses respecting self and young
Gazelle. Ineffectually. Also referred to Patience on 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 over-
come. ' Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do ? Oh, take me
somewhere ! ' Much alarmed. Fainting of D. and glass of
water from public-house. (Poetical affinity. Chequered sign,
on door-post : ckequered 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. dis-
tracted. Information sent to police. Man to be identified

548

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

by broad nose, and legs like balustrades of bridge. Search
made in every direction. No J. D. weeping bitterly, and in-
consolable. Renewed reference to young Gazelle. Appro-
priate, but unavailing. Towards evening, strange boy calls.
Brought into parlor. 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 ! It
is so wicked to think of anything but poor papa ! ' â€” embraces
J. and sobs herself to sleep. (Must not D. C. confine him-
self 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 â€” to trace the initial letter of Dora's name through her
sympathetic pages â€” to be made more and more miserable by
her â€” 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 god-
dess 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 HEEP

My aunt, beginning, I imagine, to be made seriously un-
comfortable by my prolonged dejection, made a pretence of
being anxious that I should go to Dover to see that all was
working well at the cottage, which was let ; and to conclude,
an agreement, with the same tenant, for a longer term of oc-
cupation. Janet was drafted into the service of Mrs. Strong,
where I saw her every day. She had been undecided, oir
leaving Dover, whether or no to give the finishing touch tcj
that renunciation of mankind in which she had been educated,

WICKFIELD AND -TIE E P. 549

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 ena-
bling 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, â€” he wished me
to take more ; but my energy could not bear that, â€” I made
up my mind to go.

As to the Commons, I had no great occasion to be partic-
ular about my duties in that quarter. To say the truth, we
were getting in no very good odor among the tip-top proctors,
and were rapidly sliding down to but a doubtful position.
The business had been indifferent under Mr. Jorkins, before
Mr. Spenlow's time; and although it had been quickened by
the infusion of new blood, and by the display which Mr.
Spenlow made, still it was not established on a sufficiently
strong basis to bear, without being shaken, such a blow as the
sudden loss of its active manager. It fell off very much.
Mr. Jorkins, notwithstanding his reputation in the firm, was
an easy-going, incapable sort of man, whose reputation out of
doors was not calculated to back it up. I was turned over to
him now, and when I saw him take his snuff and let the busi-
ness go, I. regretted my aunt's thousand pounds more than
ever.

But this was not the worst of it. There were a number of
hangers-on and outsiders about the Commons, who, without
being proctors themselves, dabbled in ccmmon-form business,
and got it done by real proctors, who lent their names in con-
sideration 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 hang-
ers-on and outsiders, to bring their business to us. Marriage
licenses and small probates were what we all looked for, and
what paid us best ; and the competition for these ran very high
indeed. Kidnappers and inveiglers were planted in all the
avenues of entrance to the Commons, with instructions to do
their utmost to cut off all persons in mourning, and all gentle-
men 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 1 was known by sight, was twice hustled into the

55Â°

DAVID COPPEPFIELD.

premises of our principal opponent. The conflicting interests
of these touting gentlemen being of a nature to irritate their
feelings, personal collisions took place ; and the Commons
was even scandalized by our principal inveigler (who had for-
merly 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 as-
sisting an old lady in black out of a vehicle, killing any proc-
tor whom she inquired for, representing his employer as the
lawful successor and representative of that proctor, and bear-
ing the old lady off (sometimes greatly affected) to his em-
ployer's office. Many captives were brought to me in this way.
As to marriage licences, the competition rose to such a pitch,
that a shy gentleman in want of one, had nothing to do but
submit himself to the first inveigler, or be fought for, and
become the prey of the strongest. One of our clerks, who was
an outsider, used, in the height of this contest, to sit with his
hat on, that he might be ready to rush out and swear before
a surrogate any victim who was brought in. The system of
inveigling continues, I believe, to this day. The last time I
was in the Commons, a civil able-bodied person in a white
apron pounced out upon me from a doorway, and whispering
the word " Marriage-licence " in my ear, was with great diffi-
culty 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 onto Can-
terbury early in the morning. It was now winter again ; and
the fresh, cold, windy day, and the sweeping downland, bright-
ened 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 insep-
arable in my mind from Agnes, seemed to pervade even the
city where she dwelt. The venerable cathedral towers, and

WICKFIELD AND HE E P. 55 1

the old jackdaws and rooks whose airy voices made them
more retired than perfect silence would have done ; the bat-
tered 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 an-
cient houses, the pastoral landscape of field, orchard, and gar-
den ; everywhere â€” on everything â€” I felt the same serener air,
the same calm, thoughtful, softening spirit.

Arrived at Mr. Wickfield's house, I found, in the little
lower room on the ground floor, where Uriah Heep had been
of old accustomed to sit, Mr. Micawber plying his pen with
great assiduity. He was dressed in a legal-looking suit of
black, and loomed burly and large, in that small office.

Mr. Micawber was extremely glad to see me, but a little
confused too. He would have conducted me immediately
into the presence of Uriah, but I declined.

" I know the house of old, you recollect," said I, " and will
find my way up stairs. How do you like the law, Mr. Micaw-
ber?"

" 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 favorite
expression of my friend Heep ; " but it may prove the step-
ping-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 as-
certain if the door were close shut, before he replied in a
lower voice.

" My dear Copperfield, a man who labors under the pres-
sure of pecuniary embarrassments, is, with the generality of
people, at a disadvantage. That disadvantage is not dimin-
ished, when that pressure necessitates the drawing of stipen
diary emoluments, before those emoluments are strictly due
â€¢and payable. All I can say is, that my friend Heep has re?

552

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

sponded to appeals to which I need not more particularly
refer, in a manner calculated to redound equally to the honoi
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 favorable," I returned.

" You are very obliging, my dear Copperfield," said Mr.
Micawber ; and hummed a tune.

" Do you see much of Mr. Wickfield ? " I asked, to change
the subject.

"Not much," said Mr. Micawber, slightingly. "Mr.
Wickfield is, I dare say, a man of very excellent intentions ;
but he is â€” 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 sug-
gesting that in our friendly intercourse â€” which I trust will
never be disturbed ! â€” we draw a line. On one side of this
line," said Mr. Micawber, representing it on the desk with the
office ruler, " is the whole range of the human intellect, with
a trifling exception ; on the other, is that exception ; that is to
say, the affairs of Messrs. Wickfield and Heep, with all belong-
ing and appertaining thereunto. I trust I give no offence to
the companion of my youth, in submitting this proposition to
his cooler judgment? "

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 honor," said Mr. Micawber, indefinitely kissing his
hand and bowing with his genteelest air, " I do Homage to
Miss Wickfield i Hem ! "

WICK FIELD AND IIEEB.

*I am glad of that, at least," said I.

" If you had not assured us, my dear Copperneld, on the
occasion of that agreeable afternoon we had the happiness of
passing with you, that D. was your favorite 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 â€” of our having been
surrounded, dim ages ago, by the same faces, objects, and
circumstances â€” of our knowing perfectly what will be said
next, as if we suddenly remembered it i I never had this
mysterious impression more strongly in my life, than before
he uttered those words.

I took my leave of Mr. Micawber, for the time, charging
him with my best remembrances to all at home. As I left
him, resuming his stool and his pen, and rolling his head in
his stock, to get it into easier writing order, I clearly perceived
that there was something interposed between him and me,
since he had come into his new functions, which prevented
our getting at each other as we used to do, and quite altered
the character of our intercourse.

There was no one in the quaint old drawing-room, though
it presented tokens of Mrs. Heep's 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 1

" Ah, Agnes ! " said I, when we were sitting together side
by side j " 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 ?m
earnest and persevering ? "

" I am sure of it," said Agnes.

" And patient, Agnes ? " I inquired, with a little hesitation

554

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" 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 â€” shall I call it â€” reliance, of some
kind ? "

" Call it so, if you will," said Agnes.
\ " Well ! " I returned. " See here ! You come to London^
I rely on you, and I have an object and a course at once. I
am driven out of it, I come here, and in a moment I feel an
altered person. The circumstances that distressed me are
not changed, since I came into this room ; but an influence
comes over me in that short interval that alters me, oh, how
much for the better ! What is it ? What is your secret,
Agnes ? "

Her head was bent down, looking at the fire.

" It's the old story," said I. " Don't laugh, when I say it
was always the same in little things as it is in greater ones.
My old troubles were nonsense, and now they are serious; but
whenever I have gone away from my adopted sister â€” "

Agnes looked up â€” with such a Heavenly face ! â€” and gave
me her hand, which I kissed.

" Whenever I have not had you, Agnes, tc advise and ap-
prove 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 contra-
dictions 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.

u And there is not another word to tell, Agnes," said I-

WICK FIELD AND HE EE.

when I had made an end of my confidence. " Now, my reliance
is on you."

" But it must not be on me, Trotwood," returned Agnes,
with a pleasant smile. " It must be on someone else."
" On Dora ? " said T.
" Assuredly."

<! Why, I have not mentioned Agnes," said I a little em-
barrassed, " that Dora is rather difficult to â€” I would not, for
the world, say, to rely upon, because she is the soul of purity
and truth â€” but rathet difficult to â€” I hardly know how to ex-
press 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 â€” 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 &et 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 adoring the other so much !

"What ought I to do then, Agnes? " I inquired, after look-
ing at the fire a little while. " What would it be right to do ? ';

" I think," said Agnes, " that the honorable course to take>
would be to write to those two ladies. Don't you think that
any secret course is an unworthy one ? "

" Yes. If you think so," said I.

" I am poorly qualified to judge of such matters," replied
Agnes, with a modest hesitation, " but I certainly feel â€” 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 mej
Agnes, I am afraid " said I.

55*

DAVID COPPERFTEHD.

" Like yourself, in the candor of your nature," she return
ed ; " and therefore I would write to those two ladies. I would!
relate, a3 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 â€” and to Dora."

" But if they were to frighten Dora again, Agnes, by speak-
ing 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 he*
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 lighten-
ed heart, though with a profound sense of the weighty import-
ance of my task, I devoted the whole afternoon to the composi-
tion of the draft of this letter ; for which great purpose, Agne9
relinquished her desk to me. But first I went down stairs to
see Mr. Wickfield and Uriah Heep.

I found Uriah in possession of a new, plaster-smelling
office, built out in the garden ; looking extraordinarily mean, in
the midst of a quantity of books and papers. He received me
in his usual fawning way, and pretended not to have heard of
my arrival from Mr. Micawber ; a pretence I took the liberty
of disbelieving. He accompanied me into Mr. Wickfield's
room, which was the shadow of its former self â€” having been
divested of a variety of conveniences, for the accommodation
of the new partner â€” and stood bÂ°fore 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*

WICKFIELD AND HEEP.

557

frnry ? " said Mr. Wickfield, not without a glance at Uriah foi
his approval.

" Is there room for me ? " said I.

" I am sure Master Copperfield â€” I should say Mister, but
the other comes so natural," said Uriah, â€” " I_would turn out
of your old room with pleasure, if it would be agreeable."

"No, no," said Mr. Wickfield. "Why should you be in-
convenienced? There's another room. There's another room."

" Oh, but you know," returned Uriah, with a grin, " I should
really be delighted ! "

To cut the matter short, I said I would have the other room
â€¢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 knit-
ting near the fire, in that room ; on pretence of its having an
aspect more favorable for her rheumatics, as the wind then was,
than the drawing-room or dining-parlor. Though I could
almost have consigned her to the mercies of the wind on the
topmost pinnacle of the Cathedral, without remorse, I made a
virtue of necessity, and gave her a friendly salutation.

"I'm umbly thankful to you, sir," said Mrs. Heep, in ac-
knowledgment 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.

II 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 Wick-
field ? " 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"

55*

DAVID COPPERFIEL D.

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. When-
soever, slowly pondering o^er 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 expres-
sion, I was conscious presently of the evil eye passing me, and
going on to her, r~H coming back to me again, and dropping,
furtively upon the ... Itting, What the knitting was, I don't
know, not being learned in that art ; but it looked like a net \
and as she worked away with those Chinese chopsticks of
knitting needles she showed in the firelight like an ill-looking
enchantress, baulked as yet by the radiant goodness opposite^
but getting ready for a cast of her net by-and-by.

At dinner she maintained her watch, with the same un-
winking eyes. After dinner, her son took his turn ; and when
Mr. Wickneld, himself, and I were left alone together, leered
at me, and writhed until I could hardly bear it. In the drawing-
room, there was the mother knitting and watching again. All
the time that Agnes sang and played, the mother sat at the
piano. Once she asked for a particular ballad, which she said
her Ury (who was yawning in a great chair) doted on ; and at
intervals she looked round at him, and reported to Agnes that
he was in raptures with the music. But she hardly ever spoke
â€” I question if she ever did â€” without making some mention of
him. It was evident to me that this was the duty assigned to
her.

This lasted until bedtime. To have seen the mother and
son, like two great bats hanging over the whole house, and
darkening it with their ugly forms, made me so uncomfortable,
that I would rather have remained 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 complaining
that she was worse, Agnes charitably remained within, to bear
her company. Towards the twilight I went out by myself,
musing on what I ought to do, and whether I was justified ip

WJCKFIELD A ND - I/EE P.

559

withholding from Agnes, any longer, what Uriah Heep had
told me in London ; for that began to trouble me again, very
much.

I had not walked out far enough to be quite clear of the
town, upon the Ramsgate road, where there was a good path,
when I was hailed, through the dust, by somebody behind me.
The shambling figure, and the scanty great coat, were not to
be mistaken. I stopped, and Uriah Heep came up.

" Well ? " said I.

" How fast you walk ! " said he. " My legs are pretty long,
but you've given 'em quite a job."
" Where are you going ? " said I.

" I am 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 com-
pany."

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.
u 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, Mastei Copperfield. You always was, you know."

" Do you set a watch upon Miss Wickfield, and make her
home no home, because of me ? " said I.

" Oh ! Master Copperfield ! Those are very arsh words,''
he replied.

" Put my meaning into any words you like," said I. " You
know what it is, Uriah, as well as I do."

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

" Do you suppose," said I constraining myself to be very

560

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

temperate and quiet with him, on account of Agnes. " that 1
regard Miss Wickfield otherwise than as a very dear sister ? "

"Well, Master Copperfield," he replied, " you perceive I
am not bound to answer that question. You may not, you
know. But then, you see, you may ! "

Anything to equal the low cunning of his visage, and of his
shadowless eyes without the ghost of an eyelash, I never saw.

" Come then ! " said I. " For the sake of Miss Wick-
fieldâ€”"

" My Agnes ! " he exclaimed, with a sickly, angular com
tortion of himself. " Would you be so good as call her Agnes,
Master Copperfield ! "

" For the sake of Agnes Wickfield â€” Heaven bless her ! "

" Thank you for that blessing, Master Copperfield ! " he
interposed.

" I will tell you what I should, under any other circum-
stances, as soon have thought of telling to â€” Jack Ketch."

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

" To the hangman," I returned. " The most unlikely per-
son I could think of," â€” though his own face had suggested the
allusion quite as a natural sequence. " I am engaged to an-
other young lady. I hope that contents you."

" Upon your soul ? " said Uriah.

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

" Oh, Master Copperfield," he said. " If you had only
had the condescension to return my confidence when I poured
out the fulness of my art, the night I put you so much out of
the way by sleeping before your sitting-room fire, I never should
have doubted you. As it is, I'm sure I'll take off mother
directly, and only too appy. I know you'll excuse the pre-
cautions of affection, won't you ? What a pity, Master Cop-
perfield, 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 that 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-colored great coat, and I walked on(
almost upon compulsion, arm in arm with him.

WICKFIELD AND HEEP.

a Shall we turn ? " said Uriah, by-and-by wheeling me face
about towards the town, on which the early moon was now
shining, silvering the distant windows.

" Before we leave the subject, you ought to understand,"
said I, breaking a pretty long silence, "that I_believe Agnes
Wickfield to be as far above you, and as far removed from all
your aspirations, as that moon herself ! "

" Peaceful ! Ain't she ! " said Uriah. " Very ! Now con-
fess, Master Copperfield, that you havn'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-col-
ored 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 â€” not much else that I know
of, from morning to night. We was to be umble to this per-
son, and umble to that ; and to pull off our caps here, and to
make bows there ; and always to know our place, and abase
ourselves before our betters. And we had such a lot of bet-
ters ! Father got the monitor medal by being umble. So did
I. Father got made a sexton by being umble. He had the
character, among the gentlefolks, of being such a well-behaved
man, that they were determined to bring him in. ' Be umble,
Uriah,' says father to me, 1 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, 1 and you'll do ! '
And really it ain't clone bad ! "

It was the first time it had ever occurred to me, that this
detestable cant of false humility might have originated out of
the Heep family. I had seen the harvest, but had never
thought of the seed.

" When I was quite a young boy," said Uriah, " I got to
know what umbleness did, and I took to it. I ate umble pie
with an appetite. I stopped at the umble point of my learning,
and says I, ' Hold hard ! ' When you offered to teach me
Latin, I knew better. ' People like to be above you,' say?
faiher, " keep yourself down.' I am very umble to the preset'
moment, Master Copperfield, but I've got a little power I "

562

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

And he said all this â€” I knew, as I saw his face in the
moonlight â€” that I might understand he was resolved to
recompense himself by using his power. I had never doubted
his meanness, his craft and malice ; but I fully comprehended
now, for the first time, what a base, unrelenting, and revenge-
ful 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 retrospect,
I don't know ; but they were raised by some influence. He
talked more at dinner than was usual with him ; asked his
mother (off duty from the moment of our re-entering the
house), whether he was not growing too old for a bachelor ;
and once looked at Agnes so, that I would have given all I
had, for leave to knock him down. â–

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," said Uriah, " if I may take the
liberty, â€” now, suppose you give us something or another ap-
propriate to Coppenc:eld ! "

I pass over Mr. Wickfield's proposing my aunt, his pro*

WICKFIELD AND IIEEP.

563,

posing Mr. Dick, his proposing Doctors' Commons, his pro-
posing Uriah, his drinking everything twice ; his conscious-
ness of his own weakness, the ineffectual effort that he made
against it ; the struggle between his shame in Uriah's deport-
ment, and his desire to conciliate him ; the manifest exultation
with which Uriali 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 another one, and I umbly ask for bumpers, seeing I in-
tend to make it the divinest of her sex."

Her father had his empty glass in his hand. I saw him;
set it down, look at the picture she was so like, put his hand
to his forehead, and shrink back in his elbow-chair.

" I'm an umble individual to give you her elth," proceeded
Uriah, "but I admire â€” adore her."

No physical pain that her father's gray 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 net
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 â€” "

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
color. "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 rny 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 distorted â€” 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

564

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Agnes, to recollect how Agnes and I had grown up together^
how I honored her and loved her, how she was his pride and
joy. I tried to bring her idea before him in any form ; I even
reproached him with not having firmness to spare her the knowl-
edge 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 â€” strangely at first,
then with recognition in his eyes. At length he said, " I know,
Trotwood ! My darling child and you â€” I know ! But look at
him ! "

He pointed to Uriah, pale and glowering in a corner, evi-
dently very much out in his calculations, and taken by sur-
prise.

" Look at my torturer," he replied. " Before him I have
step by step abandoned name and reputation, peace and quiet,
house and home."

" I have kept your name and reputation for you, and your
peace and quiet, and your house and home too," said Uriah,
with a sulky, hurried, defeated air of compromise. " Don't
be foolish, Mr. Wickfield. If I have gone a little beyond
what you were prepared for, I can go back, I suppose ?
There's no harm done."

" I looked for single motives in every one," said Mr.
Wickfield, " and I was satisfied I had bound him to me by
motives of interest. But see what he is â€” oh, see what he is ! "

" You had better stop him, Copperfield, if you can," cried
Uriah, with his long fore-finger pointing towards me. " He'll
say something presently â€” mind you ! â€” he'll be sorry to have
said afterwards, and you'll be sorry to have heard ! "

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

" Mind ! I tell you ! " said Uriah, continuing to warn me.
" If you don't stop his mouth, you're not his friend ! Why
shouldn't you be in all the world's power, Mr. Wickfield ?
Because you have got a daughter. You and me know what
we know, don't we ? Let sleeping dogs lie â€” who wants to*
rouse 'em ? I don't. Can't you see I am as umble as I can
be? I tell you, if I've gone too far, I'm sorry. What would
you have, sir ? "

"Oh, Trotwood, Trotwood!" exclaimed Mr. Wickfield,
wringing his hands. " What I have come down to be, since I
â‚¬rst saw you in this house ! I was on my downward wa^

WICKFIELD AND HEEP.

565

then, but the dreary, dreary road I have traversed since 1
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 â€” 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 con-
demnation. "He knows best," meaning Uriah Heep, "for
he has always been at my elbow, whispering me. You see
the mill-stone 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 fawn-
ing " You wouldn't have took it up so, if it hadn't been
tor 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 ! "

The door opened, and Agnes, gliding in, without a vestige
of color in her face, put her arm round his neck, and steadily
said, " Papa, you are not well. Come with me ! " He laid
his head upon her shoulder, as if he were oppressed with
heavy shame, and went out with her. Her eyes met mine for
but an instant, yet I saw how much she knew of what had
passed.

" I didn't expect he'd cut up so rough, Master Copperfield,"
said Uriah. " But it's nothing. I'll be friends with him 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 book*.

566

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Nobody came near me until late at night. I took up a book
and tried to read. I heard the clock 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 â€” but is there nothing to be done ? "

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

"Can / do nothing â€” /, 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 â€” goodness, resolution,
all noble qualities â€” 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.

" 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 be*
fore 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 â€” I need have none for
her â€” 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 be-
tween 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,

THE WANDERER.

567

you know ; and he understands his interest when he isn't in
liquor ! What an agreeable man he is, afteB all, Master Cop-
perfield ! "

I obliged myself to say that I was glad he had made his
apology.

" Oh, to be sure ! 99 said Uriah. "When a person's umble,
you know, what's an apology ? So easy ! I say ! 1 suppose,"
with a jerk, "you have sometimes plucked a pear before it
was ripe, Master Copperfield ? "

"I suppose I have," I replied.

"/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 coach-
man 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 smack-
ing 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 thein, and
walked up and down the room with her arms folded, for more
than two hours afterwards. Whenever she was particularly
discomposed, she always performed one of these pedestrian
feats j 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 bed-room door, and make a course for herself, comprising
the full extent of the bed-rooms 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

568

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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, rest-
ing 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
iovingest of tempers, my dear," she would assure me with a
.rod, " 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 Jay 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 â€” and I naturally took the . shortest
way on such a night â€” 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 'ookeJ in mine, passed across the narrow lane, and
disappeared. I knew it. I had seen it somewhere. But 1
could not remember where. I had some association with it>
that struck upon my heart directly ; but I was thinking oi
anything else when it came upon me, and was confused.

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

THE WANDERER.

Then I remembered the woman. It was Martha, to whom
Emily had given the money that night in the kitchen. Martha
Endell â€” side by side with whom, he would not have, seen his
dear niece, Ham had told me, for ?\\ the treasures wrecked in
the sea.

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

" Mas'r 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 o' coming to make inquiration for you,
sir, to-night," he said, "but knowing as your aunt was living
along wi' you â€” for I've been down yonder â€” Yarmouth way â€”
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 longhair,
" 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 connec-
tion 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 grayer, the lines in his face and forehead
were deeper, and he had every appearance of having toiled
and wandered through all varieties of weather ; but he looked
very strong, and like a man upheld by steadfastness of purpose,
whom nothing could tire out. He shook the snow from his hat
and clothes, and brushed it away from his face, while I was
inwardly making these remarks. As he 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.

"Til tell you, Mas'r Davy," he said, â€” "wheer all I've
been, and what-all we've heerd I've been fur, and we've
heerd little ; but I'll tell you ! "

57Â°

LAVID COPPERFIELD.

I rang the bel] 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 â€” â€¢
or hoped â€” he had drifted out to them parts, where the floweis
is always a blowing, and the country bright."

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

" When she was â€” 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
niece. He got me them papers as I wanted fur to carry me
through â€” I doen't rightly know how they're called â€” and he
would have give me money, but that I was thankful to have
no need on. I thank him kind, for all he done, I'm sure I
1 I've wrote afore you,' he says to me, ' and I shall speak to
many as will come that way, and many will know you, fur
distant from here, when you're a travelling alone.' I told him,
best as I was able, what my gratitoode was, and went away
through France."

" Alone, and on foot ? " said I.

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

I should have known that by his friendly tone.

" When I come to any town," he pursued, " I found the
win. and waited about the yard till some one turned up (some

THE WANDERER.

57*

one mostly did) as know'd English. Then I told how that 1
was on my way to seek my niece, and they told me what
manner of gentlefolks was in the house, and I waited to see
any as seemed like her, going in or out. When it warn't
Em'ly, I went on agen. By little and little, when I come to a
new village or that, among the poor people, I- found they
know'd about me. They would set me down at their cottage
doors, and give me what-not fur to eat and drink, and show
me where to sleep ; and many a woman, Mas'r Davy, as has
had a daughter of about Em'ly 's age, I've found a-waiting for
me, at Our Saviour's Cross outside the village, fur to do me
sim'lar kindnesses. Some has had daughters as was dead.
And God only knows how good them mothers was to me ! "

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

"They would often put their children-â€” partic'lar their
little girls," said Mr. Peggotty, " upon my knee ; and many a
time you might have seen me sitting at their doors, when
night was coming on, a'most as if they'd been my Darling's
children. Oh, my Darling ! "

Overpowered by sudden grief, he sobbed aloud. I laid
my trembling hand upon the hand he put before his face.
"Thankee, sir," he said, "doen't take no notice."

In a very little while he took his hand away and put it on
his breast, and went on with his story.

" They often walked with me," he said, " in the morning,
maybe a mile or two upon my road ; and when we parted,
and I said, 'I'm very thankful to you! God bless you!'
they always seemed to understand, and answered pleasant.
At last I come to the sea. It warn't hard, you may suppose,
for a seafaring man like me to work his way over to Italy.
When I got theer, I wandered on as I had done afore. The
people was just as good to me, and I should have gone from
town to town, maybe the country through, but that 1 got news
of her being seen among them Swiss mountains yonder. One
as know'd his sarvant see 'em there, all three, and told me
how they travelled, and where they was. I made for them
mountains, Mas'r Davy, day and night. Ever so fur as I
went, ever so fur the mountains seemed to shift away from
me. But I come up with 'em, and I crossed 'em. When I
got nigh the place as I had been told of, I began to think
within my own self, 1 What shall I do when I see her? "

572

DAVID COPPERFIELD,

The listening face, insensible to the inclement night, still
drooped at the door, and the hands begged me â€” prayed meâ€”
not to cast it forth.

" I never doubted her," said Mr. Peggotty. " No ! Not
a bit ? On'y let her see my face â€” on'y let her heer my voice
â€” on'y let my stanning still afore her bring to her thoughts
the home she had fled away from, and the child she had been
â€” and if she had growed to be a royal lady, she'd have fell
down at my feet ! I know'd it well ! Many a time in my sleep
had I heerd her cry out, ' Uncle ! ' and seen her fall like death
afore me. Many a time in my sleep had I raised her up, and
whispered to her, ' Em'ly, my dear, I am come fur to bring
forgiveness, and to take you home ! "

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

" He was nowt to me now. Em'lv 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 â€” to take
her on my arm again, and wander towards home â€” to stop
sometimes upon the road, and heal her bruised feet and her
worse-bruised heart â€” was all that I thowt of now. I doen't
believe I should have done so much as to look at him. But,
Mas'r Davy, it warn't to be â€” 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 cr little packets, which he laid upon the table.

" This fust one come," he said, selecting it from the rest,
" afore 1 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 1 "

THE WANDERER. ^

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
nand! But try, try â€” not for my sake, but for uncle's goodness, try to let your heart soften
to me, only for a little little time ! Try, pray do, to relent towards a miserable girl, and
write down on a bit of paper whether he is well, and what he said about me before you
left off ever naming me among yourselvesâ€” and whether, of a night, when it is my old
time of coming home, you ever see him look as if he thought of one he used to love so dear.
Oh, my heart is breaking when I think about it ! I am kneeling clown to you, begging
and praying you not to be as hard with me as I deserveâ€” as I well, well know I deserve â€”
but to be so gentle and so good, as to write down something of him, and to send it to me.
You need not call me Little, you need not call me by the name I have disgraced ; but oh,
listen to my agony, and have mercy on me so far as to write me some word of uncle, never,
never to be seen in this world by my eyes again !

H Dear, if your heart is hard towards me â€” justly hard, I know â€” but, Listen, if it is
hard, dear, ask him I have wronged the most â€” him whose wife I was to have beenâ€”
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 â€” I think he would, oh, I think he
would, if you would only ask him, for he always was so brave and so forgiving â€” 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 f was fit, 1 would be so glad to die !) I would bless him
and uncle with my last words, and pray for his happy home with my last breath! "

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

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

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

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

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

He showed it to me. It was a town on the Upper Rhine,
He had found out, at Yarmouth, some foreign dealers who

574

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

knew that country, and they had drawn him a rude map on
paper, which he could very well understand. He laid it be*
iween 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, as bold as a man can. His name's as good,
m all that part, as any man's is anywheres in the wureld.
Anyone's hand is ready to help him, you understand, and his is
ready to help them. He's never been heerd fur to complain.
But my sister's belief is ('twixt ourselves) as it has cut him
deep."

" Poor fellow, I can't believe it ! "

" He ain't no care, Mas'r Davy," said Mr. Peggotty in a
solemn whisper â€” " keinder no care no-how for his life. When
a man's wanted for a 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 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 war-
there.

" Well ! " he said, looking to his bag, " having seen you to-
night, Mas'r Davy (and that does me good !) I shall away be-
times 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 pre
tence, and held him in conversation until it was gone.

DORA'S A UNTS:

575

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

I returned to the inn yard, and, impressed by the 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 â€¢ and even that began to
die away (it snowed so fast) as I looked back over my shoulder.

CHAPTER XLI.
dora's aunts.

At last, an answer came from the two old ladies. They pre-
sented 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 " â€” 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 colors not at all
suggested by their original form. The Misses Spenlow added
that they be<rg^d to forbear expressing, " through the medium
of correspondence," an opinion on the subject of Mr. Copper-
field's communication ; but that if Mr. Copperfield would do
them the favor to call, upon a certain day (accompanied, if he
diought proper, by a confidential friend), they would be happy
to hold some conversation on the subject.

To this favor, Mr. Copperfield immediately replied, with
his respectful compliments, that he would have the honor of
waking on the Misses Spenlow, at the time appointed, ac-
companied, in accordance with their kind permission, by his
friend Mr. Thomas Traddles of the Inner Temple. Having
dispatched which missive, Mr. Copperfield fell into a condi-
tion of strong nervous agitation ; and so remained until the
day vrived.

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

It was a great augmentation of my uneasiness to be be
reaved, at this eventful crisis, of the inestimable services of
Miss Mills. But Mr. Mills, who was always doing something or
other to annoy me â€” or I felt as if he were, which was the same
thing â€” 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, what-
ever that was (I had floating dreams myself concerning golden
shawls and elephants' teeth) ; having been at Calcutta in his
youth ; and designing now to go out there again, in the ca-
pacity 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 per-
fect 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 valua-
tion. So, here was another earthquake of which I became
the sport, before I had recovered from the shock of its pre-
decessor !

I was in several minds how to dress myself on the im-
portant day ; being divided between my desire to appear to
advantage, and my apprehensions of putting on anything that
might impair my severely practical character in the eyes of
the Misses Spenlow. I endeavored 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 he 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 â€” not to say a hearth-broomy kind of expression â€” which,
my apprehensions whispered, might be fatal to us.

I took the liberty of mentioning it to Traddles, as we were
walking to Putney ; and saying that if he would smooth it
down a little â€”

" My dear Copperfield," said Traddles, lifting off his hat,
and rubbing his hair all kinds of ways, " nothing would give
me greater pleasure. But it won't."

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

"No," said Traddles. "Nothing will induce it, If I

dora's aunts:

577

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, Copper-
field. I am quite a fretful porcupine."

I was a little disappointed, I must confess, but thoroughly
charmed by his good-nature too. I told him how I esteemed
his good-nature ; and said that his hair must have taken all the
obstinacy out of his character, for he had none.

" Oh ! " returned Traddles, laughing, " I assure you, it's
quite an old story, my unfortunate hair. My uncle's wife
couldn't bear it. She said it exasperated her. It stood very
much in my way, too, when I first fell in love with Sophy.
Very much ! "

" Did she object to it ? "

" She didn't," rejoined Traddles ; " but her eldest sister â€”
the one that's the Beauty â€” quite made game of it, I under-
stand. In fact, all the sisters laugh at it."

" Agreeable ! " said I.

" Yes," returned Traddles with perfect innocence, " it's a
joke for us. They pretend that Sophy has a lock of it in her
desk, and is obliged to shut it in a clasped book, to keep it
down. We laugh about it."

" By-the-by, my dear Traddles," said I, " your experi-
ence may suggest something to me. When you became en-
gaged to the young lady whom you have just mentioned, did you
make a regular proposal to her family ? Was there anything
like â€” what we are going1 through to-day, for instance ? " I
added, nervously.

" Why," replied Traddles, on whose attentive face a
thoughtful shame had stolen, " it was rather a painful transac-
tion, Copperfield, in my case. You see, Sophy being of so
much use in the family, none of them could endure the thought
of her ever being married. Indeed, they had quite settled
among themselves that she never was to be married, and they
called her the old maid. Accordingly, when I mentioned it,
with the greatest precaution, to Mrs. Crewler â€” "

"The mamma?" said I.

"The mamma," said Traddles â€” " Reverend Horace
Crewler â€” 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 sub-
ject again for months."

" You did at last ? " said I.

57Â»

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Well, the Reverend Horace did," said Traddles. " Hs
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 gave 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-color, became
perfectly stiff, and took nothing for two days but toast-and-
water, administered with a teaspoon."

" 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 feel-
ing. In fact, they all have. Sophy told me afterwards, that
the self-reproach she underwent while she was in attendance
upon Sarah, no words could describe. I know it must have
been severe, by my own feelings, Copperfield ; which were
like a criminal's. After Sarah was restored, we still had to-
break it to the other eight ; and it produced various effects
upon them of a most pathetic nature. The two little ones,
whom Sophy educates, have only just left off de-testing me."

" At any rate, they are all reconciled to it now, I hope ? "
said I.

" Ye â€” 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 indif-
ferent 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 ap-
proaching the house where the MLses Spenlow lived, I waÂ£

DORA'S AUNTS.

579

at such a discount in respect of my personal looks and pres-
ence of mind, that Tracldles proposed a gentle stimulant in
the form of a glass of ale. This having been administered at
a neighboring 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 ob-
trusive little figures made of springs, that fly out of fictitious
snuff-boxes when the lid is taken off. Also of hearing an old-
fashioned clock ticking away on the chimney-piece, and try-
ing to make it keep time to the jerking of my heart, â€” 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 fire-place, and bowing in great confusion to two dry little
elderly ladies, dressed in black, and each looking wonderfully
like a preparation in chip or tan of the late Mr. Spenlow.

" Pray," said one of the two little ladies, " be seated."

When I had done tumbling over Traddles, and had sat
upon something which was not a cat â€” my first seat was â€” 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 confer-
ence, inasmuch as she had my letter in her hand â€” so familiar
as it looked to me, and yet so odd ! â€” 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 brace-
let, 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,

58o

DAVID COPPER FIELD.

and they had to divest themselves of a preconceived opinion
that Traddles was Mr. Copperfield, and altogether we were m
a nice condition. To improve it, we all distinctly heard Jip
give two short barks, and receive another choke.

" Mr. Copperfield ! " said the sister with the letter.

I did something â€” bowed, I suppose â€” and was all atten
iion, when the other sister struck in. \

"My sister Lavinia," said she, "being conversant with,
matters of this nature, will state what we consider most cal-
culated to promote the happiness of both parties."

I discovered afterwards that Miss Lavinia was an author-
ity in affairs of the heart, by reason of there having anciently
existed a certain Mr. Pidger, who played short whist, and was
supposed to have been enamored of her. My private opinion
is, that this was entirely a gratuitous" assumption, and that
Pidger was altogether innocent of any such sentiments â€” to
which he had never given any sort of expression that I could
ever hear of. Both Miss Lavinia and Miss Clarissa had a su-
perstition, however, that he would have declared his passion,
if he had not been cut short in his youth (at about sixty) by
over-drinking his constitution, and over-doing an attempt to
set it right again by swilling Bath water. They had a lurking
suspicion even, that he died of secret love ; though I must say
there was a picture of him in the house with a damask noser
which concealment did not appear to have ever preyed upon.

" We will not," said Miss Lavinia, " enter on the past his-
tory of this matter. Our poor brother Francis's death has
cancelled that."

" We had not," said Miss Clarissa, "been in the habit of
frequent association with our brother Francis ; but there was
no decided division or disunion between us. Francis took his
road ; we took ours. We considered it conducive to the hap-
piness of all parties that it should be so. And it was so."

Each of the sisters leaned a little forward to speak, shook
her head after speaking, and became upright again when si>
lent. Miss Clarissa never moved her arms. She sometimes
played tunes upon them with her fingers â€” minuets and
marches, I should think â€” but never moved them.

" Our niece's position, or supposed position, is much
changed by our brother Francis's death," said Miss Lavinia ;
" and therefore we consider our brother's opinions as regarded
her position as being changed too. We have no reason to
doubt, Mr. Copperfield, that you are a young gentleman pos*

DORA'S AUNTS:

sessed of good qualities and honorable character ; or that you
have an affection â€” or are fully persuaded that you have an
affection â€” for our niece."

I replied, as I usually did whenever I had a chance, that
nobody had ever loved anybody else as I loved_Dora. Trad-
dies came to my assistance with a confirmatory murmur.

Miss Lavinia was going on to make some rejoinder, when
Miss Clarissa, who appeared to be incessantly beset by a de-
sire to refer to her brother Francis, struck in again :

" If Dora's mamma," she said, " when she married our
brother Francis, had at once said that there was not room for
the family at the dinner-table, it would have been better for
the happiness of all parties."

"Sister Clarissa," said Miss Lavinia. "Perhaps we
needn't mind that now."

" Sister Lavinia," said Miss Clarissa, " it belongs to the
Subject. With your branch of the subject, on which alone
you are competent to speak, I should not think of interfering.
On this branch of the subject I have a voice and. an opinion.
It would have been better for the happiness of all parties, if
Dora's mamma, when she married our brother Francis, had
mentioned plainly what her intentions were. We should then
have known what we had to expect. We should have said,
* pray do not invite us, at any time ; ' and all possibility of
misunderstanding would have been avoided."

When Miss Clarissa had shaken her head, Miss Lavinia
resumed : again referring to my letter through her eye-glass.
They both had little bright round twinkling eyes, by the way,
which were like birds' eyes. They were not unlike birds, al-
together ; having a sharp, brisk, sudden manner, and a little
short, spruce way of adjusting themselves, like canaries.

Miss Lavinia, as I have said, resumed :

" You ask permission of my sister Clarissa and myself, Mr..
Copperfield, to visit here, as the accepted suitor of our niece."

"If our brother Francis," said Miss Clarissa, breaking out
again, if I may call any thing so calm a breaking out, " wished
to surround himself with an atmosphere of Doctors' Com-
mons, 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 so<
ciety. Let my sister Lavinia and myself have our society
VVe can find it for ourselves. I hope ! "

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

As this appeared to be addressed to Traddles and met
both Traddles and I made some sort of reply. Traddles was
inaudible. I think I observed, myself, that it was highly cred-
itable to all concerned. I don't in the least know what I
meant.

" Sister Lavinia," said Miss Clarissa, having now relieved
y.er mind, " you can go on, my dear."
Miss Lavinia proceeded :

" Mr. Copperfield, my sister Clarissa and I have been very
careful indeed in considering this letter ; and we have not
considered it without finally showing it to our niece, and dis-
cussing it with our niece. We have no doubt that you think
you like her very much."

"Think, ma'am," I rapturously began, " oh ! "

But Miss Clarissa giving me a look (just like a sharp ca-
nary), as requesting that I would not interrupt the oracle, I
begged pardon.

" Affection," said Miss Lavinia, glancing at her sister for
corroboration, which she gave in the form of a little nod to
every clause, " mature affection, homage, devotion does not
easily express itself. Its voice is low. It is modest and re-
tiring, it lies in ambush, waits and waits. Such is the mature
fruit. Sometimes a life glides away, and finds it still ripening
in the shade."

Of course I did not understand then that this was an allu-
sion 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 â€” for I call them, in comparison with such sen-
timents, the light â€” inclinations of very young people," pur-
sued 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 my<
self 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

DORA'S AUNTS-

new and fruitful subject of domestic interest, a settling down
to make the most of it, a disposition to pet it, in which there
was a good bright ray of hope. I thought I perceived that
Miss Lavinia would have uncommon satisfaction in superin-
tending two young lovers, like Dora and me ; and that Miss
Clarissa would have hardly less satisfacti^ in seeing her su-
perintend us, and in chiming in with her own particular de-
partment 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 Parliamentary Debate, really did
come out nobly : confirming me in good round terms, and in
a plain sensible practical manner, that evidently made a fa-
vorable 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 â€” one of ten, down in Devon-
shireâ€” and seeing no probability, at present, of our engage-
ment coming to a termination."

" You may be able to confirm what I have said, Mr. Trad-
dles," 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 â€” 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. Trad-
dles, 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

DAVID COPPERFIEL D.

thought beat) 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 super-
scription towards herself, and referred through her eye-glass to
some orderly looking notes she had made on that part of it.

"It seems to us," said she, "prudent, Mr. Traddles, to
bring these feelings to the test of our own observation. At
present we know nothing of them, and are not in a situation
to judge how much reality there may be in them. Therefore
we are inclined so far to accede to Mr. Copperfield's proposal,
as to admit his visits here."

" I shall never, dear ladies," I exclaimed, relieved of an
immense load of apprehension, " forget your kindness ! "

"But," pursued Miss Lavinia, â€” "but, we would prefer to
regard those visits, Mr. Traddles, as made, at present, to us.
We must guard ourselves from recognizing any positive en-
gagement between Mr. Copperfield and our niece, until we
have had an opportunity â€” "

" Until you have had an opportunity, sister Lavinia," said
Miss Clarissa.

"Be it so," assented Miss Lavinia, with a sigh â€” "until I
have had an opportunity of observing them."

"Copperfield," said Traddles, "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 re-
ferring to her notes, " and admitting his visits on this under-
standing only, we must require from Mr. Copperfield a distinct
assurance, on his word of honor, that no communication of
any kind shall take place between him and our niece without
our knowledge. That no project whatever shall be entertained
with regard to our niece, without being first submitted to us â€” "

" To you, sister Lavinia," Miss Clarissa interposed.

" Be it so, Clarissa ! " assented Miss Lavinia resignedly â€” -
" to me â€” 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. Copper-
field, or if you, Mr. Traddles, feel the least scruple, in giving
this promise, I beg you to take time to consider it."

DORA'S AUNTS.

I exclaimed, in a state of high ecstatic fervor, that not a
moment's consideration could be necessary. I bound myself
by the required promise, in a most impassioned manner;
called upon Traddles to witness it ; and denounced myself as
the most atrocious of characters if I ever swerved from it in
the least degree.

" Stay ! " said Miss Lavinia, holding up her hand ; " we
resolved, before we had the pleasure of receiving you two
gentlemen, to leave you alone for a quarter of an hour, to con-
sider 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 hap-
piness. Exactly at the expiration of the quarter of an hour,
they reappeared with no less dignity than they had disappear-
ed. They had gone rustling away as if dieir little dresses
were made of autumn-leaves, and they came rustling back, in
like manner.

I then bound myself once more to the prescribed condi-
tions.

"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 con*
venience. 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 hal#
past six." t

I bowed again. \

" Twice in the week," said Miss Clarissa, " but, as a rule,
not oftener."

I bowed again.

" Miss Trotwood," said Miss Clarissa, " mentioned in Mr.
Copperfield's letter, will perhaps call upon us. When visiting
is better for the happiness of all parties, we are glad to receive
visits, and return them. When it is better for the happiness
of all parties that no visiting should take place (as in the case
of our brother Francis, and his establishment), that is quite
different."

586

DAVID C0FPERF1ELD.

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 acknowl-
edgments 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 ex-
cuse 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 be-
hind 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 p'late-warmer, and restored him to the
light, sneezing very much, and were all three reunited !

" My clearest Dora ! Now, indeed, my own for ever ! "

" Oh don't ! " pleaded Dora. " Please ! "

" Are you not my own for ever, Dora ? "

"Oh yes, of course I am!" cried Dora, "but I am so
frightened ! "

" Frightened, my own ? "

"Oh yes ! I don't like him," said Dora. "Why don't he
go?"

" Who, my life ? "

"Your friend," said Dora. " It isn't any business of his.
What a stupid he must be ! "

" My love ! " (There never was anything so coaxing as
her childish ways.) " He is the best creature ! "

" Oh, but we don't want any best creatures ! " pouted
Dora.

" My dear," I argued, " you will soon know him well, and
like him of all things. And here is my aunt coming soon ;
and you'll like her of all things too, when you know her."

" No, please don't bring her ! " said Dora, giving me a
horrified little kiss, and folding her hands. " Don't. I know
she's a naughty, mischief-making old thing! Don't let her
come here, Doady ! " which was a corruption of David.

Remonstrance was of no use then ; so I laughed, and ad
mired, and was very much in love and very happy ; and sh$>

DORA'S AUNTS.

587

showed me Jip's new trick of standing on his hind legs in a
corner â€” which he did for about the space of a flash of lightning,
and then fell down â€” 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 ageâ€” 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 1 went to
Traddles without her, and walked away with him on air.

"Nothing could be more satisfactory," said Traddles;
" and they are very agreeable old ladies, I am sure. I
shouldn't be at all surprised if you were to be married years
before me, Copperheld."

" Does your Sophy play on any instrument, Traddles ? " I
inquired, in the pride of my heart.

" She knows enough of the piano to teach it to her little
sisters," said Traddles.

" Does she sing at all ? " I asked.

" Why, she sings ballads, sometimes, to freshen up the
others a little when they're out of spirits," said Traddles,
" Nothing scientific."

" She doesn't sing to the guitar ? " said I.

" Oh dear no ! " said Traddles.

" Paint at all ? "

" Not at all," said Traddles.

I promised Traddles that he should hear Dora sing, and
see some of her flower-painting. He said he should like it
very much, and we went home arm in arm in great good hu-
mor 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
Ti addles, 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 with-
out 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 be-
gan to think she meant to walk till morning.

588

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

My letter to Agnes was a fervent and grateful one, narra
ting 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 cheeriul
from that time.

I had my hands more full than ever, now. My daily jour-
neys to Highgate considered, Putney was a long way off ; and
I naturally wanted to go there as often as I could. The pro*
posed tea-drinkings being quite impracticable, I compounded
with Miss Lavinia for permission to visit every Saturday af-
ternoon, without detriment to my privileged Sundays. So,
the close of every week was a delicious time for me ; and I
got through the rest of the week by looking forward to it.

I was wonderfully relieved to find that my aunt and Dora's
aunts rubbed on, all things considered, much more smoothly
than I could have expected. My aunt made her promised
visit within a few days of the conference ; and within a few
more days, Dora's aunts called upon her, in due state and
form. Similar but more friendly exchanges took place after-
wards, usually at intervals of three or four weeks. I know
that my aunt distressed Dora's aunt very much, by utterly
setting at naught the dignity of fly conveyance, and walking
out to Putney at extraordinary times, as shortly after break-
fast or just before tea ; likewise by wearing her bonnet in any
manner that happened to be comfortable to her head, without
at all deferring to the prejudices of civilization on that sub-
ject. But Dora's aunts soon agreed to regard my aunt as an
eccentric and somewhat masculine lady, with a strong under-
standing ; and although my aunt occasionally ruffled the feath-
ers of Dora's aunt, 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 re-
fused 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 â€” coaxing, scolding, slapping, bringing him to Buckingham
Street (where he instantly dashed at the two cats, to the ter-
ror of all beholders) ; but he never could prevail upon him-
self to bear my aunt's society. He would sometimes think he
had got the better of his objection, and be amiable for a few

DORA'S AUNT!,.

SÂ§9

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 muf-
fled him in a towel and shut him up there, whenever my aunt
was reported at the door.

One thing troubled me much, after we had" fallen into this
quiet train. It was, that Dora seemed by one consent to be
regarded like a pretty toy or plaything. My aunt, with whom
she' gradually became familiar, always called her little Blos-
som ; 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 mat-
ter 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 â€” the prettiest look ! â€”
and then began to sob, saying, if I didn't like her, why had 1
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
[ 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 â€” or could â€” be
cruel to you for the world ! "

" Then don't find fault with me," said Dora, making a
rosebud of her mouth ; " and I'll be good."

I was charmed by her presently asking me, of her own
accord, to give her that cookery-book I had once spoken of,
and to show her how to keep accounts, as I had once prom-
ised 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

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 mat-
ters, as we walked about on a Saturday afternoon. Some-
times, 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
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-paint-
ing, and the songs about never leaving off dancing, Ta ra la)
and were as happy as the week was long. I occasionally
wished I could venture to hint to Miss Lavinia, that she treat-
ed 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 play
thing too â€” but not often.

MISCHIEF.

CHAPTER XLI1

MISCHIEF.

I feel as if it were not for me to record, even though this
manuscript is intended for no eyes but mine, how hard I
worked at that tremendous 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 dili-
gence, without the determination to concentrate myself on
one object at a time, no matter how quickly its successor
should come upon its heels, which I then formed. Heaven
knows I write this in no spirit of self-laudation. The man
who reviews his own life, as I do mine* in going on here, from
page to page, had need to have been a good man indeed, if
he would be spared the sharp consciousness of many talents
neglected, many opportunities wasted, many erratic and per-
verted feelings constantly at war within his breast, and defeat-
ing him. I do not hold one natural gift, I dare say, that I
have not abused. My meaning simply is, that whatever 1 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 ful-
filment 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

592

DAVID COPPER FIELD.

put one hand to anything, on which I could throw my whole
self ; and never to affect depreciation of my work, whatever it
was ; I find, now, to have been my golden rules.

How much of the practice I have just reduced to precept I
owe to Agnes, I will not repeat here. My narrative proceeds
to Agnes, with a thankful love.

She came on a visit of a fortnight to the Doctor's. Mr,
Wickfield was the Doctor's old friend, and the Doctor wished,
to talk with him, and do him good. It had been matter of
conversation with Agnes when she was last in town, and this
visit was the result. She and her father came together. I
was not much surprised to hear from her that she had engaged
to find a lodging in the neighborhood for Mrs. Heep, whose
rheumatic complaint required change of air, and who would be
charmed to have it in such company. Neither was I surprised
when, on the very next day, Uriah, like a dutiful son, brought
his worthy mother to take possession.

" You see, Master Copperfield," said he, as he forced
himself upon my company for a turn in the Doctor's garden,
" where a person loves, a person is a little jealous â€” leastways,
anxious to keep an eye on the beloved one."

" Of whom are you jealous, now ? " said I.

"Thanks to you, Master Copperfield," he returned, "of
no one in particular just at present â€” 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, " â€” I should say
Mister, but I know you'll excuse the abit I've got into â€” 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 re-
plied, 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 prac
tice ! What do I mean by my look ? "
" Yes," said I. " By your look."

MISCHIEF.

593

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
â€” still scraping, very slowly :

" When I was but a numble clerk, she always looked dowr-
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, my-
self, to be noticed."

" Well ? " said I ; " suppose you were ! "

" â€” And beneath him too," pursued Uriah, very distinctly,
and in a meditative tone of voice, as he continued to scrape
his chin.

" Don't you know the Doctor better," said I, " than to sap-
pose him conscious of your existence, when you were not be-
fore him ? "

He directed his eyes at me in that sidelong glance again,
and he made his face very lantern-jawed, for the greater con-
venience of scraping, as he answered :

" Oh dear, I am not referring to the Doctor ! Oh no, poor
man ! I mean Mr. Maldon ! "

My heart quite died within me. All my old doubts, and
apprehensions on that subject, all the Doctor's happiness and
peace, all the mingled possibilities of innocence and com-
promise, that I could not unravel, I saw, in a moment, at the
mercy of this fellow's twisting.

" He never could come into the office, without ordering
and shoving me about," said Uriah. " One of your fine
gentlemen he was ! I was very meek and umble â€” and I am.
But I didn't like that sort of thingâ€” and I don't ! "

He left off scraping his chin, and sucked 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 â€” and we look
out of 'em."

I endeavored to appear unconscious and not disquieted^
but, I saw in his face, with poor success.

594

DAVID C0PPERF1ELD.

" 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 mind acknowledging to you
that I've got rather a grudging disposition, and want to keep
off all intruders. I ain't a going, if I know it, to run the risk
of being plotted against."

"You are always plotting, and delude yourself into the
belief that everybody else is doing the like, I think," said I.

" Perhaps so, Master Copperfield," he replied. " But I've
got a motive, as my fellow-partner used to say ; and I go at it
tooth and nail. I musn'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. â€” 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 behavior, particularly by this conclud-
ing instance, that I turned away without any ceremony ; and
left him doubled up in the middle of the garden, like a scare-
crow 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 I was in a flutter of pride and anxiety ; pride in my dear
little betrothed, and anxiety that Agnes should like her. All
the way to Putney, Agnes being inside the stage-coach, and I
outside, I pictured Dora to myself in every one of the pretty
looks I knew so well ; now making up my mind that I should
like her to look exactly as she looked at such a time, and then
doubting whether I should not prefer her looking as she
looked at such another time ; and almost worrying myself into
a fever about it.

I was troubled by no doubt of her being very pretty, in
any case ; but it fell out that I had never seen her look sÂ»

MISCHIEF.

595

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, hei
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 look-
ing 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 arm 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 Ag-
nes 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 â€” â€¢
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 in
stantly) ; her pleasant way, when Dora was ashamed to come
over to her usual seat t>y me â€¢ her modest grace and ease, elic-
iting 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 gin-
ger, and guava, and other delicacies of that sort for lunch ; and

S96

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 orig
inal reflections awakened by the contemplation of Ocean wera
to be recorded under lock and key.

Agnes said, she was afraid, I must have given her an un-
promising 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 made more
clever perhaps ? "

" My love ! " said I, " what nonsense ! "

" Do you think it is nonsense ? " returned Dora, without
booking 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 I "

" Suppose you had never seen me at all," said Dora, going
to another button.

"Suppose we had never been born ! " said I, gayly.

I wondered what she was thinking about as I glanced in
admiring silence at the little soft hand travelling up the row

MISCHIEF.

597

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 hei
eyes were lifted up to mine, and she stood on tiptoe to give
me, more thoughtfully than usual, that precious little kiss â€”
once, twice, three times â€” 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 Jfp through the
whole of his performances, before the coach came. They took
some time (not so much on account of their variety, as Jip's
reluctance), and were still unfinished when it was heard at the
door. There was a hurried but affectionate parting between
Agnes and herself ; and Dora was to write to Agnes (who
was not to mind her letters being foolish, she said), and Agnes
was to write to Dora, and they had a second parting at the
coach-door, and a third when Dora, in spite of the remon-
strances of Miss Lavinia, would come running out once
more to remind Agnes at the coach-window about writing,
and to shake her curls at me on the box.

The stage-coach was to put us down near Covent Garden,
where we were to take another stage coach for Highgate. I
was impatient for the short walk in the interval, that Agnes
might praise Dora to me. Ah ! what praise it was. How lov-
ingly 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 pre-
tence 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 for 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 cheeifu1
and light-hearted."

598

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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.

M No fresh reference," said I, " to â€” I wouldn't distress
you, Agnes, but I cannot help asking â€” to what we spoke of
when we parted last ? "

" No, none," she answered.

" I have thought so much about it."

" You must think less about it. Remember that I confide
in simple love and truth at last. Have no apprehensions for
me, Trotwood," she added, after a moment ; " the step you
dread my taking, I shall never take."

Although I think I had never really feared it, in any sea-
son 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, â€” " for we may not
be alone another time, â€” 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 â€” for papa's sake â€” 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 win-
dow 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 cheer-
ful 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 ale-
house close by, and was going out at the gate, when happen-
ing 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*

MISCHIEF.

599

night, if he were yet sitting among his books, I turned back,
and going softly across the hall, and gently opening the door,
looked in.

The first person whom I saw, to my surprise, by the sober
light of the shaded lamp, was Uriah. He was standing close
beside it, with one of his skeleton hands over his mouth, and
the other resting on the Doctor's table. The Doctor sat in
his study chair, covering his face with his hands. Mr. Wick-
field,' sorely troubled and distressed, was leaning forward,
irresolutely touching the Doctor's arm.

For an instant, I supposed that the Doctor was ill. I has-
tily 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 un-
gainly 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
â€” at least to me â€” than any demeanor 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 gray head.

" As you didn't understand me, Master Copperfield," re-
sumed Uriah in the same officious manner, " I may take the
liberty of 'umbly mentioning, being among friends, that I have
called Doctor Strong's attention to the goings-on of Mrs,
Strong. It's much against the grain with me, I assure you,
Copperfield, to be concerned in anything so unpleasant ; but
really, as it is, we're all mixing ourselves up with what oughtn't
to be. That was what my meaning was, sir, when you didn't
understand me."

I wonder now, when I recall his leer, that I did not collar
him, and try to shake the breath out of his body.

" I dare say I didn't make myself very clear," he went on,

6oo

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

<k nor you neither. Naturally, we was both of us inclined tc
give such a subject a wide berth. Hows'ever, at last I liave
made up my mind to speak plain \ and I have mentioned to
Doctor Strong that â€” 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.

" â€” mentioned to Doctor Strong," he proceeded, " that
any one may see that Mr. Maldon, and the lovely and agree-
able lady as is Doctor Strong's wife, are too sweet on one an-
other. Really the time is come (we being at present all
mixing ourselves up with what oughtn't to be), when Doctor
Strong must be told that this was full as plain to everybody
as the sun, before Mr. Maldon went to India ; that Mr. Mal-
don 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 honor,
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 enter-
tained."

" 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 â€” quite put out, you know (and
very proper in him as a father ; I'm 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, " Iâ€”
God forgive me â€” I thought you had."

MISCHIEF.

601

"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 Anne
pleasure, by making some provision for the companion of ber
childhood. Nothing else."

" So I found," said Mr. Wickfield. " I couldn't doubt it,
when you told me so. But I thought â€” I implore you to re-
member the narrow construction which has been my besetting
sin â€” that, in a case where there was so much disparity in point
of years â€” "

" That's the way to put it, you see, Master Copperfield ! "
observed Uriah, with fawning an offensive pity.

" â€” a Udy of such youth, and such attractions, however
real her respect for you, might have been influenced in mar-
rying, 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
entreat you to consider what it was ; I am forced to confess
now, having no escape â€” "

" No ! There's no way out of it, Mr. Wickfield, sir,*
observed Uriah, " when it's got to this."

" â€” 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 subjectfull of unpleasantness
to everybody. But since we have got so far, I ought to tako
the liberty of mentioning that Copperfield har. noticed it too."

6o2

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

I turned upon him, and asked him how he dared refer tf
me !

" Oh ! it's very kind of you, Copperfield," returned Uriah,
undulating all over, " and we all know what an amiable char
acter 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 Doctoi
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 honor, to my
thinking, than any disguise he could have effected, said :

" I have been much to blame. I believe I have been very
much to blame. I have exposed one whom I hold in my
heart, to trials and aspersions â€” I call them aspersions, even
to have been conceived in anybody's inmost mind â€” of which
she never, but for me, could have been the object."

Uriah Heep gave a kind of snivel. I think to express
sympathy.

"Of which my Annie," said the Doctor, "never, but for
me, could have been the object. Gentlemen, 1 am old now,
as you know ; I do not feel, to-night, that I have much to live
for. But my life â€” my Life â€” upon the truth and honor of the
dear lady who has been the subject of this conversation ! "

I do not think that the best embodiment of chivalry, the
realization of the handsomest and most romantic figure ever
imagined by painter, could have said this with a more impress
sive and affecting dignity than the plain oVl Doctor did.

" But I am not prepared," he went on, " to deny â€” perhaps I
may have been, without knowing it, in some degree prepared
to admit â€” that I may have unwittingly ensnared that lady into
an unhappy marriage. I am a man quite unaccustomed to ob-
serve ; and I cannot but believe that the observation of sev-
eral people, of different ages and positions, all too plainly
tending in one direction (and that so natural), is better thafi
mine "

MISCHIEF.

603

I have 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
extremely young. I took her to myself when her charactei
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 â€” no gentle-
menâ€” 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 uninteirupted 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 â€” I have been a pool
dreamer, in one way or other, all my life â€” 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 try ing hour. But, beyond this, gen-
tlemen, the dear lady's name never must be coupled with 3
*vord, a breath, of doubt."

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 un-
happiness I have occasioned, as submissively as I can. It is
she who should reproach ; not I. To save her from miscon-
struction, 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 â€” may it come soon, if it be His merciful pleasure ! â€”
when my death shall release her from constraint, I shall close
my eyes upon her honored 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 mannner, 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 â€” what an excellent man !
â€” 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 to-
gether ? "

As we stood front to front, I saw so plainly, in the stealthy
exultation of his face, what I already so plainly knew ; I mean
that he forced his confidence upon me, expressly to make mc
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 tingle as if I had burnt them

MISCHIEF.

605

He caught the hand in his, and we stood in that connec-
tion, looking at each other. We stood" so, a long time j long
enough for me to see the white marks of my fingers die out of
the deep red of his cheek, and leave it a deeper red.

" Copperfield," he said at length, in a breathless voice,
" have you taken leave of your senses ? "

" I have taken leave of you," said I, wresting my hand
away. " You dog, I'll know no more of you."

" Won't you ? " said he, constrained by th~e pain of his
cheek to put his hand there. " Perhaps 3'ou won't be able to
help it. Isn't this ungrateful of you, now?"

M 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 color that could make
eyes ugly.

" Copperfield," he said, removing his hand from his cheek,
" you have always gone against me. I know you always used
to be against me at Mr. Wickfield's."

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

" And yet I always liked you, Copperfield ! " he rejoined.

I deigned to make him no reply ; and, taking up my hat,
was going out to bed, when he came between me and the
door.

" Copperfield," he said, " there must be two parties to a
quarrel. I won't be one."

" You may go the devil ! 99 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/*

6o6

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

The necessity of carrying on this dialogue (his part h,
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 1
always had expected, and had never yet been disappointed in,
I opened the door upon him, as if he had been a great walnut
put there to be cracked, and went out of the house. But he
slept out of the house too, at his mother's lodging ; and before
I had gone many hundred yards, came up with me.

"You know, Copperfield," he said, in my ear (I did not
turn my head), " you're in quite a wrong position ; " which 1
felt to be true, and that made me chafe the more; "you can't
make this a brave thing, and you can't help being forgiven. I
don't intend to mention it to mother, nor to any living soul.
I'm determined to forgive you. But I do wonder that you
should lift your hand against a person that you knew to be so
umble ! "

I felt only less mean than he. He knew me better than I
knew myself. If he had retorted or openly exasperated me.
it would have been a relief and a justification ; but he had put
me on a slow fire, on which I lay tormented half the night.

In the morning when I came out, the early church bell was
ringing, and he was walking up and down with his mother.
He addressed me as if nothing had happened, and I could
do no less than reply. I had struck him hard enough to give
him the toothache, I suppose. At all events his face was tied
up in a black silk handkerchief, which, with his hat perched
on the top of it, was far from improving his appearance. I
heard that he went to a dentist's in London on the Monday
morning, and had a tooth out. I hope it was a double one.

The Doctor gave out that he was not quite well ; and re-
r mained 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 pre-
-ceding 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

6o>

weeks elapsed before I saw the least change in her. It came
en slowly, like a cloud when there is no wind. At first, she
seemed to wonder at the gentle compassion with which the
Doctor spoke to her, and at his wish that she should have her
mother with her, to relieve the dull monotony of her life.
Often, when we were at work, and she was sitting by, I would
see her pausing and looking at him with that memorable face,
Afterwards, I sometimes observed her rise, with her eyes full
of tears, and go out of the room. Gradually, an unhappy
shadow fell upon her beauty, and deepened every day. Mrs.
Markleham was a regular inmate of the cottage then ; but she
talked and talked, and saw nothing.

As this change stole on Annie, once like sunshine in the
Doctor's house, the Doctor became older in appearance, and
more grave ; but the sweetness of his temper, the placid kind-
ness of his manner, and his benevolent solicitude for her, it
they were capable of any increase, were increased. I saw him
once, early on the morning of her birthday, when she came to
sit in the window while we were at work (which she had always
done, but now began to do with a timid and uncertain air that
I thought very touching), take her forehead between his hands,
kiss it, and go hurriedly away, too much moved to remain. I
saw her stand where he had left her, like a statue ; and then
bend down her head, and clasp her hands, and weep, I cannot
say how sorrowfully.

Sometimes, after that, I fancied that she tried to speak,
even to me, in intervals when we were left alone. But she
never uttered word. The Doctor always had some new pro-
ject 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 obser-
vation was. I am as unable to explain, as I daresay he would

6o8

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

have been to assist me in the task. But, as I have recorded
in the narrative of my school days, his veneration for the
Doctor was unbounded ; and there is a subtlety of perception
in real attachment, even when it is borne towards man by
one of the lower animals, which leaves the highest intellect
behind. To this mind of the heart, if I may call it so, in Mr.
Dick, some bright ray of the truth shot straight.

He had proudly resumed his privilege, in many of his
spare hours, of walking up and down the garden with the
Doctor ; as he had been accustomed to pace up and down
The Doctor's Walk at Canterbury. But matters were no
sooner in this state, than he devoted all his spare time (and
got up earlier to make it more) to these perambulations. If
he had never been so happy as when the Doctor read that
marvellous performance, the Dictionary, to him ; he was now
quite miserable unless the Doctor pulled it out of his pocket,
and began. When the Doctor and I were engaged, he now
fell into the custom of walking up and down, with Mrs. Strong,
and helping her to trim her favorite flowers, or weed the beds.
I daresay 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 â€¢ and he became what no one else
could be â€” 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 ex-
pressed, in everything he did, a delicate desire to be her
friend ; showering sympathy, trustfulness, and affection, out
of every hole in the watering-pot ; when I think of him never
wandering in that better mind of his to which unhappiness
addressed itself, never bringing the unfortunate King Charles
into the garden, never wavering in his grateful service, never
diverted from his knowledge that there was something wrong,
or from his wish to set if right â€” I really feel almost ashamed
of having known that he was not quite in his wits, taking
account of the utmost I have done with mine.

"Nobody but myself, Trot, knows what that man is I"
my aunt would proudly remark, when we conversed about
it " Dick will distinguish himself yet ? " â€¢ * - J

MISL H/EK

I must refer to one other topic before I close this chapter.
While the visit at the Doctor's was stilT 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 doingjwell : and con-
sequently was much surprised to receive, about this time, the
following letter from his amiable wife : â€”

" Canterbury, Monday Evening.

" You will doubtless be surprised, my dear Mr. Copper-
field, to receive this communication. Still more so, by its
contents. Still more so, by the stimulation of implicit con-
fidence 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. Copperneld, 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 consult-
ing 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 â€” I allude to his wife â€” and has invariably,,
on our retirement to rest, recalled the events of the day.

" You will picture to yourself, my dear Mr. Copperneld,
Avhat 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 â€” I again allude to his wife â€” 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
sevtre. He is estranged from our eldest son and daughter,
tie has no pride in his twins, he looks w th an eye of coldness

6io

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

even on the unoffending stranger who last became a member
of our circle. The pecuniary means of meeting our expenses,
kept down to the utmost farthing, are obtained from him with
great difficulty, and even under fearful threats that he will
Settle himself (the exact expression) ; and he inexorably
refuses to give any explanation whatever of this distracting
policy,

" This is hard to bear. This is heart-breaking. If you
will advise me, knowing my feeble powers, such as they are,
how you think it will be best to exert them in a dilemma so
unwonted, you will add another friendly obligation to the many
you have already rendered me. With loves from the children,
and a smile from the happily-unconscious stranger, I remain,
dear Mr. Copperfield,

" Your afflicted,

" Emma Micawber."

I did not feel justified in giving a wife of Mrs. Micawber's
experience any other recommendation, than that she should
try to reclaim Mr. Micawber by patience and kindness (as I
knew she would in any case) ; but the letter set me thinking
about him very much.

CHAPTER 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 sum-
mer 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.

ANOTHER RETROSPECT.

611

Not a thread changes, in the house of the two little bird-
like ladies. The clock ticks over the fire-place, the weather-
glass hangs in the hall. Neither clock nor weather-glass is
ever right ; but we believe in both, devoutly.

I have come legally to man's estate. I have attained the
dignity of twenty-one. But this is a sort of dignity that may
be thrust upon one. Let me think what I have achieved.

I have tamed that savage stenographic mystery. I make
a respectable income by it. I am in high repute for my
accomplishment in all pertaining to the art, and am joined
with eleven others in reporting the debates in Parliament for
a Morning Newspaper. Night after night, I record predic-
tions 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 al-
ways before me, like a trussed fowl â€¢ 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-
humored 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, con-
sidering 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, i.i
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. Al-
together, 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

6l2

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

house at Dover, to good advantage), is not going to remain
here, but intends removing herself to a still more tiny cottage
close at hand. What does this portend ? My marriage {
Yes !

Yes ! I am going to be married to Dora ! Miss Lavinia
and Miss Clarissa have given their consent ; and if ever canary
birds were in a flutter, they are. Miss Lavinia, self-charged
with the superintendence of my darling's wardrobe, is con-
stantly 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 cere-
mony 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 J
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 every-
thing over and over again. She rubs everything that can be
nibbed, until it shines, like her own honest forehead, with per-
petual 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 â€” where I still occasionally
attend, for form's sake, when I have time ? The realization of
my boyish day-dreams is at hand. I am going to take out the
license.

It is a little document to do so much ; and Traddles cor*

ANOTHER RETROSPECT.

613

templates it, as it lies upon my desk, half in admiration, half
in awe. There are the names in the sweet old visionary con-
nection^ 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 hu-
man life, looking down upon our Union ; and there is the
Archbishop of Canterbury invoking a blessing on us in print
and doing it as cheap as could possibly be expected.

Nevertheless, I am in a dream, a flustered, happy, hurried
dream. I can't believe that it is going to be ; and yet I can't
believe but that everyone I pass in the street must have some
kind of perception, that I am to be married the day after to-
morrow. The Surrogate knows me, when I go down to be
sworn â€¢ 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.

" 1 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 dear-
est g'rl â€” "

" When are you to meet her at the coach ? " I ask.

"At seven," says Traddles, looking at his plain old silver
watch â€” 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 al-
most as pleased as if I were going to be married myself, to
think that this event is coming to such a happy termination.
And really the great friendship and consideration of personally
associating Sophy with the joyful occasion, and inviting her to
oe 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, â€” not absolutely beauti-
ful, but extraordinarily pleasant, â€” and is one of the most
genial, unaffected, frank, engaging creatures I have ever seen.

614

DAVID COPPERFIELD

Traddles presents her to us with great pride ; and rubs
his hands for ten minutes by the clock, with every individ-
ual hair upon his head standing on tiptoe, when I congratu-
late 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 1 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 of two
ago, and had never been to bed since. I can't make out
when yesterday was. I seem to have been carrying the
license about, in my pocket, many months.

Next day, too, when we all go in a flock to see the house
â€” our house â€” Dora's and mine â€” I am quite unable to re-*
gard myself as its master. I seem to be there, by permis-
sion of somebody else. I half expect the real master to
come home presently, and say he is glad to see me. Such
a beautiful little house as it is, with everything so bright
and new ; with the flowers on the carpets looking as if
freshly gathered, and the green leaves on the paper as if
they had just come out; with the spotless muslin curtains,
and the blushing rose-colored furniture, and Dora's garden
hat with the blue ribbon â€” do I remember, now, how I loved
her in such another hat when I first knew her !â€” 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-mor-
row's dress, bonnet and all, for me to see. I take my lifJs

ANOTHER RETROSPECT.

wife to my heart ; and Miss Lavinia- gives a little scream be-
cause I tumble the bor.net, 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 sh ould 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 Laviiua gives another little scream, and begs me to un-
derstand that Dora is only to be looked at, and on no account
to be touched. So Dora stands in a delightful state of con-
fusion for a minute or two, to be admired ; and then takes off
her bonnet â€” looking so natural without it ! â€” and runs away
with it in her hand ; and comes dancing down again in her
own familiar dress, and asks Jip if I have got a beautiful little
wife, and whether he'll forgive her for being married, and
kneels down to make him stand upon the cookery-book, for
the last time in her single life.

I go home, more incredulous than ever, to a lodging that
I have hard by ; and get up very early in the morning, to ride
to the Highgate road and fetch my aunt.

I have never seen my aunt in such state. She is dressed
in lavender-colored 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 color 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 wi h a sort of wonder-
ing pity for the unfortunate people who have no part in it,
but are sweeping out the shops, and going to their daily oc-
cupations.

My aunt sits with my hand in hers all the way. When we
stop a little way short of the church, to put down Peggotty,
whom we have brought on the box, she gives it a squeeze}
and me a kiss.

" God bless you, Trot ! My own boy never could be
dearer. I think of poor dear Baby this morning."

5i6

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" So do I. And of all I owe to you, dear aunt."

" Tut, child I " says my aunt ; and gives her hand in ovei
flowing cordiality to Traddles, who then gives his to Ml
Dick, who then gives his to me, who then give mine to Trad-
dles, 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
â€¢on me. I am too far gone for that.

The rest is all a more or less incoherent dream.

A dream of their coming in with Dora ; of the pew-opener
arranging us, like a drill-sergeant, before the altar rails ; of
my wondering, even then, why pew-openers must always be
the most disagreeable females procurable, and whether there
is any religious dread of a disastrous infection of good humor
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 flavoring the church with rum ; of the ser-
vice begining 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
endeavoring to represent herself as a model of sternness, with
tears rolling down her face ; of little Dora trembling very
much, and making her responses in faint whispers.

Of our kneeling down together, side by side ; of Dora's
trembling less and less, but always clasping Agnes by the
hand â€¢ 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 tell-
ing 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.

ANOTHER RETROSPECT.

617

Of their whispering, as we pass, what a youthful couple
we are, and what a pretty little wife she is. Of our all being
so merry and talkative in the carriage going back. Of Sophy
telling us that when she saw Traddles (whom I had entrusted
with the license) asked for it, she almost fainted, having been
â€¢convinced that he would contrive to lose it, or to have his
pocket picked. Of Agnes laughing gayly ; and of Dora being
so fond of Agnes that she will not be separated from her, but
still keeps her hand.

Of there being a breakfast, with abundance of things,
pretty and substantial, to eat and drink, whereof I partake,
as I should do in any other dream, without the least percep-
tion of their flavor ; eating and drinking, as I may say, noth-
ing but love and marriage, and no more believing in the
viands than in anything else.

Of my making a speech in the same dreamy fashion, w\tn-
out having an idea of what 1 want to say, beyond such as
may be comprehended in the full conviction that I haven't
said it. Of our being very sociably and simply happy (always
in a dream though) ; and of Jip's having wedding cake, and
its not agreeing with him afterwards.

Of the pair of hired post-horses being ready, and of Dora's
going away to change her dress. Of my aunt and Miss Clar-
issa remaining with us ; and our walking in the garden ; and
my aunt, who has made quite a speech at breakfast touching
Dora's aunts, being mightily amused with herself, but a little
proud of it too.

Of Dora's being ready, and of Miss Lavinia's hovering
about her, loth to lose the pretty toy that has given her so
much pleasant occupation. Of Dora's making a long series
of surprised discoveries that she has forgotten all sorts of
little things ; and of everybody's running everywhere to fetch
them.

Of their all closing about Dora, when at last she begins to
say good-bye, looking, with their bright colors and ribbons,
like a bed of flowers. Of my darling being almost smothered
among the flowers, and coming out, laughing and crying both
together, to my jealous arms.

Of my wanting to carry Jip (who is to go along with us),
and Dora's saying, No, that she must carry him, or else he'll
think she don't like him any more, now she is married, and
will break his heart. Of our going, arm in arm, and Dora
stopping and looking back, and saying, " If I have ever been

6i8

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

cross or ungrateful to anybody, don't remember it ! " and
bursting into tears.

Of her waving her little hand, and our going nway once
more. Of her once more stopping and looking back, and
hurrying to Agnes, and giving Agnes, above all the others,
her last kisses and farewells.

We drive away together, and I awake from the dream. X
believe it at last. It is my dear, dear, little wife beside me,
whom I love so well !

" Are you happy now, you foolish boy ? " says Dora, " and
sure you don't repent? "

I have stood aside to see the phantoms of those days ga
bv me. They are gone, and I resume the journey of my story.

CHAPTER XLIV.

OUR HOUSEKEEPING.

It was a strange condition of things, the honeymoo being
over, and the bridesmaids gone home, when I found -myself
sitting down in my own small house with Dora ; quite thrown
out of employment, as I may say, in respect of the delicious
old occupation of making love.

It seemed such an extraordinary thing to have Dora always
there. It was so unaccountable not to be obliged to go out
to see her, not to have any occasion to be tormenting myself
about her, not to have to write to her, not to be scheming and
devising opportunities of being alone with her. Sometimes oi
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 â€” nobody's business any more â€” all the romance of our
engagement put away upon a shelf, to rust â€” no one to please
but one another â€” 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 sottly down to talk to me as I ate my sup-
per. It was such a stupendous thing to know for certain that

OUR HOUSEKEEPING

619

she put her hair in papers. It was altogether an astonish-
ing event to see her do it !

I doubt whether two young birds could have known less
about keeping house, than I and my pretty Dora did. We
had a servant, of course. She kept house for us. I have still
a latent belief that she must have been Mrs. Crupp's daughter
in disguise, we had such an awful time of it jyith 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 (par-
ticularly 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 be
was too big for the premises. He made the cottage smaller
than it need have been, by being so very much out of pro-
portion to it. Besides which, the walls were not thick, and
whenever he passed the evening at our house, we always
knew of it by hearing one continual growl in the kitchen.

Our treasure was warranted sober and honest. I am
therefore willing to believe that she. was in a fit when we
found her under the boiler; and that the deficient tea-
spoons were attributable to the dustman.

But she preyed upon our minds dreadfully. We felt
our inexperience, and were unable to help ourselves. We
should have been at her mercy, if she had had any ; but
she was a remorseless woman, and had none. She was
the cause of our first little quarrel.

"My dearest life," I said one day to Dora, "do you
think Mary Anne has any idea of time ? "

"Why, Doady ?" inquired Dora, looking up, innocent-
ly, from her drawing.

" My love, because it's five, and we were to have dined
at four."

Dora glanced wistfully at the clock, and hinted that
she thought it was too fast.

" On the contrary, my love," said I, referring to my
watch, " it's a few minutes too slow."

My little wife came and sat upon my knee, to coax me to

620

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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.
I " 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 establish-
ment 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 some-
times, 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 â€” n â€” no ! " replied Dora, faintly.

" My love, how you tremble ! "

" Because I know you're going to scold me," exclaimed
Dora, in a piteous voice.

" My sweet, I am only going to reason."

" Oh, but reasoning is worse than scolding ! " exclaimed
Dora, in despair. " I didn't marry to be reasoned with. If
you meant to reason with such a poor little thing as I am, you
ought to have told me so, you cruel boy."

I tried to pacify Dora, but she turned away her face, and
shook her curls from side to side, and said " You cruel, cruel
boy ! " so many times, that I really did not exactly know what
to do : so I took a few turns up and down the room in my
uncertainty, and came back again.

OUR HOUSEKEEPING.

621

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, 1 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 â€” and I am afraid to say how long we waited for break-
fastâ€” and then the water didn't boil. I don't mean to re-
proach 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 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 â€” 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
jrou 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.
u I felt it so much that I wouldn't on any account have even
mentioned that you bought a Salmon â€” which was too much
for two. Or that it cost one pound six â€” 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 ! "

622

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 misera-
ble. I had the conscience of an assassin, and was haunted by
â€¢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, setting 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 sup-
posed possible so soon after the fulfilment of my brightest
hopes. As I sat thinking, I happened to meet my aunt's eyes,
which were resting on my face. There was an anxious ex-
pression in them, but it cleared directly.

" I assure you, aunt," said I, " I have been quite unhappy
myself all night, to think of Dora's being so. But I had no
other intention than to speak to her tenderly and lovingly
about our home-affairs."

My aunt nodded encouragement.

" You must have patience, Trot," said she.

" Of course. Heaven knows I don't mean to be unrea-
sonable, 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 didc

" Don't you think, aunt," said I, after some further contem-
plation 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 sur-
prise.

" I look back on my life, child," said my aunt, " and ?!
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

OCR HOUSEKEEPING. 623

have been a grumpy, frumpy, way wardsort 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 â€” 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 J" cried I.

"Child, child,'' said my aunt, smoothing her dress, "how
soon it might come between us, or how unhappy I might
make our Little Blossom, if I meddled in anything, a prophet
couldn't say. I want our pet to like me, and be as gay as a
butterfly. Remember your own home, in that second mar-
riage and never do both me and her the injury you have
hinted at ! "

I comprehended, at once, that my aunt was right ; and 1
comprehended the full extent of her generous feeling towards
my dear wife.

" These are early days, Trot," she pursued, "and Rome
was not built in a day, nor in a year. You have chosen freely
for yourself," a cloud passed over her face for a moment, I
thought; "and you have chosen a very pretty and a very-
affectionate creature. It will be your duty, and it will be youi
pleasure too â€” of course I know that ; I am not delivering a
lecture â€” 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 can
not, 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 said this in a sprightly way, and gave me a
kiss to ratify the blessing.

" Now," said she, " light my little lantern, andseemeinto
my bandbox by the garden path ; " for there was a communi-
cation between our cottages in that direction. "Give Betsey
Trotvvood's love to Blossom, when you come back ; and what-
ever you do, Trot, never dream of setting Betsey up as a
scarecrow, for if I ever saw her in the glass, she's quite
grim enough and gaunt enough in her private capacity ! "

With this my aunt tied her head up in a handkerchief
with which she was accustomed to make a bundle of it on
such occasions ; and I escorted her home. And she stood in

624

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

her garden, holding up her little lantern to light me back, I
thought her observation of me had an anxious air again ; but
I was too much occupied in pondering on what she had said^
and too much impressed â€” for the first time, in reality â€” 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.

1 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 ou.
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 mildy, on
receipt of wages, that I was surprised, until I found out about
the teaspoons, and also about the little sums she had borrow-
ed in my name of the tradespeople without authority. After
an interval of Mrs. Kidgerbury â€” the oldest inhabitant of
Kentish Town, I believe, who went out charing, but was toe-
feeble to execute her conceptions of that art â€” 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
parlor, as into a bath, with the tea-things. The ravages com-
mitted by this unfortunate rendering her dismissal necessary,
she was succeeded (with intervals of Mrs. Kidgerbury) by a
long line of Incapables ; terminating in a young person of
genteel appearance, who went to Greenwich Fair in Dora's
bonnet. After whom I remember nothing but an average
equality of failure.

Everybody we had anything to do with seemed to cheat us.
Our appearance in a shop was a signal for the damaged goods,
to be brought out immediately. If we bought a lobster, it was
full of water. All our meat turned out to be tough, and there
was hardly any crust to our loaves. In search of the princi-
ple on which joints ought to be roasted, to be roasted enough,
and not too much, I myself referred to the Cookery Book, and'

OUR HOUSEKEEPING.

625,

found it there established as the allowance of a quarter of an
hour to every pound, and say a quarter over. But the princi-
ple 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 fail-
ures 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 apologize, I suppose that
might have happened several times to anybody. Also the
chimney on fire, the parish engine, and perjury on the part of
the Beadle. But I apprehend that we were personally unfortu-
nate in engaging a servant with a taste for cordials, who swelled
our running account for porter at the public-house by such in-
explicable items as " quartern rum shrub (Mrs. C.) ; " " Half-
quartern gin and cloves (Mrs. C.) ; " " Glass rum and pepper-
mint (Mrs. C.) " â€” the parentheses always referring to Dora,
who was supposed, it appeared on explanation, to have imbibed
the whole of these refreshments.

One of our first feats in the housekeeping way was a little
dinner to Traddles. I met him in town, and asked him to
walk out with me that afternoon. He readily consenting, I
wrote to Dora, saying I would bring him home. It was pleas-
ant 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 want-
ing to complete his bliss.

I could not have wished for a prettier little wife at the op-
posite end of the table, but I certainly could have wished, when
we sat down, for a little more room. I did not know how it
was, but though there were only two of us, we were at once
always cramped for room, and yet had always room enough to
lose everything in. I suspect it may have been because noth-
ing had a place of its own, except Jip's pagoda which invari-

626

DAVID COPPER FIELD

ably blocked up the main thoroughfare. . On the presen\
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 fcrk ; but he protested, with his own good-humor,
" Oceans of room, Copperfield ! I assure you, Oceans ! "

There was another thing I could have wished ; namely,
*;hat Jip had never been encouraged to walk about the table-
cloth during dinner. I began to think there was something
disorderly in his being there at all, even if he had not been
in the habit of putting his foot in the salt or the melted-butter.
On this occasion he seemed to think he was introduced ex-
pressly 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 conver-
sation.

However, as I knew how tender-hearted my dear Dora
was, and how sensitive she would be to any slight upon her
favorite, I hinted no objection. For similar reasons I made
no allusion to the skirmishing plates upon the floor ; or to the
disreputable appearance of the castors, which were all at sixes
and sevens, and looked drunk ; or to the further blockade of
Traddles by wandering vegetable dishes and jugs. I could
not help wondering in my own mind, as I contemplated the
boiled leg of mutton before me, previous to carving it, how it
came to pass that our joints of meat were of such extraordi-
nary shapes â€” and whether our butcher contracted for all the
-deformed sheep that came into the world ; but I kept my re-
flections to myself.

" My love," said I, " what have you got in that dish ? "

I could not imagine why Dora had been making tempting
little faces at me, as if she wanted to kiss me.

" Oysters dear," said Dora, timidly.

" Was that your thought ? " said I, delighted.

" Ye-yes, Doady," said Dora.

" There never was a happier one ! " I exclaimed, laying
down the carving-knife and fork. " There is nothing Traddles
likes so much ! "

" Ye-yes, Doady," said Dora, " and so I bought a beauti-
ful little barrel of them, and the man said they were very good.
But I â€” I am afraid there's something the matter with them.
They don't seem right." Here Dora shook her head, and dia-
monds twinkled in her eves,

OUR HOUSEKEEPING.

" They are only opened in both shells," said I. " Take
the top one off, my love."

" But it won't come off," said Dora, trying very hard, and
looking very much distressed.

" Do you knowj Copperfield," said Traddles, cheerfully
examining the dish, " I think it is in consequence â€” they are
capital oysters, but I think it is in consequence â€” of their
never having been opened."

They never had been opened ; and we 'had no oyster-
knives â€” and couldn't have used them if we had ; so we looked
at the oysters and ate the mutton. At least we ate as much
of it as was clone, and made up with capers. If I had per-
mitted him, I am satisfied that Traddles would have made a
perfect savage of himself, and eaten a plateful of raw meat, to
express enjoyment of the repast ; but I would hear of no such
immolation on the altar of friendship ; and we had a course
of bacon instead ; there happening, by good fortune, to be
cold bacon in the larder.

My poor little wife was in such affliction when she thought
I should be annoyed, and in such a state of joy when she
found I was not, that the discomfiture I had subdued very
soon vanished, and we passed a happy evening ; Dora sitting
with her arm on my chair while Traddles and I discussed a
glass of wine, and taking every opportunity of whispering in
my ear that it was so good of me not to be a cruel, cross old
boy. By and bye she made tea for us ; which it was so pretty
to see her do, as if she was busying herself with a set of doll's
tea-things, that I was not particular about the quality of the
beverage. Then Traddles and I played a game or two at
cribbage ; and Dora singing to the guitar the while, it seemed
to me as if our courtship and marriage were a tender dream
of mine, and the night when I first listened to her voice were
not yet over.

When Traddles went away, and I came back into the parlor
from seeing him out, my wife planted her chair close to mine,
and sat down by my side.

" I am very sorry," she said. " Will you try to teach me,
Doady?"

" I must teach myself first, Dora," said I. " I am as bad
as you, love."

" Ah ! But you can learn," she returned ; " and you are a
clever, clever man ! "

"Nonsense, mouse I " said T

628

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" I wish," resumed my wife, after a long silence, " that 1
could have gone down into the country for a whole year, and
lived with Agnes ! "

Her hands were clasped upon my shoulder, and her chin
rested on them, and her blue eyes looked quietly into mine.

" Why so ? " I asked.

" I think she might have improved me, and I think I might
ihave learned from her" said Dora.

" All in good time, my love. Agnes has had her father to
take care of for these many years, you should remember. Even
when she was quite a child, she was the Agnes whom we
know," said I.

" Will you call me a name I want you to call me ? " inquired
Dora, without moving.

" What is it ? " I asked with a smile.

"It's a stupid name," she said, shaking her curls for a
moment. " Child-wife."

I laughingly asked my child-wife what her fancy was in
desiring to be so called. She answered without moving, other-
wise 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 disap-
pointing, 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 be-
havior ; 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

OUR HOUSEKEEPING.

629

in my memory. I may not have used it to the best account ;
I was young and inexperienced \ but I never turned a deaf ear
to its artless pleading.

Dora told me, shortly afterwards, that she was going to be
a wonderful housekeeper. Accordingly, she polished the tablets,
pointed the pencil, bought an immense account-book, carefully
stitched up with a needle and thread all the leaves of the
Cookery Book which Jiphad torn, and made quite a desperate
little attempt " to be good," as she called it. But the figures
had the old obstinate propensity â€” they would not add up
When she had entered two or three laborious items in the ac-
count-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 â€” for I wrote a good deal now, and was beginning in a
small way to be known as a writer â€” 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 diver-
sion in Jip's favor, and some inking of his nose, perhaps, as a
penalty. Then she would tell Jip to lie down on the table in-
stantly, " like a lion " â€” which was one of his tricks, though I
cannot say the likeness was striking â€” and, if he were in an
obedient humor, 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 splut-
tered. Then she would take up another pen, and begin to
write, and say in a low voice, " Oh, it's a talking pen, and will
disturb Doady ! " And then she would give it up as a bad job,
and put the account-book away, after pretending to crush the
lion with it.

Or, if she were in a very sedate and serious state of mind,
she would sit down with the tablets, and a little basket of
bills and other documents, which looked more like curl-papers
than anything else, and endeavor 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

630

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

would look so unhappy, that it gave me pain to see her bright
face clouded â€” and for me ! â€” and I would go softly to her, and
say :

" What's the matter, Dora ? "

Dora would look up hopelessly, and reply, " They woirt
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 be-
wildered, that the remembrance of her natural gayety 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 embitter-
ment of my life. When I walked alone in the fine weather,
and thought of the summer days when all the air had been
filled with my boyish enchantment, I did miss something of
the realization of my dreams ; but I thought it was a softened
^lory of the Past, which nothing could have thrown upon the
present time. I did feel, sometimes, for a little while, that I
could have wished my wife had been my counsellor ; had had
more character and purpose, to sustain me, and improve me
by ; had been endowed with power to fill up the void which
somewhere seemed to be about me ; but I felt as if this were
an unearthly consummation of my happiness, that never had
been meant to be, and never could have been.

I was a boyish husband as to years. I had known the
softening influence of no other sorrows or experiences than
those recorded in these leaves. If I did any wrong, as I may
have done much, I did it in mistaken love, and in my want of

OUR HOUSEKEEPING.

631

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 be
fore, in reference to our scrambling household arrangements ;
but I had got used to those, and Dora I was pleased to see
was seldom vexed now. She was bright and cheerful in the
old childish way, loved me dearly, and was happy with her
old trifles.

When the debates were heavy â€” I mean as to length, not
quality, for in the last respect they were not often otherwise â€”
and I went home late, Dora would never rest when she heard
my footsteps, but would always come downstairs to meet me.
When my evenings were unoccupied by the pursuit for which
I had qualified myself with so much pains, and I was engaged
in writing at home, she would sit quietly near me, however
late the hour, and be so mute, that I would often think she
had dropped asleep. But generally, when I raised my head,
I saw her blue eyes looking at me with the quiet attention of
which I have already spoken.

" Oh, what a weary boy ! " said Dora one night, when I
met her eyes as I was shutting up my desk.

" What a weary girl ! " said I. " That's more to the pur-
pose. You must go to bed another time, my love. It's far
too late for you."

" No, don't send me to bed ! " pleaded Dora, coming to
my side. " Pray, don't do that ! "

" Dora ! "

To my amazement she was sobbing on my neck.
" Not well, my dear ! not happy ! "

" Yes ! quite well, and very happy ! " said Dora. " But
say you'll let me stop, and see you write."

" Why, what a sight for such bright eyes at midnight ! " I
replied.

" Are they bright, though ? " returned Dora, laughing.
" I'm so glad they're bright."
" Little Vanity ! " said I.

But it was not vanity ; it was only harmless delight in my
admiration. I knew that very well, before she told me so.

" If you think them pretty, say I may always stop and see
you write ! " said Dora. " Do you think them pretty ? w

" Very pretty."

" Then let me always stop and see you write.

632

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" 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 ? â€” 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 satin her old place with a spare
bundle of pens at her side. Her triumph in this connection
with my work, and her delight when I wanted a new pen â€”
which I very often feigned to do â€” suggested to me a new way
of pleasing my child-wife. I occasionally made a pretence of
wanting a page or two of manuscript copied. Then Dora
was in her glory. The preparations she made for this great
work, the aprons she put on, the bibs she borrowed from the
kitchen to keep off the ink, the time she took, the innumer-
able 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 â€” but Dora was
pleased, and that pleased me. She was quite satisfied that a
good deal was effected by this make-belief of housekeeping;
and was as merry as if we had been keeping a baby-house,,
for a joke.

So we went on. Dora was hardly less affectionate to my
aunt than to me, and often told her of the time when she was
afraid she was " a cross old thing." I never saw my aunt
unbend more systematically to anyone. She courted Jip,
though Jip never responded ; listened, day after day, to the
guitar, though I am afraid she had no taste for music, never
attacked the Incapables, though the temptation must have-
been severe ; went wonderful distances on foot to purchase,.

MR. DICK FULFILS MY AZWT'S PREDICTIONS. 633

AS surprises, any trifles that she found out that Dora wanted ;
and never came in by the garden, and missed her from the
room, but she would call out, at the foot of the stairs, in a
voice that sounded cheerfully all over the house :
" Where's Little Blossom ? "

CHAPTER XLV.

MR. DICK FULFILS MY AUNT'S PREDICTIONS.

It was some time now, since I had left the Doctor. Liv-
ing in his neighborhood, 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 Doc-
tor'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 lar 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 j
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 commend-
ing his design of lightening the load of her life.

"My clear soul," she said to him one day when I wa^
present, " you know there is no doubt it would be a little
pokey for Annie to be always shut up here."

The Doctor nodded his benevolent head.

"When she comes to her mother's age," said Mrs. 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 rub-
ber, and I should never care to come out. But I am not
Annie, you know ; and Annie is not her mother."

634

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Surely, surely," said the Doctor.

" You are the best of creatures â€” 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 â€” now do you ?
â€” 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 you;'
Dictionary, for example. What a useful work a Dictionary is !
What a necessary work ! The meanings of words ! Without
Doctor Johnson, or somebody of that sort, we might have
been at this present moment calling an Italian-iron a bed-
stead. But we can't expect a Dictionary â€” especially when it's
makingâ€” 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. Thafs
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
e'ervice. I am ready to go with Annie to operas, concerts, ex-
hibitions, all kinds of places ; and you shall never find that I
am tired. Duty, my dear Doctor, before every consideration
in the universe ! "

She was as good as her word. She was one of those
people who can bear a great deal of pleasure, and she never/
flinched in her perseverance in the cause. She seldom go!
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 re-
monstrance always was, " Now, my dear Annie, I am sure you
know better ; and I must tell you, my love, that you are not
making a proper return for the kindness of Doctor Strong."

This was usually said in the Doctor's presence, and ap

MR. DICK FULFILS MY A UNT S PREDICTIONS. 635

peared to me to constitute Annie's principal inducement for
withdrawing her objections when she made any. But in gen-
eral she resigned herself to her mother, and went where the
Old Soldier would.

J t rarely happened now that Mr. Maldon accompanied
them. Sometimes my aunt and Dor .1 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 tha"t 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 sus-
picions.

My aunt rubbed her nose sometimes when she happened
to be alone with me, and said she couldn't make it out; she
wished they were happier; she didn't think our military
friend (so she always called the Old Soldier) mended the
matter at all. My aunt further expressed her opinion, " that
if our military friend would cut off those butterflies, and give
'em to the chimney-sweepers for May-day, it would look like
the beginning of something sensible on her part."

But her abiding reliance was on Mr. Dick. That man had
evidently an idea in his head, she said ; and if he could only
once pen it up into a corner, which was his great difficulty, he
would distinguish himself in some extraordinary manner.

Unconscious of this prediction, Mr. Dick continued to
occupy precisely the same ground in reference to the Doctor
and to Mrs. Strong. He seemed neither to advance nor to
recede. He appeared to have settled into his original 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 parlor, 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 yout
aunt ? "

" A little." I replied.

636

DAVID COPFERFIELD*

"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 ques-
tion to you."

"As many as you please," said I.

"What do you consider me, sir? " asked Mr. Dick, fold*
ing his arms.

" A dear old friend," said I.

"Thank you, Trotwood," returned Mr. Dick, laughing,
and reaching across in high glee to shake hands with me.

" But I mean, boy," resuming his gravity, " what do you
consider me in this respect ? " touching his forehead.

I was puzzled how to answer, but he helped me with a
word.

"Weak?" said Mr. Dick.

"Well," I replied, dubiously. "Rather so."

"Exactly ! " cried Mr. Dick, who seemed quite enchanted
by my reply. " That is, Trotwood, when they took some of
the trouble out of you-know-who's head, and put it you know
where, there was a â€” " Mr. Dick made his two hands revolve
very fast about each other a great number of times, and then
bi ought 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 into
a whisper, " I am simple."

I would have qualified that conclusion, but he stopped me.

" Yes, I am ! She pretends I am not. She won't hear of
it ; but I am. I know I am. If she hadn't stood my friend,
sir, I should have been shut up, to lead a dismal life these
many years. But I'll provide for her ! I never spend the
copying money. I put it in a box. I have made a will. I'll
leave it all to her. She shall be rich â€” 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 honor he has

MR. DICK FULFILS MY AUNT'S PREDICTIONS. 637

always done me. Not proud in his wisdom. Humble, humble
â€” condescending even to pool Dick, who is simple and knows
nothing. I have sent his name up, on a scrap of paper, to
the kite, along the string, wrhen 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. V

" And his beautiful wife is a star," said Mr. Dick. " A
shining star. I have seen her shine, sir. But," bringing his
chair nearer, and laying one hand upon my knee â€” " clouds,
sir â€” 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 re-
plied. " 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
giave again, and leaning forward as before, said â€” first respect-
fully taking out his pocket-handkerchief, as if it really did rep-
resent 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 ? "

638

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" For the same reason," I returned.

" Then, I have got it, boy ! " said Mr. Dick. And he stood
up before me, more exultingly than before, nodding his headj
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 sim-
pleton, a weak-minded person â€” present company, you know !
striking himself again, " may do what wonderful people may
not do. I'll bring them together, boy. I'll try. They'll not
blame me. They'll not object to me. They'll not mind what
I do, if it's wrong. I'm only Mr. Dick. And who minds
Dick? Dick's nobody! Whoo ! " He blew' a slight, con-
temptuous 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 â€” simple Dick â€” mad Dick. I ha<ve been
thinking, sir, for some time, that I was getting it, and now I
have got it. After what you have said to me, I am sure I
have got it. All right ! "

Not another word did Mr. Dick utter on the subject ; but
he made a very telegraph of himself for the next half-hour (to
the great disturbance of my aunt's mind), to enjoin inviolable
secrecy on me.

To my surprise, I heard no more about it for some two or
three weeks, though I was sufficiently interested in the result
of his endeavors ; descrying a strange gleam of good sense â€” -
I say nothing of good feeling, for that he always exhibited â€” â–
in the conclusion to which he had come. At last I began to
believe, that, in the flighty and unsettled state of his mind, he
had either forgotten his intention or abandoned it.

One fair evening, when Dora was not inclined to go out,
my aunt and I strolled up to the Doctor's cottage. It was
autumn, when there were no debates to vex the evening air ;
and I remember how the leaves smelt like our garden at
Blunderstone as we trod them under foot, and how the old,
unhappy feeling, seemed to go by, on the sighing wind.

It was twilight when we reached the cottage. Mrs. Strong
was just coming out of the garden, where Mr. Dick yet lin-
gered, busy with his knife, helping the gardener to point some
stakes. The Doctor was engaged with some one in his study;

MR. DICK' FULFILS MY AUNT'S PREDIC TIOJVS. 63$

but the visitor would be gone directly, Mrs. Strong said, and
oegged 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 neighbors as we were.

We had not sat here many minutes, when Mrs. Markleham,
who usually contrived to be in a fuss about something, came
bustling in, with her newspaper in her hand, and said, out of
breath, " My goodness gracious, Annie, why didn't you tell me
there was 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, sink-
ing on the sofa. " I never had such a turn in all my life ! "

" Have you been to the Study, then, mama ? " asked Annie.

"Been to the Study, my ciear ! " she returned emphatically.
" Indeed I have ! I came upon the amiable creature â€” if you'll
imagine my feelings, Miss Trotwood and David â€” in the act of
making his will."

Her daughter looked round from the window quickly.

" In the act, my dear Annie," repeated Mrs. Markleham^
spreading the newspaper on her lap like a table-cloth, and
patting her hands upon it, " of making his last Will and Tes-
tament. The foresight and affection of the dear ! I must
tell you how it was. I really must, in justice to the darling â€” â–
for he is nothing less ! â€” tell you how it was. Perhaps you
know, Miss Trotwood, that there is never a candle lighted in
this house, until one's eyes are literally falling out of one's
head with being stretched to read the paper. And that there
is not a chair in this house, in which a paper can be what I
call, read, except one in the Study. This took me to the
Study, where I saw a light. I opened the door. In company
with the dear Doctor were two professional people, evidently
connected with the law, and they were all three standing at
the table : the darling Doctor pen in hand. ' This simply
expresses then,' said the Doctor â€” Annie, my love, attend to the
very words â€” 1 this simply expresses then, gentlemen, the con-,
fidence I have in Mrs. Strong, and gives her all uncondition-
ally ? ' One of the professional people replied, i And gives-
her all unconditionally.' Upon that, with the natural feelings
of a mother, I said, 1 Good God, I beg your pardon ! ' fell over
the door-step, and came away through the little back passage
where the pantry is

640

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Mrs. Strong opened the window, and went out into tht
veranda, where she stood leaning against a pillar.

" But now isn't it, Miss Trotwood, isn't it, David, invigor.
atLig," said Mrs. Markleham, mechanically following her with
her eyes, " to find a man at Doctor Strong's time of life, with
the strength of mind to do this kind of thing ? It only shows
how right I was. I said to Annie, when Doctor Strong paid
a very flattering visit to myself, and made her the subject of a
declaration and an offer, I said, ' My dear, there is no doubt
whatever, in my opinion, with reference to a suitable provision
for you, that Doctor Strong will do more than he binds him-
self 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 wkh my paper, for
I am a poor creature without news. Miss Trotwood, David,
pray come and see the Doctor."

I was conscious of Mr. Dick's standing in the shadow of
the room, shutting up his knife, when we accompanied her to
the Study ; and of my aunt's rubbing her nose violently, by
the way, as a mild vent for her intolerance of our military
friend ; but who got first into the Study, or how Mrs. Markle-
ham 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,â€” 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 sup-
ported 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

MR. DICK FULFILS MY AUNT'S PREDICTIONS. 641

dignity that mingled with the supplicating attitude of his wife,
^he amiable concern of Mr. Dick, and the earnestness with
which my aunt said to herself, " That man mad ! " (triumph-
antly expressive of the misery from which she had saved him)
â€” I see and hear, rather than remember, as I write about it.

" Doctor ! " said Mr. Dick. " What is it that's amis; *
Look here ! "

" Annie ! " cried the Doctor. " Not at' my feet, my
dear ! "

" Yes ! " she said. " I beg and pray that no one will
leave the room ! Oh, my husband and father, break this
long silence. Let us both know what it is that has come
between us ! "

Mrs. Markleham, by this time recovering the power of
speech, and seeming to swell with family pride, and motherly
indignation, here exclaimed, " Annie, get up immediately, and
don't disgrace everybody belonging to you by humbling your-
self like that, unless you wish to see me go out of my mind on
the spot ! "

" Mama ! " returned Annie. " Waste no words on me, for
my appeal is to my husband, and even you are nothing here."

" Nothing ! " exclaimed Mrs. Markleham. " Me, nothing !
the child has taken leave of her senses. Please to get me a
glass of water ! "

I was too attentive to the Doctor and his wife, to give any
heed to this request ; and it made no impression on anybody
else ; so Mrs. Markleham panted, stared, and fanned herself.

" Annie ! " said the Doctor, tenderly taking her in his.
hands. " My dear ! If any unavoidable change has come, in
the sequence of time, upon our married life, you are not 1 1
blame. The fault is mine, and only mine. There is no change
in my affection, admiration, and respect. I wish to make you
happy. I truly love and honor you. Rise, Annie, pray ! "

But she did not rise. After looking at him for a little
while, she sank down closer to him, laid her arm across his
knee, and dropping her head upon it, said :

" If I have any friend here, who can speak one word for me,
or for my husband in this matter ; if I have any friend here,
who can give a voice to any suspicion that my heart has some-
times whispered to me ; if I have any friend here, who honors
my husband, or has ever cared for me, and has anything within
his knowledge, no matter what it is, that may help to mediate
between us, â€” I implore that friend to speak I "

642

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

There was a profound silence. After a few moments of
painful hesitation, I broke the silence.

" Mrs. Strong," I said, " there is something within mv
knowledge, which I have been earnestly entreated by Doctor
Strong to conceal, and have concealed until to-night. But I
believe the time has come when it would be mistaken faith
and delicacy to conceal it any longer, and when your appeal
absolves me from his injunction."

She turned her face towards me for a moment, and I knew
that I was right. I could not have resisted its entreaty, if
the assurance that it gave me had been less convincing.

" Our future peace," she said, " may be in your hands. I
trust it confidently to your not suppressing anything. I know
beforehand that nothing you, or any one, can tell me, will
show my husband's noble heart in any other light than one.
Howsoever it may seem to you to touch me, disregard that.
I will speak for myself, before him, and before God after-
wards."

Thus earnestly besought, I made no reference to the Doc-
tor for his permission, but, without any other compromise of
the truth than a little softening of the coarseness of Uriah
Heep, related plainly what had passed in that same room that
night. The staring of Mrs. Markleham during the whole
narration, and the shrill, sharp interjections with which she
occasionally interrupted it, defy description.

When I had finished, Annie remained, for some few mo-
ments, silent, with her head bent down as I have described.
Then, she took the Doctor's hand (he was sitting in the same
attitude as when we had entered the room), and pressed it to
her breast, and kissed it. Mr. Dick softly raised her ; and
she stood, when she began to speak, leaning on him, and
looking down upon her husband â€” from whom she never turned
her eyes.

" All that has ever been in my mind, since I was married,"
she said in a low, submissive, tender voice, " I will lay bare
before you. I could not live and have one reservation, know-
ing what I know now."

" Nay, Annie," said the Doctor, mildly, " I have never
doubted you, my child. There is no need ; indeed there is
no need, my dear."

"There is great need," she answered, in the same way, " thai
I should open my whole heart before the soul of generosity
and truth, whom, year by year, and clay by day, I have loved
and venerated more and more, as Heaven knows ! "

MR. DICK FULFILS MY AUNT'S PREDICTIONS 643

" Really," interrupted Mrs. Markleham, '; if I have any
discretion at all â€” "

(" Which you haven't, you Marplot," observed my aunt, in
an indignant whisper.)

â€” "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," saic.
Annie, without removing her eyes from his face, " and he wiD
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 â€” the friend of
my dead father â€” who was always dear to me. I can remem-
ber nothing that I know, without remembering him. He
stored my mind with its first treasures, and stamped his char-
acter 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. Markle
ham.

" 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, grate-
fully attached to him. I looked up to him I can hardly de-
scribe how â€” 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
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 mar-
ried."

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

â€” At Saint Alphage, Canterbury," said Mrs. Markleham
(" Confound the woman ! " said my aunt, " she won't be
quiet ! ")

" I never thought," proceeded Annie, with a heightened
color, " 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. Those moments have been more of late, than I can
count ; but not â€” my generous husband ! â€” not for the reason
you suppose ; for in my heart there is not a thought, a recol-
lection, or a hope, that any power could separate from you ! "

She raised her eyes, and clasped her hands, and looked as
beautiful and true, I thought, as any Spirit. The Doctor looked
on her, henceforth, as steadfastly as she on him.

" Mama is blameless," she went on, " of having ever urged
you for herself, and she is blameless in intention everyway, I
am sure, â€” but when I saw how many importunate claims were
pressed upon you in my name ; how you were traded on in
my name ; how generous you were, and how Mr. Wickfield,
who had your welfare very much at heart, resented it ; the first
sense of my exposure to the mean suspicion that my tender-
ness was bought â€” and sold to you, of all men, on earth â€” fell
upon me, like unmerited disgrace, in which I forced you to
participate. I cannot tell you what it was â€” mama cannot im-
agine what it was â€” 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 honor of 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 â€” 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 " â€” she spoke softly,
but without any hesitation â€” " very much. We had been little
lovers once. If circumstances Lad not happened otherwise /

MR. DICK FULFILS MY A UNT'S PREDICTIONS. 645

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 in
terest, or some strange application that I could not divine,
"There can be no disparity in marriage like-unsuitability of
mind and purpose " â€” " no disparity in marriage like unsuita-
bility of mind and purpose."

" There is nothing," said Annie, ** that we have in com-
mon. I have long fcund 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 munh>
cence, 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 scru-
tiny 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
â– â€” 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, witl> a short groan, leaned back in her
easy chair, and retired behind her fan, as if she were never
coming out any rnore.,^-"

646

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" I have neyer, but in your presence, interchanged a word
with him from that time ; then, only when it has been neces-
sary for the avoidance of this explanation. Years have
passed since he knew from me, what his situation here was.
The kindnesses you have secretly done for his advancement,
and then disclosed to me, for my surprise and pleasure, have
been, you will believe, but aggravations of the unhappiness
and burden of my secret."

She sunk down gently at the Doctor's feet, though he did
his utmost to prevent her ; and said, looking up, tearfully,
into his face :

" Do not speak to me yet ! Let me say a little more !
Right or wrong, if this were to be done again, I think I should
do just the same. You never can know what it was to be de-
voted 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 appearances con-
firming 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 disrespecl
I had undergone, it was because I honored you so much, and
so much wished that you should honor me ! "

" Annie, my pure heart ! " said the Doctor, " my clear 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 my-
self (as indeed it did), when I had that to tell, it was still be-
cause I honored you so much, and hoped that you might one
day honor 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 â€” steadfastly meant,
and purposed to myself â€” to bear the whole weight of knowing
the unworthiness of one to whom you had been so good. And
now a last word, dearest and best of friends ! The cause of
the late change in you, which I have seen with so much pain
and sorrow, and have sometimes referred to my old apprehen-
sionâ€” at other times to lingering suppositions nearer to the
truth â€” has been made clear to-night ; and by an accident I

MR. DICK FULFILS MY AUNT'S PREDICTIONS. 647

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
Â«>f your priceless confidence ; but with all this knowledge fresh
upon me, I can lift my eyes to this clear 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 5 never wavered in tEe 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 gray 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 succeed-
ing year I have known this better, as I have esteemed you
more and more. Oh, take me to your heart, my husband, for
my love was founded on a rock, and it endures ! "

In the silence that ensued, my aunt walked gravely up to
Mr. Dick, without at all hurrying herself, and gave him a hug
and a sounding kiss. And it was very fortunate, with a view
to his credit, that she did so ; for I am confident that I detected
him at that moment in the act of making preparations to stand
on one leg, as an appropriate expression of delight.

" You are a very remarkable man, Dick ! " said my aunt,
with an air of unqualified approbation ; " and never pretend to
be anything else, for I know better ! "

With that, my aunt pulled him by the sleeve, and nodded
to me ; and we three stole quietly out of the room, and came
away.

" That's a settler for our military friend, at any rate," said
my aunt, on the way home. " I should sleep the better foi
that, if there was nothing else to be glad of ! "

" She was quite overcome, I am afraid," said Mr. Dick, with
great commiseration.

" What ! Did you ever see a crocodile overcome ? " inquired
my aunt.

" I don't think I ever saw a crocodile," returned Mr. Dick,
mildly.

" There never would have been anything the matter, if it
hadn't been for that old Animal," said my aunt, with strong
emphasis. " It's very much to be wished that some mothers
would leave their daughters abr.e after marriage, and not be

648

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

so violently affectionate. They seem to think the only return
that can be made them for bringing an unfortunate young
woman into the world â€” God bless my soul, as if she asked to
be brought, or wanted to come ! â€” 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 pur-
pose." "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 XLVI.

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 â€” for my success had steadily increased with my
steady application, and I was engaged at that time upon my
first work of fiction â€” I came past Mrs. Steerforth's house. I
had often passed it before, during my residence in that
neighborhood, though never when I could choose another
road. Hovvbeit, 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

INTELLIGENCE.

passer-by, I should have probably supposed that some child-
less person lay dead in it. If I had happily possessed no
knowledge of the place, and had seen it often in that change-
less 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 imagina-
tion, incidental to the occupation with which my thoughts had
been busy, it was more than commonly suggestive. I fell into
a brown study as I walked on, and a voice at my side made
me start.

It was a woman's voice, too. I was not long in recollect-
ing Mrs. Steerforth's little parlor-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 tve 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.

She saw me as I advanced, and rose for a moment to re-
ceive me. I thought her, then, still more colorless and thin
than when I had seen her last : the flashing eyes still brighter,
and the scar still plainer.

650

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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-favored 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 ! " â€” as if she were calling to some unclean beast.

" You will lestrain any demonstrative championship or
rengeance in this place, of course, Mr. Copperfield ? " said
she, looking over her shoulder at me with the same ex-
pression.

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 respect-
ability, 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.

INTELLIGENCE.

65'

â€¢'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, Switzer-
land, Italy â€” in fact, almost all parts."

He looked at the back of the seat, as if he were address-
ing himself to that ; and softly played upon it with his hands,
as if he were striking chords upon a dumb piano.

" Mr. James took quite uncommonly to the young woman ;
and was more settled, for a length of time, than I have known
him to be since I have been in his service. The young
woman was very improvable, and spoke the languages ; and
wouldn't have been known for the same country-person. I
noticed that she was much admired wherever we went."

Miss Dartle put her hand upon her side. I saw him steal
a glance at her, and slightly smile to himself.

"Very much admired, indeed, the young woman was.
What with her dress ; what with the air and sun ; what with
being made so much of ; what with this, that, and the other,
her merits really attracted general notice."

He made a short pause. Her eyes wandered restlessly i
over the distant prospect, and she bit her nether lip U |
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

652

DA VID COPPER FIELD.

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 morn-
ing, from the neighborhood of Naples, where we had a villa
(the young woman being very partial to the sea), and, under
pretence of coming back in a day or so, left it in charge with
me to break it out, that for the general happiness of all con*
cerned, he was " â€” here an interruption of the short cough â€” Â«
"gone. But Mr. James, I must say, certainly did behave ex-
tremely honorable ; for he proposed that the young woman
should marry a very respectable person, who was fully
prepared to overlook the past, and who was, at least, as good
as anybody the young woman could have aspired to in a regu-
lar way â€¢ her connections 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 tc dc 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 vio-
lence 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 mar le floor."

Mis: Dartle, leaning back upon the seat, with a light of
exultation in her face, seemed almost to caress the sounds this
fellow had uttered.

" But when I came to the second part of what had been
entrusted to me," said Mr. Littimer, rubbing his hands,
uneasily, "which anybody might have supposed would have
been, at all events, appreciated as a kind intention, then the

INTELLIGENCE

653

young woman came out in her true colors. A more outrage-
ous 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 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. Lit-
timer, catching at an excuse for addressing himself to some-
body. " 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 to 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 be-
fore 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
Dartleâ€”"

" Did I tell you not to speak to me ? " she said, with stern
contempt.

" You spoke to me, miss," he replied. " I beg your par-
don. But it is my service to obey."

4i Do your service," she returned. " Finish your story,
and go ! "

^54

DAVID COPPERFIELD

" When it was clear," he said, with infinite respectability,
and an obedient bow, " that she was not to be found, I went
to Mr. James, at the place where it had been agreed that I
should write to him, and informed him of what had occurred.
Words passed between us in consequence, and I felt it due to
my character to leave him. I could bear, and I have borne,
a great deal from Mr. James ; but he insulted me too far.
He hurt me. Knowing the unfortunate difference between
himself and his mother, and what her anxiety of mind was
likely to be, I took the liberty of coming home to Englands
and relating â€” "

" For money which I paid him," said Miss Dartle to me.

"Just so, ma'am â€” 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 â€” 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 tc
maintain."

After a momentary struggle with myself, I turned my eyes
upon him, and said, " You have heard my question. Consider
it addressed to yourself, if you choose. What answer do you
make ? "

" Sir," he rejoined, with an occasional separation and re-
union 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 proba-
ble, I consider, that Mr. James would encourage the receipt

INTELLIGENCE.

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

" Is that all ? " inquired Miss Dartle of me.

I indicated that I had nothing more to say. " Except," X
added, as I saw him moving off, "that I understand this
fellow's part in the wicked story, and that, as I shall make it
known to the honest man who has been her father from her
childhood, I would recommend him to avoid'going too much
into public."

He had stopped the moment I began, and had listened
with his usual repose of manner.

" Thank you, sir. But you'll excuse me if I say, sir, that
there are neither slaves nor slave-drivers in this country, and
that, people are not allowed to take the law into their own
hands. If they do, it is more to their own peril, I believe,
than to other people's. Consequently speaking, I am not at
all afraid of going wherever I may wish, sir."

With that, he made a polite bow ; and, with another tc
Miss Dartle, went away through the arch in the wall of holly
by which he had come. Miss Dartle and I regarded each
other for a little while in silence ; her manner being exactly
what it was, when she had produced the man.

" He says besides," she observed, with a slow curling of
her lip, " that his master, as he hears, is coasting Spain ; and
this done, is away to gratifiy his seafaring tastes till he is
weary. But this is of vo interest to you. Between these two
proud persons, mother and son, there is a wider breach than
before, and little hope of its healing, for they are one at heart,
and time makes each more obstinate and imperious. Neither
is this of any interest to you ; but it introduces what I wish
to say. This devil whom you make an angel of, I mean this
low girl whom he picked out of the tide-mud," with her black
eyes full upon me, and her passionate finger up, 1 may be
alive, â€” for I believe some common things are hard to die. If
she is, you will desire to have a pearl of such price found and
taken care of. We desire that, too ; that he may not by any
chance be made her prey again. So fai, 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 ad-
vancing behind me. It was Mrs. Steerforth, who gave me
htr hand more coldly than of yore, and with an augmentation

656

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

of her former stateliness of manner ; but still, I perceived â€”
and I was touched by it â€” with an ineffaceable remembrance
of my old love for her son. She was greatly altered. Het
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 e ye 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 ether 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 â€” 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 mis-
take."

" Well, Rosa, well ! " said Mrs. Steerforth, as the other
was about to interpose, " it is no matter. Let it be. You are
married, sir, I am told ? "

I answered that I had been some time married.

" And are doing well ? I hear little in the quiet life I
lead, but I understand you are beginning to be famous."

" I have been very fortunate," I said, " and find my name
connected with some praise."

" You have no mother ? " â€” in a softened voice.

"No."

" It is a pity," she returned. " She would have been proud
of you. Good night ! "

I took the hand she held out with a dignified, unbending

INTELLIGEA'CE.

657

air. and it was as calm in mine as if her breast had been at
peace. Her pride could still its very pulses, it appeared, and
draw the placid veil before her face, through which she sat
looking straight before her on the far distance.

As I moved away from them along the terrace, I could
not help observing how steadily they both sat gazing on the
prospect, and how it thickened and closed- around them.
Here and there, some early lamps were seen to twinkle in the
distant city ; and in the eastern quarter of the sky the lurid
light still hovered. But, from the greater part of the broad
valley interposed, a mist was rising like a sea, which, mingling
with the darkness, made it seem as if the gathering waters
would encompass them. I have reason to remember this, and
think of it with awe ; for before I looked upon those two
again, a stormy sea had risen to their feet.

Reflecting on what had been thus told me, I felt it right
that it should be communicated to Mr. Peggotty. On the
following evening I went into London in quest of him. He
was always wandering about from place to place, with his one
object of recovering his niece before him ; but was more in
London than elsewhere. Often and often, now, had I seen
him in the dead of night passing along the streets, searching,
among the few who loitered out of doors at those untimely
hours, for what he dreaded to find.

He kept a lodging over the little chandler's shop in Hun-
gerford Market, which I have had occasion to mention more
than once, and from which he first went forth upon his errand
of mercy. Hither I directed my walk. On making inquiry
for him, I learned from the people of the house that he had
not gone out yet, and I should find him in his room 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 mo.nent 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
onty raised his eyes when I laid my hand upon his shoulder.

u Mas'r Davy ! Thankee, sir ! thankee hearty, for this
visit ! Sit ye down. You're kindly welcome, sir ! "

" Mr. Peggotty," said I, taking the chair he handed me,
"don't expect much ! I have heard some news."

" Of Em'ly ! "

He put his hand, in a nervous manner, on bis mouth, and
turned pale, as be fixed his eyes on mine.

658

DAVID C0PPERF1ELD.

" 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 through-
out perfectly still. He seemed to pursue her figure through
the narrative, and to let every other shape go by him, as if it
were nothing.

When I had done, he shaded his face, and continued silent.
I looked out of the window for a little while, and occupied
myself with the plants.

" How do you fare to feel about it, Mas'r Davy ? " he
inquired at length.

" I think that she is living," I replied.

" I doen't know. Maybe the first shock was too rough,

and in the wildness of her art ! That there blue water

as she used to speak on. Could she have thowt o' that so
many year, because it was to be her grave ! "

He said this, musing, in a low, frightened voice ; and
walked across the little room.

" And yet," he added, " Mas'r Davy, I have felt so sure
as she was living â€” I have know'd, awake and sleeping, as it
was so trew that I should find her â€” I have been so led on by
it, and held up by it â€” that I doen't believe I can have been
deceived. No ! Em'ly's alive ! "

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

" My niece, Em'ly, is alive, sir ! " he said, steadfastly. " I
doen't know wheer it comes from, or how 'tis, but / am told
as she's alive ! "

, He looked almost like a man inspired, as he said it. I
waited for a few moments, until he could give me his undivided
attention ; and then proceeded to explain the precaution, that,
it had occurred to me last night, it would be wise to take.
" Now, my dear friend â€” " 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
â€” for where could she lose herself so readily as in this vast
city , and what would she wish to do, but lose and hide her-
self if she does not go home ? â€” "

INTELLIGENCE.

659

" 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
the world. Do you remember â€” hear what I say, with fortitude
'â€”think' of your great object ! â€” do you remember Martha ? "

" Of our town ? "
J I needed no other answer than his face.

" Do you know that she is in London ? "

"I have seen her in the streets," he answered with a
shiver.

"But you don't know," said I, "that Emily was charitable
to her, with Ham's help, long before she fled from home.
Nor, that, when we met one night, and spoke together in the
room yonder, over the way, she listened at the door.

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

" That night. I have never seen her since. I went back,
after parting from you, to speak to her, but she was gone. I
was unwilling to mention her to you then, and I am now ; but
she is the person of whom I speak, and with whom I think
we should communicate. ' Do you understand ? "

" Too well, sir," he replied. We had sunk our voices, al-
most to a whisper, and continued to speak in that tone.

" You say you have seen her. Do you think that you
could find her ? I could only hope to do so by chance."

" I think, Mas'r Davy, I know wheer to look."

" It is dark. Being together, shall we go out now, and try
to find her 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, Mas'r Davy," he said, as we came down
stairs, " when I thowt this girl, Martha, a'most like the dirt
underneath my Em'ly's feet. God forgive me, there's a dif-
ference now ! "

66o

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 be-
lieved it was dangerous ? What he supposed, for example,
Ham would do, if he and Steerforth ever should encounter ?

" I doen't know, sir," he replied. " I have thowt of it of-
tentimes, but I can't arrize myself of it, no matters."

I recalled to his remembrance the morning after her de-
parture, when we were all three on the beach. " Do you rec-
ollect," said I, " a certain wild way in which he looked out to
sea, and spoke about 1 the end of it ? ' "

" Sure I do ! " said he.

u What do you suppose he meant ? '

" Mas'r Davy," he replied, " I've put the question to my-
self a mort o' times, and never found no answer. And theer's
one curious thing â€” 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 him-
self 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

MARTHA

661

feel a woman's interest in the lost girl, if we spoke to her in a
quieter place, aloof from the crowd, and where we should be
less observed. I advised my companion, therefore, that we
should not address her yet, but follow her ; consulting in this,
likewise, an indistinct desire I had to know where she went.

He acquiescing, we followed at a distance, never losing
sight of her, but never caring to come very near, as she fre-
quently looked about. Once she stopped to listen to a band
of music, and then we stopped too.

She went on a long way. â€¢ Still we went on. It was evi-
dent, from the manner in which she held her course, that she
was going to some fixed destination ; and this, and her keep-
ing in the busy streets, and I suppose the strange fascination
in the secrecy and mystery of so following anyone, made me
adhere to my first purpose. At length she turned into a dull,
dark street, where the noise and crowd were lost ; and I said,
4< 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 Milbank 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
wagons 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

662

DAVID COPPERFIELDt

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 destina-
tion ; 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 neighborhood was a dreary one at that time ; as op
pressive, 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, paddies, anchors, diving-bells, windmill-sails,
and I know not what strange objects, accumulated by some
speculator, and grovelling in the dust, underneath which â€”
having sunk into the soil of their own weight in wet weather
â€¢ â€” they had the appearance of vainly trying to hide them-
selves. The clash and glare of sundry fiery Works upon the
river side, arose by night to disturb every thing 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 imiuence seemed
to have proceeded from it over the whole place. Or else it
looked as if it had gradually decomposed into that nightmare
condition, out of the overflowings of the polluted stream.

As if she were a part of the refuse it had cast out, and left
to corruption and decay, the girl we had followed strayed
down to the river's brink, and stood in the midst of this night-
picture, lonely and still, looking at the water

MARTHA.

C63

There were some boats and barges astrand in the mud,
and these enabled us to come within a few yards of her with-
out 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 un
settled 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 as-
surance 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 car-
ried 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 once
no harm in it â€” and it creeps through the dismal streets,
defiled and miserable â€” and it goes away, like my life, to a-
great sea, that is always troubled â€” and I feel that I must go
with it ! "

I have never known what despair was, except in the tone
of those words.

" I can't keep away from it. I can t forget it. It haunts
me day and night. It's the only thing in all the world that I
am fit for, or that's fit for me. Oh, the dreadful river ! "

664

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

The thought passed through my mind that in the face oi
my companion, as he looked upon her without speech or mo*
tion, I might have read his niece's history, if I had known
nothing of it. I never saw, in any painting or reality, horror
and compassion so impressively blended. He shook as if he
would have fallen ; and his hand â€” I touched it with my own,
for his appearance alarmed me â€” was deadly cold.

" She is in a state of frenzy," I whispered to him. " She
will speak differently in a little time."

I don't know what he would have said in answer. He
made some motion with his mouth, and seemed to think he
had spoken ; but he had only pointed to her with his out-
stretched hand.

A new burst of crying came upon her now, in which she
once more hid her face among the stones, and lay before us, a
prostrate image of humiliation and ruin. Knowing that this
state must pass, before we could speak to her with any hope,
I ventured to restrain him when he would have raised her,
and we stood by in silence until she became more tranquil.

"Martha," said I then, leaning down, and helping her to
rise â€” she seemed to want to rise as if with the intention of
going away, but she was weak, and leaned against a boat.
" Do you know who this is, who is with me ? "

She said faintly, "Yes."

" Do you know that we have followed you a long way to-
night ? "

She shook her head. She looked neither at him nor at
me, but stood in a humble attitude, holding her bonnet and
shawl in one hand, without appearing conscious of them, and
pressing the other, clenched, against her forehead.

" Are you composed enough," said I, " to speak on the
subject which so interested you â€” I hope Heaven may remem-
ber it ! â€” that snowy night ? "

Her sobs broke out afresh, and she murmured some in-
articulate thanks to me for not having driven her away from the
door.

" I want to say nothing for myself," she said, after a few
moments. " I am bad, I am lost. I have no hope at all. But
tell him, sir," she had shrunk away from him, " if you don't feel
too hard to me to do it, that T. never was in any way the cause
of his misfortune."

" It has never been attributed to you," I returned, ear
nestly responding to her earnestness.

MARTHA.

665

" It was you, if I don't deceive myself," she said, in a
broken voice, " that came into the kitchen, the night she took
such pity on me ; was so gentle to me ; didn't shrink away
from me like all the rest, and gave me such kind help ! Was
it you, sir ? "

" It was," said I.

" I should have been in the river long ago,'* she said,'
glancing at it with a terrible expression, " if any wrong to her
had been upon my mind. I never could have kept out of it
a single winter's night, if I had been free of any share in that ! "

" The cause of her flight is too well understood," I said.
" You are innocent of any part in it, we thoroughly believe,
â€” we know."

" Oh I might have been much the better for her, if I had had
a better heart ! " exclaimed the girl, with most forlorn regret ;
" for she was always good to me ! She never spoke a word
to me but what was pleasant and right. Is it likely I would
try to make her what I am myself, knowing what I am myself
so well ? When I lost everything that makes life dear, the
worst of all my thoughts was that I was parted for ever from
her ! "

Mr. Peggotty, standing with one hand on the gunwale
of the boat, and his eyes cast down, put his disengaged
hand before his face.

" And when I heard what had happened before that snowy
night, from some belonging to our town," cried Martha, " the
bitterest thought in all my mind was, that the people would
remember she once kept company with me, and would say
I had corrupted her ! When, Heaven knows, I would have
died to have brought back her good name ! "

Long unused to any self-control, the piercing agony of her
remorse and grief was terrible.

" To have died, would not have been much â€” what can I
say ? â€” I would have lived ! " she cried. " I would have lived
to be old, in the wretched streets â€” and to wander about,
avoided, in the dark â€” 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 â€” I would have done even
that to save her ! "

Sinking on the stones, she took some in each hand, and
clenched them up, as if she would have ground them. She
writhed into some new posture constantly : stiffening her arms,
twisting them before her face, as though to shut out from her

666

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

eyes the little light there was, and drooping her head, as if ii
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 oirse to my-
self, a living disgrace to every one I come near ! f Suddenly
she turned to my companions. "Stamp upon me, kill me/
When she was your pride, you would have thought T had done
, her harm if I had brushed against her in the strtet. You
can't believe â€” why should you ? â€” a syllable that comes out of
my lips. It would be a burning shame upon you, even now.
if she and I exchanged a word. I don't complain. I don't
say she and I are alike. I know there is a long, long way be<
tween us. I only say, with all my guilt and wretchedness upon
my head, that I am grateful to her from my soul, and love her.
Oh don't think that all the power I had of loving anything, is
quite worn out ! Throw me away, as all the world does. Kill
me for being what I am, and having ever known her ; but
don't think that of me ! "

He looked upon her, while she made this supplication, in
a wild distracted manner ; and, when she was silent, gently
raised her.

" Martha," said Mr. Peggotty, " God forbid as I should
judge you. Forbid as I, of all men, should do that, my girl !
You doen't know half the change that's come, in course of
time, upon me, when you think it likely. Well ! " he paused
a moment, then went on. " You doen't understand how 'tis
that this here gentleman and me has wished to speak to you.
You doen't understand what 'tis we has afore us. Listen
now ! "

His influence upon her was complete. She stood, 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 â€” wheer not â€” 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

MARTHA

667

being fond of him in course of time, and that my niece was
kiender daughter-like to me."

As she was silently trembling, he put her shawl carefully
about her, taking it up from the ground for that purpose.

"Whereby," said he, " I know, both as she would go to
the wureld's furdest end with me, if she could once see me
again ; and that she would fly to the wureld's-furdest end to
keep off seeing me. For though she ain't no call to doubt my
love, and doe n't â€” and doen't," he repeated, with a quiet as~
surance 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 de-
livering 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 â€” Mas'r Davy,
me, and all of us â€” that you are as innocent of everything that
has befell her, as the unborn child. You've spoke of her being
pleasant, kind, and gentle to you. Bless her, I knew she was !
I knew she always was, to all. You're thankful to her, and
you love her. Help us all you can to find her, and may
Heaven reward you ! "

She looked at him hastily, and for the first time, as if she
were doubtful of what he had said.

"Will you trust me? " she asked, in a low voice of aston-
ishment.

" Full and free ! " said Mr. Peggotty.

" To speak to her, if I should ever find her â€¢ 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 has been upon the river's brink
that night ; and then might all help, human and Divine, re-
nounce her evermore !

668

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 engaging
in this search, while depending on her own resources, shocked
us both. She continued steadfast. In this particular, his in-
fluence upon her was equally powerless with mine. She
gratefully thanked him, but remained inexorable.

"There may be work to be got," she said. " I'll try."

" At least take some assistance," I returned, " until you
have tried."

"I could not do what I have promised, for money," she
replied. " I could not take it, if I was starving. To give me
money would be to take away your trust, to take away the ob-
ject that you have given me, to take away the only certain
thing that saves me from the river."

" In the name of the great Judge," said I, " before whom
you and all of us must stand at His dread time, dismiss that
terrible idea ! We can all do some good, if we will."

She trembled, and her lip shook, and her face was paler,
as she answered :

" It has been put into your hearts, perhaps, to save a
wretched creature for repentance. I am afraid to think so,*
it seems too bold. If any good should come of me, I might
begin to hope ; for nothing but harm has ever come of my

MaRIHA.

669

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 na
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 ex-
pressed privation and endurance.

We followed her at a short distance, our way lying in the
same direction, unti? we came back into the lighted and popu-
lous streets. I had such implicit confidence in her declara-
tion, that I then put it to Mr. Peggotty, whether it would not
seem, in the onset, like distrusting her, to follow her any far-
ther. He being of the same mind, and equally reliant on herr
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 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 stand-
ing 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 1
recognized the man whom I had once supposed to be a delu-
sion of Mr. Dick's, and had once encountered with my aunt in
the streets of the city.

He was eating as well as drinking, and seemed to eat with
a hungry appetite. He seemed curious regarding the cottage,
too, as if it were the first time he had seen it. After stooping

670

DAVID C0PPERF1ELD.

to put the bottle on the ground, he looked up at the win-
dows, and looked about ; though with a covert and im-
patient air, as if he was anxious to be gone.

The light in the passage was obscured for a moment, anc*
my aunt came out, She was agitated, and told some money
into his hand. I heard it chink.

" What's the use of this ? " he demanded.

" I can spare no more," returned my aunt.

" Then I can't go," said he. " Here ! You may take it
back ! "

"You bad man," returned my aunt, with great emotion,
" how can you use me so ? But why do I ask ? It is because
you know how weak I am ! What have I to do, to free myaelf
for ever of your visits, but to abandon you to your deserts ? "

" And why don't you abandon me to my deserts ? " said he.

â€¢' You ask me why ! " returned my aunt. " What a heart
you must have ! "

He stood moodily rattling the money, and shaking his
head, until at length he said :

" Is this all you mean to give me, then ? "

" It is all I ca?i 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
v ;he long, long list of injuries you have done me ! "

" Ay ! " he returned. " It's all very fine ! â€” Well ! I must
do the best I can, for the present, I suppose."

In spite of himself, he appeared abashed by my aunt's in-
dignant 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 favor.

" 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, anc
don't speak to me for ten minutes."

MARTHA.

671

We sat down In her little parlor. My au .it 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 be
side me.

"Trot," said my aunt, calmly, " it's my husband."
" Your husband, aunt ? I thought he had-been dead ! w
"Dead to me," returned my aunt, "but living."
I sat in silent amazement.

" Betsey Trotwood don't look a likely subject for the ten-
der passion," said my aunt, composedly, "but the time was,
Trot, when she believed in that man most entirely. When
she loved him, Trot, right well. When there was no proof of
attachment and affection that she would not have given him.
He repaid her by breaking her fortune, and nearly break-
ing her heart. So she put all that sort of sentiment, once and
for ever, in a grave, and filled it up, and flattened it down."

" My dear good aunt ! "

" I left him," my aunt proceeded laying her hand as usual
on the back of mine, " generously. I may say at this distance
of time, Trot, that I left him generously. He had been so cruel
to me, that I might have effected a separation on easy terms for
myself ; but I did not. He soon made ducks and drakes of
what I gave him, sank lower and lower, married another wo-
man, 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 â€” I was
a fool ! â€” to be the soul of honor ! "

She gave my hand a squeeze, and shook her head.

" He is nothing to me now, Trot, less than nothing. But,
sooner than have him punished for his offences (as he would
be if he prowled about in this country), I give him more
money than I can afford, at intervals when he reappears, to
go away. I was a fool when I married him ; and I am so far
an incurable fool on that subject, that for the sake of what I.
once believed him to be, I wouldn't have even this shadow of
my idle fancy hardly dealt with. For I was in earnest, Trot,
if ever a woman was."

My aunt dismissed the matter with a .heavy sigh, and
smoothed her dress.

" There, my dear ! " she said. " Now, you know the
beginning, middle, and end, and all about it. We won't men-

672

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

tion 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.

1 labored 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 de-
serve.

It is not my purpose, in this record, though in all othe^
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 endeavor. I should have tried to find out what nature
and accident really had made me, and to be that, and nothing
else.

I had been writing, in the newspaper and elsewhere, so
prosperously, that when my new success was achieved, I 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 recognize the old drone
in the newspapers, without any substantial variation (except,
perhaps, that there is more of it) all the livelong session.

DOMESTIC,

673

I now write of the time when I had been married, I sup-
pose, 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
-espect 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, â€” as when we had a little
dinne r party, or a few friends in the evening, â€” 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 connection was hinted at, that we were obliged to keep
him. He had no mother â€” no anything in the way of a
relative, that I could discover, except a sister, who fled to
America the moment we had taken him off her hands ; and
he became quartered on us like a horrible young changeling.
He had a lively perception of his own unfortunate state, and
was always rubbing his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, or
stooping to blow his nose on the extreme corner of a little
pocket-handkerchief, which he never would take completely
out of his pocket, but always economized and secreted.

This unlucky page, engaged in an evil hour at six pounds
ten per annum, was a source of continual trouble to me. I
watched him as he grew â€” and he grew like scarlet beans â€” â–
with painful apprehensions of the time when he would begin
to shave ; even of the days when he would be bald or gray.
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 particu-
lar 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 remem-
ber, 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.

674

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 â€” 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 howshe had a little girl, who, early every mornings
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 ne vvdirection, and confessed to a knowledge
of burglarious intentions as to our premises, on the part of
the pot-boy, who was immediately taken up. I got to be so
ashamed of being such a victim, that I would have given him
any money to hold his tongue, or would have offered a round
bribe for his being permitted to run away. It was an 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 â€” not to say, heaping obligations on my head.

At last I ran away myself, whenever I saw an emissary of
the police approaching with some new intelligence, and lived
a stealthy life until he was tried and ordered to be transported.
Even then he couldn't be quiet, but was always writing us
letters ; and wanted so much to see Dora before he went
away, that Dora went to visit him, and fainted when she found
herself inside the iron bars. In short, I had no peace of my
life until he was expatriated, and made (as I afterwards heard)
a shepherd of, " up the country :' somewhere, I have no geo-
graphical idea where.

All this led me into some serious reflections, and presented
our mistakes in a new aspect, as I could not help communi-
catingto Doraone 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. w

" You have been silent for a long time, and now you are
going to be cross!" said Dora.

DOMESTIC.

675

" 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 c'eir," I began, " there is contagion in
us. We infect everyone about us."

I might have gone on in this figurative manner, if Dora's
face had not admonished me that she was wondering with all
her might whether I was going to propose any new kind of
vaccination, or other medical remedy, for this unwholesome
state of ours. Therefore I checked myself, and made my
meaning plainer.

" It is not merely, my pet," said I, " that we lose money
and comfort, and even temper sometimes, by not learning to
be more careful ; but that we incur the serious responsibility
of spoiling everyone who comes into our service, or has any
dealings with us. I begin to be afraid that the fault is not
entirely on one side, but that these people all turn out ill be-
cause 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 re-
move the handkerchief she pressed to her eyes, " this is not
only very ridiculous of you, but very wrong. In the first
place, it is 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 I
What shall I do 1 "

676

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" My darling girl," I retorted, " I really must entreat you to
be reasonable, and listen to what I did say, and do say. My
dear Dora, unless we learn to do our duty to those whom we
employ, they will never learn to do their duty to us. I am afraid
we present opportunities to people to do wrong, that never oughft
to be presented. Even if we were as lax as we are, in all our
arrangements, by choice â€” which we are not â€” even if we liked
it, and found it agreeable to be so â€” which we don't â€” I am per-
suaded we should have no right to go on in this way. We
are positively corrupting people. We are bound to think of
that. I can't help thinking of it, Dora. It is a reflection I am
unable to dismiss, and it sometimes makes me very uneasy.
There, dear, that's all. Come now. Don't be foolish ! "

Dora would not allow me, for a long time, to remove the
handkerchief. She sat sobbing and murmuring behind itr
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 aunt's
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.

J began immediately. When Dora was very childish, and
I would have infinitely preferred to humor her, I tried to be
grave â€” and disconcerted her, and myself too. I talked to
her on the subjects which occupied my thoughts ; and I read
Shakespeare to her â€” 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 â€” and she
started from them when I left them off, as if they had been
crackers. No matter how incidentally or naturally I endeav-
ored to form my little wife's mind, I could not help seeing
that she always had an instinctive perception of what I was
about, and became a prey to the keenest apprehensions. In
particular, it was clear to me, that she thought Shakespeare a
terrible fellow. The formation went on very slowly.

I pressed Traddles into the service without his knowledge }

DOMESTIC.

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 uponTraddles 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 ner-
vous 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. Find-
ing at last, however, that, although I had been all this time a
very porcupine or hedgehog, bristling all over with determina-
tion, I had effected nothing, it began to occur to me that per-
haps Dora's mind was already formed.

On further consideration this appeared so likely, that I
abandoned my scheme, which had had a more promising ap-
pearance in words than in action ; resolving henceforth to be
satisfied with my child-wife, and to try to change her into
nothing else by any process. I was heartily tired of being
sagacious and prudent by myself, and of seeing my darling
under restraint ; so, I bought a pretty pair of ear-rings for her
and a collar for Jip, and went home one day to make myself
agreeable.

Dora was delighted with the little presents, and kissed me
joyfully ; but there was a shadow between us, however slight,
and I had made up my mind that it should not be there. If
there must be such a shadow anywhere, I would keep it for
the future in my own breast.

I sat down by my wife on the sofa, and put the ear-rings
in her ears ; and then I told her that I feared we had not been
quite as good company lately, as we used to be, and that the
fault was mine. Which I sincerely felt, and which indeed it
was.

"The truth is, Dora, my life," I said, " I have been trying
to be wise."

" And to make me wise too," said Dora, timidly. " Haven't
you, Doady ? "

I nodded assent to the pretty inquiry of the raised eye
brows, and kissed the parted lips.

" It's cf not a bit of use," said Dora, shaking her head, until

678

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 will never like me. Are you sure
you don't think, sometimes, it would have been better to
haveâ€”"

" 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 favorite 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, in-
deed, 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 â€” really ? " inquired Dora, creeping closer
to me.

"Why should I seek to change," said I, "what has been
so precious to me for so long ? You never can show better
than as your own natural self, my sweet Dora ; and we'll try
no conceited experiments, but go back to our old way, and be
happy."

" And be happy ! " returned Dora. " Yes ! All day !
And you won't mind things going a tiny morsel wrong, some-
times ? "

" 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 1 "

" 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.

DOMESTIC.

679

So ended my last attempt to make any change in Dora.
1 had been unhappy in trying it ; I could not endure my own
solitary wisdom ; I could not reconcile it with her former
appeal to me as my child-wife. I resolved to do what I could,
in a quiet way, to improve our proceedings myself ; but I
foresaw that my utmost would be very little, or I must degen-
erate in*o 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 j but the happiness I had vaguely anticipated, once,
was not the happiness I enjoyed, and there was always some-
thing 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 â€”
I always regarded â€” as something that had been a dream of my
youthful fancy ; that was incapable of realization â€¢ that I was
now discovering to be so, with some natural pain, as all men did.
But, that it would have been better for me if my wife could
have helped me more, and shared the many thoughts in which
I had no partner ; and that this might have been, I knew.

Between these two irreconcilable conclusions : the one,
that what I felt was general and unavoidable ; the other, that
it was particular to me, and might have been different, I
balanced curiously, with no distinct sense of their opposition
to each other. When I thought of the airy dreams of youth
that are incapable of realization, I thought of the better state
preceding manhood that I had outgrown. And then the con-
tented days with Agnes, in the dear old house, arose before me,
Jike 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 incorpo
rated 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,

68o

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 snares were adjusted as the
case required. She was truly fond of me, and proud of me ;
and when Agnes wrote a few earnest words in her letters to
Dora, of the pride and interest with which my old friends
heard of my growing reputation, and read my book as if they
heard me speaking its contents, Dora read them out to me
with tears of joy in her bright eyes, and said I was a dear old
clever, famous boy.

" The first mistaken impulse of an undisciplined heart."
Those words of Mrs. Strong's were constantly recurring to me,
at this time ; were almost always present to my mind. I
awoke with them, often, in the night ; I remember to have
even read them, in dreams, inscribed upon the walls of houses.
For I knew, now, that my own heart was undisciplined when
it first loved Dora ; and that if it had been disciplined, it never
could have felt, when we were married, what it had felt in its
secret experience.

" There can be no disparity in marriage, like unsuitability
of mind and purpose." Those words I remembered too. I
had endeavored to adapt Dora to myself, and found it imprac-
ticable. 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."

" Do you think he is old ? " said Dora, astonished. " Ob
how strange it seems that Jip should be old J "

DOMESTIC.

11 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 per-
suasion ; 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, gayly, " and
his dislikes are not at all feeble. He has a good many years
before him, no doubt. But if you want a dog to race with,
Little Blossom, he has lived too well for that, and I'll give
you one."

" Thank you, aunt," said Dora faintly. " But don't, please ! ':

" No ? " said my aunt, taking off her spectacles.

" I couldn't have any other dog but Jip," said Dora. " It
would be so unkind to Jip ! Besides, I couldn't be such friends
with any other dog, but Jip ; because he wouldn't have known
me before I was married, and wouldn't have barked at Doady
when he first came to our house. I couldn't care for any
other dog but Jip, I am afraid, aunt."

" To be sure ! " said my aunt, patting her cheek again.
" You are right.'

" You are not offended," said Dora, " are you ? "

" Why, what a sensitive pet it is ! " cried my aunt, bending
over her affectionately. " To think that I could be offended 1 *

682

DA FID COPPERFIELD.

"No, no, I didn't really think so," returned Dora; "but
I am a little tired, and it made me silly for a moment â€” I am
always a silly little thing, you know ; but it made me more
silly â€” 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 â€” could I, Jip ? "
j Jip nestled closer to his mistress, and lazily licked her
hand.

" You are not so old, Jip, are you, that you'll leave your
mistress yet ? " said Dora. " We may keep one another com-
pany a little longer ! " 1

My pretty Dora ! When shs 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 motion-
less.

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 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 stair-
case, 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 i{
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," 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 !

/ AM IN VOL FED IN MYSTER Y. b8 Â£

CHAPTER XLIX.

I AM INVOLVED IN MYSTERY.-

1 received one morning by the post, the following letter,
dated Canterbury, and addressed to me at Doctors* Com-
mons ; which I read with some surprise :

" My 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 presume
ingto aspire to the liberty of addressing the companion of my
youth, by the familiar appellation of Copperfield ! It is suffi-
cient to know that the name to which I do myself the honor
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 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 purer hands.

" If your more important avocations should admit of your
ever tracing these imperfect characters thus far â€” which may
be, or may not be, as circumstances arise â€” you will naturally
inquire by what object am I influenced, then, in inditing the
present missive ? Allow mo 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.

DAVID COPPERFIELD,

" Without more directly referring to any latent ability that
may possibly exist on my part, of wielding the thunderbolt,
or directing the devouring and avenging flame in any quarter,
T may be permitted to observe, in passing, that my brightest
visions are for ever dispelled â€” that my peace is shattered and
my power of enjoyment destroyed â€” that my heart is no longer
in the right place â€” 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, be-
yond 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 revisit-
ing 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.

" 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 my-
self to throwing out the observation, that, at the hour and
place I have indicated, may be found such ruined vestiges as
yet

" Remain,
"Of

" Fallen Tower,

"WlLKINS MlCAWBER.

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

I read the letter over several times. Making due allow-
ance 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

r AM INVOLVED IN MYSTERY.

685

believed that something important lay hidden ar 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."

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

With that, Traddles, who was flushed with walking, and
whose hair under the combined effects of exercise and ex-
citement, stood on end as if he saw a cheerful ghost, produced
his letter and made an exchange with me. I watched him 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,
Copperfleld ! " â€” and then entered on the perusal of Mrs.
Micawber's epis le.

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 I 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. Micawber's con-
duct, of his wildness, of his violence. It has gradually aug-
mented, until it assumes the appearance of aberration of in-
tellect. 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 1 inform him that 1
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 un-
limited confidence. The slightest provocation, even being
asked if there is anything he would prefer for dinner, causes

686

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

him to express a wish for a separation. Last night on being
childishly solicited for twopence, to buy ' lemon-stunners' â€” a
!ocal sweetmeat â€” 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 heartrending
rituation.

" May I now venture to confide to Mr. T. the purport of
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 endeavor to step
in between Mr. Micawber and his agonized family ? Oh no?
for that would be too much !

" If Mr. Copperfield 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 benev-
olence to consider this communication strictly private, and on no
account whatever to be alluded to, however distantly, in the pres-.
ence 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'pain-
f ul consequences than any addressed immediately to one who
subscribes herself, in extreme distress,

" Mr. Thomas Traddle's respectful friend and suppliant^

" Emma Micawber.1"

" 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 â€” 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,

I AM INVOLVED IN MYSTERY.

687

Micawber's letter, and we were standing side by side com-
paring 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. Micaw-
ber."

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 men-
tioned 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 " pecu-
niary 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. Micaw-
ber, 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 after-
noon ; 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 expres-
sion, 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 ex-
cursion, and wore the old surtout and tights, but not quite
with the old air. He gradually picked up more and more of
:t 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
of Mrs. Copperfield in esse, and Mrs. Traddles in posse, â€” pre-
suming, that is to say, that my friend Mr. Traddles is not yet
United to the object of his affections, for weai and for woe."

We acknowledged his politeness, and made suitable replies.
He then directed our attention to the wall, and was beginning.

688

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" 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 Copperfleld," he returned, pressing my hand,
" your cordiality overpowers me. This reception of a shat-
tered fragment of the Temple once called Man â€” if I may be
permitted so to express myself â€” bespeaks a heart that is an-
honor to our common nature. I was about to observe that I â–
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 ; where 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-
fleeted 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. Copperfleld," returned Mr. Micawber, bitterly, " when
1 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 be
tween 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 mar.
would wish never to have passed. Such is the Bench in my
chequered career."

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

/ AM IN VOL FED IN MYSTER Y. 689

" I am, sir," interposed Mr. Micawber.
" I hope," said Traddles, " it is not because you have
conceived a dislike to the law â€” 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 what-
ever capacity you ask after my employer, I beg, without offence
to you, to limit my reply to this â€” theft 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 despera-
tion 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,
" is, as she always is, a pattern, and a bright example. My
dear Copperfield, she is the only starry spot in a miserable ex-
istence. My respect for that young lady, my admiration of
her character, my devotion to her for her love and truth, and
goodness ! â€” Take me," 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
Dut up his pocket-handkerchief, pulled up his shirt-collar, and

690

DAVID COPPEPF/ELD.

to delude any person in the neighborhood who might have
been observing him, hummed a tune with his hat very much
on one side. I then mentioned â€” not knowing what might be
lost if we lost sight of him yet â€” 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. Micawâ„¢
ber," 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,1' returned Mr. Micawber, " do with me as
you will ! I am a straw upon the surface of the deep, and am
tossed in all directions by the elephants â€” 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 encounter-
ing any difficulties by the way. I was very uneasy and very
uncertain in my mind what to say or do for the best â€” 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 exceedingly 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 vigor 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

I AM INVOL VED IN MYSTERY.

speech from the vocabulary of our coarser national spots-
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
dear sir ! " for Mr. Dick was shaking hands with him again, .
' I am deeply sensible of your cordiality ! "

" How do you find yourself ? " 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 wordsr
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-dispo-
sition to reveal nothing, that I was in a perfect fever. Trad-
dies, 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 at-
tempting 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 necessary 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
honor 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 Outcasts can ever hope to be "

692

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 pee]
the lemons that had been under my directions set before him
together with all the other appliances he used in making punch

t!l 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 em-
ployer, ma'am â€” Mr. Heep â€” once did me the favor to observe
to me, that if I were not in the receipt of the stipendiary emolu-
ments 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 any-
thing that I can perceive to the contrary, it is still probable
that my children may be reduced to seek a livelihood by per-
sonal 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
â€¢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 confi-
dently 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 and imple-
ments together, rose from his chair, pulled out his pockethand-
kerchief, 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,"

/ AM INVOLVED IN MYSTERY.

693

u Among friends, sir ? " repeated Mr. Micawber j 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 mat-
ter; deception, fraud, conspiracy are the matter; and the name
of the whole atrocious mass is â€” Heep ! "

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

" The struggle is over ! " said Mr. Micawber, violently ges-
ticulating with his pocket-handkerchief, and fairly striking ouc
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 scoun-
rel'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 I'll 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 â€” blown to frag-
mentsâ€” the â€” a â€” detestable â€” serpent â€” Heep ! I'll partake of
no one's hospitality, until I have â€” a â€” moved Mount Vesuvius
â€” to eruption â€” on â€” a â€” the abandoned rascal â€” Heep ! Re-
freshmentâ€” a â€” underneath this roof â€” particularly punch â€”

would a â€” choke me â€” unless â€” I had â€” previously â€” choked

the eyes â€” out of the head â€” a â€” of â€” interminable cheat, and
liar â€” Heep ! I- â€” a â€” I'll know nobody â€” and â€” a â€” say nothi-
ngâ€” and â€” a â€” live nowhere â€” until I have crushed â€” to â€” aâ€”
andiscoverable atoms â€” the â€” transcendent and immortal hypo*
crite and perjurei â€” Heep ! "

I really had some fear of Mr. Micawber's dying on the
spot. The manner in which he struggled through these inar-
ticulate 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
tnto a chair, steaming, and looked at us, with every possible
color in his face that he had no business theie, and an endless

694

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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

With this last repetition of the magic word that had kept
him going at all, and in which he surpassed all his previous
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 neigh-
boring tavern, at which he had called to write it : â€”

" Most secret and confidential.
" My 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 de
scribed.

" I trust I rendered tolerably intelligible my appointment
for the morning of this clay week, at the house of public en-
tertainment at Canterbury, where Mrs. Micawber and myself
had once the honor 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 shalf

MR. PEGGOTTY'S DREAM COMES TRUE. 695

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,

" â€” With the plain Inscription.

^'WlLKINS MlCAWBER."

CHAPTER L.

MR. PEGGOTTY'S DREAM COMES TRUE.

By this time, some months had passed, since our interview
on the bank of the river with Martha. I had never seen her
since, but she had communicated with Mr. Peggotty on several
occasions. Nothing had come of her zealous intervention \
nor could I infer, from what he told me, that any clue had
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 â€” â–
and I believe his honest heart was transparent to me â€” 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 honor 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 aj.1 his life, and
he knew that in all things wherein he wanted help he must do
his own part faithfully, and help himself. I have known him
set out in the night, on a misgiving that the light might not
be, by some accident, in the window of the old boat, and walk
to Yarmouth. I have known him, on reading something in
the newspaper, that might apply to her, take up his stick, and
go forth on a journey of three or four score miles. He made
his way by sea \o Naples, and back, after hearing the narra-
tive to which Miss Dartle had assisted me. All his journeys

696

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

were ruggedly performed \ for he was always steadfast in a
purpose of saving money for Emily's sake, when she should
be found. In all this long pursuit, I never heard him repine,-
I never heard him say he was fatigued, or out of heart.

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

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

" Did she tell you why ? " I inquired.

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

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

" No, Mas'r Davy," he returned, drawing his hand 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
speculations as it engendered within me I kept to myself, and
those were faint enough.

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

MR. PEGGOTTY S DREAM COMES TRUE. 697

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 think'ng of many things ; and I saw a figure beyond,
dressed in a plain cloak. It was bending eagerly towards
me, and beckoning.

" Martha ! " said I, going to it.

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

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

I asked her if that were not our destination ? On her
motioning Yes, with the same hasty gesture as before, I
stopped an empty coach that was coming by, and we got into
it. When I asked her where the coachman was to drive, she
answered " Anywhere near Golden Square ! And quick ! " â€”
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 with-
out 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 i'n that part, where the
houses were once fair dwellings in the occupation of single
families, but have, and had, long degenerated into poor lodg-

698

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

ings let off in rooms. Entering at the open door of one of
these, and releasing my arm, she beckoned me to follow hel
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, clamp, and age, had weakened the flooring,
which in many places was unsound and even unsafe. Some
attempts had been made, I noticed, to infuse new blood into
this dwindling frame, by repairing the costly old wood-work
here and there with common deal ; but it was like the marriage
of a reduced old noble to a plebeian pauper, and each party
to the ill-assorted union shrunk away from the other. Several
of the back windows on the staircase had been darkened or
wholly blocked up. In those that remained, there was scarcely
any glass ; and, through the crumbling frames by which the
bad air seemed always to come in, and never to go out, I saw,
through other glassless windows, into other houses in a simi-
lar 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.

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

/knew her I had recognized her with amazement, foi
Miss Uartle.

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, withr

MR. PEGGOTTY'S DREAM COMES TRUE.

an astonished look, repeated her former action, and softly led
me up the stairs ; and then, by a little back door which seemed
to have no lock, and which she pushed open with a touch,
into a small empty garret with a low sloping roof : little better
than a cupboard. Between this and the room she had called
hers, there was a small door of communication, standing partly
open. Here we stopped, breathless with our ascent, and she
placed her hand lightly on my lips. I could only see, of the
room beyond, that it was pretty large ; that there was a bed in
it ; and that there were some common pictures of ships upon
the walls. I could not see Miss Dartle, or the person whom
we had heard her address. Certainly, my companion could
not, for my position was the best.

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

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

" Me ? " replied a soft voice.

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

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

The resolute and unrelenting hatred of her tone, its cold
stern sharpness,^ and its mastered rage, presented her before
me, as if I had seen her standing in the light. I saw the
flashing black eyes, and the passion-wasted figure ; and I saw
the scar, with its white track cutting through her lips, 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,
niactised companion of persons like James Steerforth. I want
co 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

700

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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

A frightened murmur was the only reply that reached my
ears. A silence succeeded. I did not know what to do.
Much as I desired to put an end to the interview, I felt that 1
had no right to present myself ; that it was for Mr. Peggotty
alone to see her and recover her. Would he never come ? I
mought, impatiently.

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

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

"If / 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 honor 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.

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

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

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

" Oh, is there ever night or day, when I don't think of it ! "
cried Emily ; and now I could just see her, on her knees, with
her head thrown back, her pale face looking upward, her
hands wildly clasped and her hair streaming about her. '* Has
there ever been a single minute, waking or sleeping, when it

MR. PEGGOTTY'S DREAM COMES TRUE. jot

hasn't been before me, just as it used to be in the lost days
when I turned my back upon it for ever and for ever ! Oh.
home, home ! Oh dear, dear uncle, if you ever could have
known the agony your love would cause me when I fell away
from good, you never would have shown it to me so constant,
much as you felt it ; but would have been angry to me, at
least once in my life, that I might have had .some comfort !
I have none, none, no comfort upon earth, for all of them
were always fond of me ! " She dropped on her face, before
the imperious figure in the chair with an imploring effort to
clasp the skirt of her dress.

Rosa Dartle sat looking down upon her, as inflexible as a
figure of brass. Her lips were tightly compressed, as if she
knew that she must keep a strong constraint upon herself â€” I
write what I sincerely believe â€” 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. â€” 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 honorable as you ! Have some respect foi
them, as you are a lady, if you have no mercy for me."

" I speak," she said, not deigning to take any heed of this
appeal, and drawing away her dress from the contamination
of Emily's touch, " I speak of his home â€” where I live. Here,"
she said, stretching out her hand with her contemptuous laugh,
and looking down upon the prostrate girl, " is a worthy cause
of division between lady-mother, and gentleman-son ; of grief
in a house where she wouldn't have been admitted as a kit-
chen-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 â€” that the day had never
dawned upon me, and he had met me being carried to mjl

7<D2

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

grave ? â€” I had been brought up as virtuous as you or any
iady, and was going to be the wife of as good a man as you
or any lady in the world can every 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 re-
coiling struck at her, with a face of such malignity, so darkened
and disfigured by passion, that I had almost thrown myself be-
tween them. The blow, which had no aim, fell upon the air.
As she now stood panting, looking at her with the utmost de-
testation 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 ob-
ject of her wrath.

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

" And tell that to <me" she added, " with your shameful
lips ? Why don't they whip these creatures ? If I could or-
der 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 â€” as I began by telling you â€” 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

MR. PEGGOTTV S DREAM COMES TRUE.

gone, you can believe, and trust, and love again, you know \
I thought you a broken toy that had lasted its time â€¢ a worth-
less spangle that was tarnished, and thrown away. But, find-
ing you true gold, a very lady, and an ill-used innocent, with a
fresh heart full of love and trustfulness â€” which you look like
and is quite consistent with your story ! â€” I have something
more to say. Attend to me ; for what I say I '41 do. Do you
hear me, you fairy spirit ? What I say, I mean to do ! " V

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

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

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

" I am of a strange nature, perhaps," Rosa Dartle went
on ; " but I can't breathe freely in the air you breathe. I find
it sickly. Therefore, I will have it cleared ; I'll have it pu-
rified 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 char-
acter but your true one (which you are welcome to bear, with-
out molestation from me), the same service shall be clone you,
if I hear of your retreat. Being assisted by a gentleman
who not long ago aspired to the favor of your hand, I am san-
guine as to that."

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

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

" Do ? " returned the other. Live happy in your own re-
flections ! Consecrate your existence to the recollection of
James Steerforth's tenderness â€” he would have made you his
serving-man's wife, would he not ? â€” 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 cor*

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

sciousness of your own virtues, and the honorable position ta
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 â€” find one, and take your flight to Heaven ! "

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

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

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

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

" Uncle ! "

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

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

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

CHAPTER LI. <

THE BEGINNING OF A LONGER JOURNEY.

It was yet early in the morning of the following day, when,
as I was walking in my garden with my aunt (who took little
other exercise now, being so much in attendance on my dear
Dora), I was told that Mr. Peggotty desired to speak with me.
He came into the garden to meet me half-way, on my going

THE BEGINNING OF A LONGER JOURNEY. 705

Cowards the gate ; and bared his head, as it was always his
custom to do when he saw my aunt, for whom he had a high
respect. I had been telling her all that happened over-night
Without saying a word, she walked up with a cordial face,
shook hands with him, and patted him on the arm. It was so
expressively done, that she had no need to say_a word. Mr.
Peggotty understood her quite as well as if she had said a
thousand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

" I took my dear child away last night," Mr. Peggotty be-
gan, 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 â€” â–
and see her humbled, as it might be in the dust our Saviour
wrote in with his blessed hand â€” I felt a wownd go to my 'art,
in the midst of all its thankfulness."

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

" It warn't for long as 1 felt that ; for she was found. 1

706

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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

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

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

" When my Em'ly took flight," he said, in stern wrath for
the moment, " from the house wheer she was made a pris'ner
by that theer spotted snake as Mas'r Davy see, â€” and his
story's trew, and may God confound him ! â€” 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 it 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 â€” or so
she thowt, you unnerstand â€” the day broke, wet and wind)'-,
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 â€” which was heavy â€” see this woman bet-
ter," 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

THE BEGINNING OE A LONGER JOURNEY.

'twill be a happ'ness to her, and a comfort, and a honor, 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 here-
after ! "

" 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 spin-
ning, 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 sheâ€” 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 pres-
ently, " but she found space for Em'ly in it, her husband was
away at sea, â€” and she kept it secret, and prevailed upon
such neighbors as she had (they was not many near) to keep
it secret too. Em'ly was took bad with fevor, and what is
very strange to me is, â€” maybe 'tis not so strange to scholars,
â€” the language of that country went out of her head, and she
could only speak her own, that no one understood. She re-
collects, 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, â€” 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, â€” 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, 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

708

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 pur'
sued 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,
endeavoring to bless her !

"That done my Em'ly good," he resumed, after such emo-
tion 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 began 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 â€” names
as she seemed never to have heard in all her lifeâ€” till one
evening come, when she was a setting at her window, looking
at a little girl at play upon the beach. And of a sudden this
child held out her hand, and said, what would be in English,
' Fisherman's daughter, here's a shell ! ' â€” for you are to unner
stand that they used at first to call her 'Pretty lady,' as the
general way in that country is, and that she had taught 'em
to call her 1 Fisherman's daughter ' instead. The child says
of a sudden, 1 Fishersman's daughter, here's a shell ! ' Then
Em'ly unnerstands her ; and she answers, bursting out a crying j
and it all comes back !

" When Em'ly got strong again," said Mr. Peggotty, aftei
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

THE BEGINNING OF A LONGER JOURNEY. 709

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 '11 outlast all the
treasure in the wureld.

" Em'ly got to France, and took service to wait on travel
ling 'adies at a inn in the port. Theer, theer come, one day,
that snake. â€” Let him never come nigh me. I doen't know
what hurt I might do him ! â€” 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 Eng-
land, and was set ashore at Dover.

" I doen't know," said Mr. Peggotty, "for sure, when her
'art begun to tail 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 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."

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

I could not repress a cry of joy.

" Mas'r Davy ! " he said, 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 know'd of her
bitter knowledge wheer to watch and what to do. She had
done it. And the Lord was above nl1. ! She come, white and

710

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

hurried, upon Em'ly in her sleep. She says to her, ' Risa
up from worse than death, and come with me ! ' Them beÂ«
longing to the house would have stopped her, but they might
as soon have stopped the sea. ' Stand away from me,' she says,
1 1 am a ghost that calls her from beside her open grave ! ' She
told Em'ly she had seen me, and know'd I loved her, and for-
giv her. She wrapped her, hasty, in her clothes. She took
her. faint and trembling, on her arm. She heeded no more
what they said, than if she had had no ears. She walked
among 'em with my child, minding only her ; and brought her
safe out, in the dead of the night, from that black pit of ruin !

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

" All night long," said Mr. Peggotty, " we have been to-
gether, 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 god-
mother 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 feel-
ings, 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 hei

THE BEGINNING OF A LONGER JOURNEY. jn

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. Peg-
gotty, " as to the future, good friend ? I need scarcely ask
you."

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

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

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

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

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

" Quite alone ? " I asked.

" Ay, 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 gradu-
ally cleared as he went on, " concerning of Missis Gummidge.
You see, wen Missis Gummidge falls a thinking of the old 'un,
she an't what you may call good company. Betwixt you and
me, Mas'r Davy â€” and you, ma'am â€” wen Missis Gummidge
takes to wimicking," â€” our old county word for crying, â€” "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,

7I2

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Peggotty, "and I know'd his merits, so I unnerstan' her; but
'tan't entirely so, you see, with others â€” nat'rally can't be ! "
My aunt and I both acquiesced.

" Wheerby," said Mr. Peggotty, " my sister might â€” I doen't
say she would â€” find Missis Gummidge give her a leetle trouble
now-and-again. Theerfur 'tan't my intentions to moor Missis
Gummidge 'long with them, but to find a Bein' fur her wheer
she can fisherate for herself." (A Bein' signifies, in that dia-
lect, a home, and to fisherate is to provide.) " Fur which
purpose," said Mr. Peggotty, "I means to make her a 'low-
ance afore I go, as'll leave her pretty comfort'ble. She's the
faithfullest of creeturs. 'Tan't to be expected, of course, at
her time of life, and being lone and lorn, as the good old
Mawther is to be knocked about aboard ship, 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 â€” poot
child, she's sore in need of peace and rest ! â€” until such time
as we goes upon our voyage. She'll work at them clothes, as
must be made â€¢ and I hope her troubles will begin to seem
longer ago than they was, wen she finds heiself 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 â€” fifty pound, and ten.
To them I wish to add the money as she come away with.
I've asked her about that (but not saying why), and have added
of it up ; I an't a scholar. Would you be so kind as to see
how 'tis ? "

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

" Thankee, sir." he said, taking it back. " This money,
if you doen't see objections, Mas'r Davy, I shall put up jest
afore I go, in a cover d'rected to him ; and put that up in an-
other, d'rected 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."

THE BEGINNING OF A LONGER JOURNEY ^3

I told him that I thought it would be right to do so â€” 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 pro-
ceeded with a grave smile, when he had made up his little
bundle again, and put it in his pocket ; " but theer was twoc
I warn't sure in my mind, wen I come out this morning, as I
could go and break to Ham, of my own self, what had so
thankfully happened. So I writ a letter while I was out, and
put it in the post-office, telling of 'em how all was as 'tis,
and that I should come down 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 favor, Mas'r Davy," he re-
plied, "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 â€” as I found on talking it over with her â€” 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 â€” Mr. Peg-
gotty, in despite of all my remonstrances, carrying my bag â€” â€¢
I glanced into Omer and Joram's shop, and saw my old
friend Mr. Omer there, smoking his pipe. I felt reluctant to
be present, when Mr. Peggotty first met his sister and Ham ;
and made Mr. Omer my excuse for lingering behind.

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

He fanned away the smoke of his pipe, that he might get
a better view of me, and soon recognized me with great de-
light.

" I should get up, sir, to acknowledge such an honor as'
this visit," said he, " only my limbs are rather out of sorts, J
and I am wheeled about. With the exception of my limbs
and my breath, hows'ever, 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 â€” my grand-daughter

7i4

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

you know, Minnie's child â€” puts her little strength against the
back, gives it a shove, and away we go, as clever and merry as
ever you see any thing ! And I tell you what â€” it's a most un-
common chair to smoke a pipe in."

I never saw such a good old fellow to make the best of a
thing, and find out the enjoyment of it, as Mr. Omer. He
was as radiant, as if his chair, his asthma, and the failure of
his limbs, were the various branches of a great invention for
enhancing the luxury of the 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 sur-
prised at the number of people that looks in of a day to have
a chat. You really would ! There's twice as much in the
newspaper, since I've taken to this chair, as there used to be.
As to general reading, dear me, what a lot of it I do get
through ! That's what I feel so strong, you know ! If it had
been my eyes, what should I have done ? If it had been my
ears, what should I have done ? Being my limbs, what does
it signify ? Why, my limbs only made my breath shorter
when I used 'em. And now, if I want to go out into the street
or clown to the sands, I've only got to call Dick Joram's
youngest 'prentice, and away I go in my own carriage, like
the Lord Mayor of London."

He half suffocated himself with laughing here.

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

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

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

His supreme contempt for his own limbs, as he sat smok-
ing, was one of the pleasantest oddities I have ever encoun-
tered.

" And since I've took to general reading, you've took to
general writing, eh, sir ? '' said Mr. Omer, surveying me admi-
ringly. " What a lovely work that was of yours ! What ex-
pressions in it ! I read it every word â€” 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.

44 I give you my word and Uonqr, ^ir," said Mr. Omer,

THE B E GINNING OF A L ONGER JO URNE Y. 7x5

u that when I lay that book upon the table, and look at it out-
side ; compact in three separate and indiwidual wollumes â€” one,
two, three ; I am as proud as Punch to think that I had the
honor of being connected with your family. And clear me,
it's a long time ago, now, ain't it ? Over at Blunderstone.
With a pretty little party laid along with the other party
And you quite a small party then, yourse'f. Dear, dear! "

I changed the subject by referring to Emily, After assur-
ing him that I did not forget how interested he had always
been in her, and how kindly he had always treated her, I gave
him a general account of her restoration to her uncle by the
aid of Martha ; which I knew would please the old man. He
listened with the utmost attention, and said feelingly, when I
had done :

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

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

" Because you know," said Mr. Omer, taking himself up,
where he had left off, " whatever is done, I should wish to be
a member of. Put me down for any thing you may consider
right, and let me know. I never could think the girl all bad,
and I'm glad to find she's not. So will my daughter Minnie be.
Young women are contradictory creatures in some things â€” her
mother was just the same as her â€” 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 what-
ever 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, par-
ticular," said Mr. Omer, "because, sir, the way I look at it is,
that we are all drawing on to the bottom of the hill, whatevel

716

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

age we are, on account of time never standing still for a single
moment. So let us always do a kindness, and be over-re*
joiced. To be sure ! "

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

" There's Em'ly's cousin, him that she was to have been
married to," said Mr. Omer, rubbing his hands feebly, "as
fine a fellow as there is in Yarmouth ! He'll come and talk
or read to me, in the evening, for an hour together sometimes.
That's ?\ 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 parlor open, en-
abling me to see that, in these latter days, it was converted
into a bedroom for Mr. Omer, who could not be easily con-
veyed up-stairs ; and then hid her pretty forehead, and tum-
bled her long hair, against the back of Mr. Omer's chair.

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

At this signal, the little elephant, with a dexterity that
was next to marvellous in so small an animal, whisked the
chair round with Mr. Omer in it, and rattled it off, pell-mell,
into the parlor, without touching the doorpost : Mr. Omer
indescribably enjoying the performance, and looking back at

THE BEGINNING OF A LONGER JOURNEY, J17

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. J

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 o_ /he
wonders he would describe in his letters. We said noting
of Emily by name, but distantly referred to her more than
once. Ham was the serenest of the party.

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

I thought I had read in his face that he would like to
speak to me alone. I therefore resolved to put myself in his
way next evening, as he came home from his work. Having^
settled this with myself, I fell asleep. That night, for the
first time in all those many nights, the candle was taken out
of the window, Mr. Peggotty swung in his old hammock in
the old boat, and the wind murmured with the old sound
round his head.

All next day, he was occupied in disposing of his fishing-boat
and tackle ; in packing up and sending to London by wagon,
6uch 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

DAVID C0PPERF1ELD.

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 mis-
taken the expression of his face. We had walked but a little
way together, when he said, without looking at me :

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

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

We walked a little farther, and he said :
" Mas'r Davy, shall you see her, d'ye tfoink ? "
" It would be too painful to her, perhaps," said I.
" I have thowt of that," he replied. " So 'twould, sir, so
'twould."

"But Ham," said I, gently, "if there is anything that 1
could write to her, for you, in case I could not tell it ; if there
is anything you would wish to make known to her through
me ; I should consider it a sacred trust."

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

" What is it ? "

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

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

I pressed his hand. " Is that all ? "

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

We walked on, farther than we had walked yet, before he
spoke again0 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 â€” and I love the mem'ry of her â€” too deep â€”
to be able to lead her to believe of my own self as I'm a happy
man. I could only be happy â€” by forgetting of her â€” and I'm
afeerd I couldn't hardly bear as she should be told I done

THE BEGINNING OF A LONGER JOURNEY. 719

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 : any-
thing 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 â€” â€¢
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 â€” I should ask of you
to say that â€” with my prayers for her â€” 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," tie answered. " 'Twas kind of you to
meet me. 'Twas kind of you to bear him company down.
Mas'r Davy, I unnerstan' very well, though my aunt will come
to Lon'on afore they sail, and they'll unite once more, that I
am not like to see him agen. I fare to feel sure on't. We
doen't say so, but so't will be, and better so. The last you
see on him â€” the very last â€” 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
now wheer you're a going. Good bye ! "

With a slight wave of the hand, as though to explain to
rne 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. Gummidge, with a basket
on her knee, was seated, looking at Mr. Peggotty. He leaned
his elbow on the rough chimney-piece, and gazed upon a few
expiring embers in the grate ; but he raised his head, hope-
lully, 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, ain'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 â€” I doen't know what Missis Gummidge an't

720

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

worked like," said Mr. Peggotty, looking at her, at a iossfot
a sufficiently approving simile.

Mrs. Gummidge, leaning on her basket, made no observa-
tion.

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

! In truth, the wind, though it was low, had a solemn sound,
and crept around the deserted house with a whispered 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 that had
enchanted me. I thought of Steerforth ; and a foolish, fearful
fancy came upon me of his being near at hand, and liable to
be met at any turn.

"'Tis like to be long," said Mr. Peggotty, in a low voice,
"afore the boat finds new tenants. They look upon'tdown
heer, as being unfort'nate now ! "

"Does it belong to anybody in the neighborhood?" 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, put-
ting 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 part-
ing 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 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 agoing I'll
be bound to you for one, and happy, but doen't ye leave me
behind, Dan'L that's a deary dear ! "

/ ASSIST AT AN EXPLOSION.

722

"My good soul," said Mr. Peggotty, shaking his head,
"you doen't know what a long voyage, and what a hard life
'tis ! "

" Yes I do, Dan'l ! I can guess ! " cried Mrs. Gummidge.
" But my parting words under this roof is, I shall go into the
house and die, if I am not took. I can dig, Dan'l. I can
work. I can live hard. I can be loving and patient nowâ€”
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 Peggot-
ty ; 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, with-
out 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 sor-
rows, and can be a comfort to 'em, some odd times, an<d laboi
for 'em alius ! Dan'l, deary Dan'l, let me go along 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, fas-
tened 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 myste-
riously, 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 stipu-
lation for my aunt's attendance, to arrange that she should

722

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 be-
hind, 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 â€” oh, what a poor lit-
tle mite of a fellow ! You never do anything at all to please
me, do you, dear ? " Dora made haste to kiss my aunt, and
say, " Yes, you do ! I'm only joking ! " â€” lest my aunt should
think she really meant it.

" But, aunt," said Dora, coaxingly, now listen. You muse
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 â€” and so will Jip I
You will 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.

" Yes ! I know I am a silly little thing ! " said Dora, slow,
ly 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. " Be-
cause 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 busi-
ness in it ! If there's anything to add up, besides, I don'*;
know when I shall make it out ; and my bad boy will look so

/ ASSIST A T AN EXPLOSION.

723

miserable all the time. There ! Now you'll go, won't you ?
Vou'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
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 every-
thing ; 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 armor of the Black Prince hanging up
within, and, motes upon the deep of Time, had lost them-
selves 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 <memy, the butcher, now ad-

724

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

vanced to top-boots and a baby, and in business for himseli,
He 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. As it approached nearer and nearer to
half-past nine o'clock, our restless expectation of Mr. Micaw-
ber increased. At last we made no more pretence of attend-
ing 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 â– 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 off 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 for 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.

" 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."

" Madam," returned Mr. Micawber, " I trust you wil]
shortly witness an eruption. Mr. Traddles, I have your per-
mission, I believe, to mention here that we have been in
communication together ? "

/ ASS/S T AT AN EX PL OSIOAr. 725

" It is undoubtedly the fact, Copperfield," said Traddles,
co whom I looked in surprise. " Mr. Micawber has consulted
me in reference to what he has in contemplation â€¢ 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 import-
ant nature."

" Highly so," said Traddles.

" Perhaps, under such circumstances, madam and gentle
men," said Mr. Micawber, "you will do me the favor 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 stipen-
diary 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 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 re-
source, 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 instru*
ment protruded from his bosom, like a new kind of shirt-frilL

726

DAVID COPPERFIELD

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/*
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 â€” the first room I had
entered in that house â€” and flinging open the door of Mr. Wick-
field'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 chin be-
trayed 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 unexpect-
ed pleasure ! To have, as I may say, all friends round Saint
Paul's at once, is a treat unlooked for ! Mr. Copperfield, I
hope I see you well, and â€” if I may umbly express self so â€”
friendly towards them as is ever your friends, whether or not.
Mrs. Copperfield, sir, I hope she's getting on. WTe have been
made quite uneasy by the poor accounts we have had of her
state, lately, I do assure you."

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, tel*

/ ASSIST A T AN EXPLOSION.

â– fern to let Miss Agnes know â€” 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
scrutinized and evaded us.

"No, Mr. Traddles," replied Uriah, resuming his ofheia1
seat, and squeezing his bony hands, laid palm to palm, between
his bony knees. "Not so much so as I could wish. But
law vers, 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 tit for
any occupation, sir. But it's a pleasure as well 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
honor of seeing you once myself? "

"No, I have not been intimate with Mr. Wickfield,6* re-
turned Traddles ; "or I might perhaps have waited on you
long ago, Mr. Heep."

There was something in the tone of his reply, which made
Uriah look at the speaker again, with a very sinister and sus-
pici :/J3 expression. But seeing only Traddles, with his good-
r.atured face, simple manner, and hair on end, he dismissed
it as he replied, witn 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, Ishoud
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.

728

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Mr. Micawber, with his hand upon the ruler in his bieast^
stood erect before the door, most unmistakably contemplat-
ing one of his fellow-men, and that man his employer.

" What are you waiting for ? " said Uriah. " Micawber I
did you hear me tell you not to wait ? "

" Yes ! " replied the immovable Mr. Micawber.

" Then why do you wait ! " said Uriah.

" Because I â€” in short choose," replied Mr. Micawber,
with a burst.

Uriah's cheeks lost color, 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 ! I'll talk to you presently."

" If there is a scoundrel on the 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 â€” 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, you 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 I
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 yon ? " 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, â€” as
you yourself were, Copperfield, you know it, before anyone
had charity on you, â€” to defame me with his lies ? Miss
Trotwood, you had better stop this ; or I'll stop your husband

/ ASS/ST A T AN EXPLOSION.

shorter than will be pleasant to you. I won't know your
story professionally, for nothing, old lady ! Miss Wickfield,
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, Micawberj 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 re-
treat. 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. Heep 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 ? "

M 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," re-
turned Traddles quietly ; " and so do you, Mr. Heep. We will
refer that question, if you please, to Mr. Micawber."

" Ury â€” ! " Mrs. Heep began, with an anxious gesture.

" You hold your tongue, mother," he returned ; " least said,
soonest mended."

" But my Uryâ€”."

" 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 him
with his mask off. The suddenness with which he dropped it,
when he perceived that it was useless to him ; the malice, inso-
lence, and hatred he revealed ; the leer with which he exulted,
even at this moment, in the evil he had done â€” all this time
being desperate too, and at his wits' end for the means of get-
ting the better of us â€” though perfectly consistent with the ex-
perience 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

73Â°

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 honor 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 my-
self out a gentleman (though I never was in the streets either,
as you were, according to Micawber), but being you !â– â€” 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 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 (ap-
parently 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

I ASSIST A T AN EXPLOSION.

731

consummate Villain that has ever existed,' " 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.' "

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 â€” or, as our lively neighbor the
Gaul would term it, the Bureau â€” of the Firm, nominally con-
ducted under the appellation of Wickfield and â€” Heep, but, in
reality, wielded by â€” Heep alone. Heep, and only Heep, is
the mainspring of that machine. Heep, and only Heep, is
the Forger and the Cheat. ' "

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. " I'll be even with you."

" Approach me again, you â€” you â€” you Heep of infamy,"
gasped Mr. Micawber, " and if your head is human, I'll break
it. Come on, come on ! "

I think I never saw anything more ridiculous â€” I was sen-
sible of it, even at the time â€” than Mr. Micawber making broad-
sword gviards with the ruler, and crying, " Come on ! " while
Traddles and I pushed him back into a corner, fium 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 if 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

732

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

entered into the service of â€” Heep,' " always pausing before
that word and uttering it with astonishing vigor, " ' were not
defined, beyond the pittance, of twenty-two shillings and six
per week. The rest was left contingent on the value of 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 â€” Heep. Need I say, that it
soon became necessary for me to solicit from â€” Heep â€” pecu-
niary 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 U's and other similar acknowledgments, known to
the legal institutions of this country ? And that I thus be-
came immeshed in the web he had spun for my reception ? ' "

Mr. Micawber's enjoyment of his epistolary powers, in de-
scribing this unfortunate state of things, really seemed to out-
weigh any pain or anxiety, that the reality could have caused
him. He read on :

" * Then it was that â€” Heep â€” began to favor 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 requisi-
tion for the falsification of business, and the mystification of
an individual whom I will designate as Mr. W. That Mr. W.
was imposecf upon, kept in ignorance, and deluded, in every
possible way ; yet, that all this while, the ruffian â€” Heep â€” 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 applica-
bility which distinguishes the illustrious ornament of the Eliza-
bethan Era, worse remains behind ! ' "

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 pres-
ent 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 con-
senting party. My object, when the contest within myself

/ ASS/ST A T AN EXPLOSION.

733

between stipend and no stipend, baker and no baker, exist-
ence and non-existence, ceased, was to take advantage of
my opportunities to discover and expose the major malprac-
tices committed, to that gentleman's grievous wrong and in*
jury, by â€” Heep. Stimulated by the silent monitor within,
and by a no less touching and appealing monitor without â€” to
whom I will briefly refer as Miss W. â€” I entered on a not un<
laborious 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 it were from an Act of Parlia-
ment ; and appeared majestically refreshed by the sound of
the words.

" ' My 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.' "

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, â€” Heep â€” designedly perplexed and complicated the
whole of the official transactions. When Mr. W. was least fit
to enter on business, â€” 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 con*
strain him.' "

" You shall prove this, you Copperfield ! " said Uriah, with
a threatening shake of the head. " All in good time ! "

"Ask â€” Heep â€” Mr. Traddles, who lived in his house after
him," said Mr. Micawber, breaking off from the letter ; " will
you?"

" The fool himself â€” and lives there now," said Uriah. dis>
dainfully."

*34

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

"Ask â€” Heep â€” if he ever kept a pocket-book in thai
house," said Mr. Micawber ; " will you ? "

I saw Uriah's lank hand stop, involuntarily, in the scrap*
ing 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, re-
fer him to Wilkins Micawber, and he will hear of something
not at all to his advantage ! "

The triumphant flourish with which Mr. Micawber de-
livered himself of these words, had a powerful effect in alarm-
ing 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 ' " â€”

J' But that won't do," muttered Uriah, relieved. "Mother,
you keep quiet."

We will endeavor 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 : ; "

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
lit, 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 in-
stance, 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 relish-
ing on the same principle. We talk about the tyranny of
words, but we like to tyrannize 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 liv-

I ASSIST AT AN EXPLOSION-.

eries on state occasions, if they be but fine and numerous
enough, so, the meaning or necessity of our words is a second-
ary 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 mention 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 :

" 1 To wit, in manner following, that is to say. Mr. WÂ«
being infirm, and it being within the bounds of probability that
his decease might lead to some discoveries, and to the down-
fall of â€” Heep's â€” power over the W. family, â€” as I, Wilkin s
Micawber, the* undersigned, assume â€” 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 â€” Heep â€” deemed it expedient to have a bond read);
by him, as from Mr. W., for the before-mentioned sum of
twelve six fourteen, two and nine, with interest, stated therein
to have been advanced by â€” Heep â€” to Mr. W. to save Mr. W.
from dishonor ; though really the sum was never advanced by
him, and has long been replaced. The signatures to this instru-
ment, purporting to be executed by Mr. W. and attested by
Wilkins Micawber, are forgeries by â€” Heep. I have, in my
possession, in his hand and pocket-book, several similar imi-
tations 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 bethought
himself of what he was about, and turned again towards us,
without looking in it.

" ' And I have the document,' " Mr. Micawber read again,
looking about as if it were the text of a sermon, " ' in my pos
session,' â€” that is to say, I had, early this morning, when this
was written, but have since relinquished it to Mr. Traddies."

" It is quite true," assented Traddies.

" Ury, Ury ! " cried the mother, " be umble and make
terms. 1 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.

73^

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Mother," he said, with an impatient bite at the hand-
kerchief 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
uppear ; though, to be sure, they were a congenial couple.
And I can't bear to hear you provoking the gentleman, and
â€¢ndangering of yourself more. I told the gentleman at first,
tfhen he told me upstairs 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,
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 ! "

" I can't help it, Ury,"" cried his mother. " I can't see
you running into danger, through carrying your head so high.
Better be umble, as you always was."

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 â€” Heep's â€” false books, and â€” Heep's â€” real memoranda,
beginning with the partially destroyed pocket-book (which I
was unable to comprehend, at the time of its accidental dis-
covery by Mrs. Micawber, on our taking possession of our
present abode, in the locker or bin devoted to the reception of
the ashes calcinedon our domestic hearth), thatthe weaknesses,
the faults, the very virtues, the parental affections, and the
sense of honor, of the unhappy Mr. W. have been for years
acted on by, and warped :o the base purposes of â€” Heep. That
Mr. W. has been for vrars deluded and plundered, in every
conceivable manner, tv pecuniary aggrandizement of the
avaricious, false, and grasping â€” Heep. That the engrossing
object of â€” Heep â€” wns, next to gain, to subdue Mr. and Miss
W. (of his ulterior v;ews in reference to the latter I say noth-
ing) entirely to himself. That his last act, completed but a
few months since, was to induce Mr. W. to execute a relin-
quishment of his share in the partnership, and even a bill of

/ ASSIST A T AN EXPLOSION.

737

sale on the very furniture of his house, in consideration of a
certain annuity, to be well and truly paid by â€” Heep â€” on the
four common quarter-days in each and every year. That these
meshes ; beginning with alarming and falsified accounts of 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 responsible, in hand ; going on with pretended
borrowings of money at enormous interest, really coming from
â€” Heep â€” and by â€” Heep â€” fraudulently obtained or withheld
from Mr. W. himself, on pretence of such speculations or
otherwise ; perpetuated by a miscellaneous catalogue of un-
scrupulous chicaneries â€” gradually thickened, until the un-
happy Mr. W. could see no world beyond. Bankrupt, as he
believed, alike in circumstances, in all other hope, and in
honor, his sole reliance was upon the monster in the garb of
man,' " â€” Mr. Micawber made a good deal of this, as a new
turn of expression â€” " ' 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 maybe reason-
ably 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 Can-
terbury Pilgrimage has done much ; imprisonment on civil
process, and want, will soon do more. I trust that the labor
and hazard of an investigation â€” 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 watch-
ful eye of one whom it were superfluous to call Demon â€” -
combined with the struggle of parental Poverty to turn it,
when completed, to the right account, may be as the sprink-
ling of a few drops of sweet water on my funereal pyre. I

733

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 pre
tensions to cope, that what I have done, I did, in despite of
mercenary and selfish objects,

'For England, home, and beauty."

" 1 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 agoy
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 â€” but a little earlier â€” â–
and opened it this morning."

" Don't be uneasy," said Traddles. " They have come
into my possession. 1 will take care of them, under the au-
thority 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 â€” and, my dear, I didn't, even to
Trot, as he knows â€” 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'

/ ASSIST A T A A EXPLOSION,

739

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 clamor-
ing 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 -r 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 â€” 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
school-fellow. "Then," said Traddles, "you must prepare to
disgorge all that your rapacity has become possessed of, and
to make restoration to the last farthing. All the partnership
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 main-
tain possession of these things ; and beg you â€” in short, com-
pel you â€” to keep your own room, and hold no communication
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? "

DAVID COPPERFIELD

Here, Mrs. Heep 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 ; be-
ing 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 morti-
fication, 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. Weil ! 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,
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 cn'y 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 labor was a curse ; and from eleven
o'clock to one, that it was a blessing and a cheerfulness, and
a dignity, and I don't know what all, eh ? " said he with a
sneer. " You preach about as consistent as they did. Won't

/ ASSIST A T AN EXPLOSION.

741

b^ibleness go down ? I shouldn't have got round my gentle-
man fellow-partner without it, I think. â€” Micawber, you old
buliy, 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-establishment of
mutual confidence between himself and Mrs. Micawber."
After which, he invited the company generally to the contem-
plation of that affecting spectacle.

" The veil that has long been interposed between Mrs,
Micawber and myself, is now withdrawn," said Mr. Micawber;
" and my children and the Author of their Being can once
more come in contact on equal terms."

As we were all very grateful to him, and all desirous to
show that we were, as well as the hurry and disorder of our
spirits would permit, I dare say we should all have gone, but
that it was necessary for Agnes to return to her father, as yet
unable to bear more than the dawn of hope ; and for some
one else to hold Uriah in safe keeping. So Traddles remained
for the latter purpose, to be presently relieved by Mr. Dick ;
and Mr. Dick, my aunt, and I, went home with Mr. Micawber.
As I parted hurriedly from the dear girl to whom I owed so
much, and thought from what she had been saved, perhaps,
that morning â€” her better resolution notwithstanding â€” I felt
devoutly thankful for the miseries of my younger days which
had brought me to the knowledge of Mr. Micawber.

His house was not far off ; and as the street-door opened
into the sitting-room, and he bolted in with a precipitation
quite his own, we found ourselves at once in the bosom of the
family. Mr. Micawber exclaiming, " Emma ! my life ! " rushed
into Mrs. Micawber's arms. Mrs. Micawber shrieked, and
folded Mr. Micawber in her embrace. Miss Micawber, nurs-
ing the unconscious stranger of Mrs. Micawber's last letter to
me, was sensibly affected. The stranger leaped. The twins
testified their joy by several inconvenient but innocent demon-
strations. Master Micawber, whose disposition appeared to
have been soured by early disappointment, and whose aspect
had become morose, yielded to his better feelings, and blub-
bered.

" Emma ! " said Mr. Micawber. " The cloud is past from
my mind. Mutual confidence, so long preserved between us
once, is restored, to know no further interruption. Now, weir

742

DAVID COPPERFIELD,

come poverty ! " cried Mr. Micawber, shedding tears. " Wei
come misery, welcome houselessness, welcome hunger, rags,
tempest, and beggary ! Mutual confidence will sustain us t(>
the end ! "

With these expressions, Mr. Micawber placed Mrs. Micaw-
ber in a chair, and embraced the family all round ; welcoming
a variety of bleak prospects, which appeared, to the best of
my judgment, to be anything but welcome to them ; and call-
ing upon them to come out into Canterbury and sing a chorus,
as nothing else was left for their support.

But Mrs. Micawber having, in the strength of her emotions,
fainted away, the first thing to be done, even before the chorus
could be considered complete, was to recover her. This my
aunt and Mr. Micawber did ; and then my aunt was intro-
duced, and Mrs. Micawber recognized me.

" Excuse me, dear Mr. Copperfield," said the poor lady,
giving me her hand, "but I am not strong; and the removal
of the late misunderstanding between Mr. Micawber and my-
self was at first too much for me."

" Is this all your family, ma'am ? " said my aunt.

" There are no more at present/'* returned Mrs. Micaw-
ber.

" Good gracious, I didn't mean that, ma'am," said my aunt.
" I mean are all these yours ? "

" Madam," replied Mr. Micawber, " it is a true bill."

"And that eldest young gentleman, now," said my aunt
musing, " What has he been brought up to ? "

" It was my hope when I came here," said Mr. Micawber,
" to have got Wilkins into the Church : or perhaps I shall ex-
press my meaning more strictlv, if I say the Choir. But there
was no vacancy for a tenor in the venerable Pile for which
this city is so justly eminent ; and he has â€” in short, he has
contracted a habit of singing in public-houses, rather than in
sacred edifices."

" But he means well," said Mrs. Micawber, tenderly.

" I dare say, my love," rejoined Mr. Micawber, " that he
meant particularly well ; but I have not yet found that he
carries out his meaning, in any given direction whatsoever."

Master Micawber's moroseness of aspect returned upon
him again, and he demanded, with some temper, what he was
to do ? Whether he had been born a carpenter, or a coach
painter, any more than he had been born a bird ? Whether
he could go into the next street, and open a chemist's shop ?

/ ASS/ST A T AN EXPLOSION.

743

Whether he could rush to the next assizes, and proclaim him-
self a lawyer ? Whether he could come out by force at the
opera, and succeed by violence ? Whether he could do any-
thing, 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 â€” have done us a great service, I may say, for
surely much will come out of the fire â€” 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 ad-
vanced, say at five per cent, interest per annum, upon my per-
sonal liability â€” 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."

"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

744

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

there be a reasonable opening for his talents to acvelope
themselves â€” that, would be amply sufficient â€” 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 indus-
trious. 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 â€” comparatively speaking ; and though consideration
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. Micaw-
ber 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 bul-
locks, as they came by, with the eye of an Australian farmer !

CHAPTER LIII.

ANOTHER RETROSPECT.

I must 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 â€” turn to look upon the Little Blossom, as it flut-
ters 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."

A NO TITER RE TR OSPE C T.

74S

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
â€” she sitting at the bedside â€” 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,
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.

What a strange rest and pause in my life there seems to
be â€” and in all life, within doors and without â€” 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 ! â€” 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 ? "

746

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Yes, we will, and have some happy days. So you must
make haste to get well, my dear."

" 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, 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 you?
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 â€” you know I always was
a silly little thing ! â€” that that will never be ! "

" Don't say so, Dora J Dearest love, don't think so ) '*

ANOTHER RETROSPECT.

747

" I won't, if I can help it, Doady. But I am very happy s
though my dear boy is so lonely by himself, before his child-
wife's empty chair ! "

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 to-
gether. We have not talked much, but Dora has been per-
fectly 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 be-
thought me of all that gracious and compassionate history.
I have tried to resign myself, and to console myself ; and that,
I hope, I 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 ? "

" 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."

I lay my face upon the pillow by her, and she looks into
my eyes, and speaks very softly. Gradually, as she goes on,
1 feel, with a stricken heart, that she is speaking of herself as
past.

" I am afraid, clear, I was too young. I don't mean in
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. " Per-
haps ! But, if I had been more fit to be married, I might

748

DAVID COPPER FIELD.

have made you more so, too. Besides, yot 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 â€” it was all the merit
I had, except being pretty â€” or you thought me so. Is it lonely,
downstairs, 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
downstairs, tell Agnes so, and send her up to me ; and while
I speak to her, let no one comeâ€” 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.

" 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 downstairs, when I go into the parlor ; and I give
her the message. She disappears, leaving me alone with Jip.

His Chinese house is by the fire ; 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 â€”
heavily.

I sit down by the fire, thinking with a blind remorse of all
those secret feelings I have nourished since my marriage. I

MR. MICAWBER'S TRA NSA C TIOArS.

749

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 V

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. â€¢

"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.

" Oh, Agnes ! Look, look, here ! "

â€” That face, so full of pity, and of grief, that rain of tears,
that awful mute appeal to me, that solemn hand upraised
towards Heaven !

" Agnes ? "

It is over, Darkness comes before my eyes ; and, for a
time, all things are blotted out of my remembrance

CHAPTER LIV.

MR. micawber's transactions

This is not the time at which I am to enter on the state of
my mind beneath its load of sorrow. I came to think that the
Future was walled up before me, that the energy and action
of my life were at an end, that I never could find any refuge
but in the grave. I came to think so, I say, but not in the
first shock of my grief. It slowly grew to that. If the events
I go on to relate, had not thickened around me, in the begin-
ning to confuse, and in the end to augment, my affliction, it
is possible (though I think not probable), that I might have
fallen at once into this condition. As it was, an interval
occurred before I fully knew my own distress \ an interval, in

75Â°

DAVID COPPERFIELD

which I even supposed that its sharpest pangs were past ; and
when my mind could soothe itself by resting on all that was
most innocent and beautiful, in the tender story that was closed
for ever.

When it was first proposed that I should go abroad, or how
it came to be agreed among us that I was to seek the restoia
tion of my peace in change and travel, I do not, even now,
distinctly know. The spirit of Agnes so pervaded all we
thought, and said, and did, in that time of sorrow, that I assume
I may refer the project to her influence. But her influence was
so quiet that I know no more.

And now, indeed, I began to think that in my old associa-
tion of her with the stained-glass window in the church, a pro-
phetic foreshadowing of what she would be to me, in the
calamity that was to happen in the fullness 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 up-
raised hand, she was like a sacred presence in my lonely house.
When the Angel of Death alighted there, my child-wife fell
asleep â€” they told me so when I could bear to hear it â€” on her
bosom, with a smile. From my swoon, I first awoke to a con-
sciousness 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 pulverization 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 laboring 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 ? "

MR. MIC A WEEK'S TRANSACTIONS.

75*

"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."

'â€¢That's right," said my aunt. " I augur alj sorts of good
from your sensible decision."

" Madam, you do us a great deal of honor," 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
â€” drawn, it is needless to stipulate, on stamps of the amounts
respectively required by the various Acts of Parliament apply-
ing to such securities â€” 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 â€” Something â€” 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 respon-
sibility becoming due, have been successful in our harvest, or
we might not have got our harvest in. Labor, I believe, is
sometimes difficult to obtain in that portion of our colonial
possessions where it will be our lot to combat with the teem-
ing 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 j it is important to my sense of self-respect, be-
sides 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 ; 1 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 â€” a convenience
to the mercantile world, for which, I believe, we are originally

752

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

indebted to the Jews, who appear to me to have had a devil
ish deal too much to do with them ever since â€” 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 re-
port them. My eldest daughter attends at five every morn-
ing in a neighboring establishment, to acquire the process â€” if"
process it may be called â€” 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 the 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 Wilkin s has is-
sued forth with a walking-stick and driven cattle, when per-
mitted, by the rugged hirelings who had them in charge, to
render any voluntary service in that direction â€” which I regret
to say, for the credit of our nature, was not often ; he being
generally warned, with imprecations, 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 cul<
tivation 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, I
have devoted to corresponding at some length with my family.
For I own it seems to me, my dear Mr. Copperfield," 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. Micaw*
ber by the hand, and Mr. Micawber should take my family by
the hand ; when the lion should lie down with the lamb, anc*
my family be on terms with Mr. Micawber."

MR. MICAWBER'S TRANSACTIONS.

753

I said I thought so too.

"This, at least, is the light, my dear Mr. Copperfield,M
pursued Mrs. Micawber, "in which / view the subject. Where
I lived at home with my papa and mama, my papa was accus-
tomed to ask, when any point was under discussion in our lim-
ited circle, 1 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 opin-
ion, 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. Micaw-
ber 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. â€” I do not mean to be con-
ferred in Baptism upon our children, but to be inscribed or
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 re-
plied, " Well, ma'am, upon the whole, I shouldn't wonder ir
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 coun-
try where there is sufficient range for his abilities, â€” which in
my opinion, is exceedingly important ; Mr. Micawber's abil-
ities peculiarly requiring space, â€” it seems to me that my fam
ily should signalize the occasion by coming forward. What 1
could wish to see, would be a meeting between Mr. Micaw
ber and my family at a festive entertainment, to be given at
my family's expense ; where Mr. Micawber's health and pros-
perity 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
develope my views to that assembled group, they would possi*

754

DAVID COPPERFIELD,

foly be found of an offensive nature ; my impression beirt,,
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 under-
stood you."

Mr. Micawber coughed.

" They have never understood you, Micawber," said his
wife. "They may be incapable of it. If so, that is their
misfortune. I can pity their misfortune."

" 1 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 with-
out your family coming forward to favor me, â€” 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 quarter.
At the same time, my dear, if they should condescend to re-
ply to your communications â€” which our joint experience ren-
ders most improbable â€” 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 fort-
night, some new trouble has vexed her ; and she has been in
and out of Londor. every day. Several times she has gone
out early, and been absent until evening. Last nightj

MR. MIC A WEEK'S TRANSACTIONS.

755

Traddles, with this journey before her, it was almost mid-
night before she came home. You know what her consider-
ation 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, sal
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
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 dis-
tracted 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. Wickfield's, 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," said Traddles, " has been doing
wonders ! As soon as he was released from overlooking Uriah
Heep, whom he kept in such charge as I 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 mak-
ing, 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 if,"

" 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

756

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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."

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 con-
fidence j 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 re-
duced 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 â€” and I suppose the house to be sold,
even in saying this â€” 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 â€” Copperfield â€” Iâ€”"

" I have considered it, Trotwood," 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 honor, 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 â€” the next
to his release from all trust and responsibility â€” that I cai?
know."

" Have you thought how, Agnes ? "

MR. MIC A WEEK'S TRANSACTIONS.

" 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 teep a
school, I shall be useful and happy."

The calm fervor 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," said Traddles, " that property ot
yours."

"Well, sir," 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."

" It was originally, I think, eight thousand pounds, Con-
sols ? " said Traddles.

" Right ! " replied my aunt.

" I can't account for more than five," said Traddles, with
an air of perplexity.

" â€” thousand do you mean ? " inquired my aunt, with un*
common composure, " or pounds ? "

" Five thousand pounds," said Traddles.

" It was all there was," 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 â€” persevering, 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.

"Then I am delighted to say," cried Traddles, beaming
with joy, " that we have recovered the whole money ! "

" Don't congratulate me, any body ! " exclaimed my aunt
*' How so, sir ? "

" You believed it had been misappropriated by Mr. Wick-
field?" said Traddles.

" Of course I did," 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

758

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

afterwards pretended to Mr. Wickfield, by that rascal, â€” and
proved, too, by figures, â€” 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, unhappy, 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 rob-
bery, 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.
â€” If any body 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 Tradclles, " 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 be grasped this sum even so much for the
gratification of his avarice, which was inordinate, as in the
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," said Traddles, "with his
mother, who had been clamoring and beseeching, and disclos-
ing, 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 partiiag 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 compli-
ment."

" Do you suppose he has any money, Traddles ? " J
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, Cop-
perfield, if you had an opportunity of observing his course,
that money would never keep that man out of mischief, He

MR. MICA WEEK'S TRANSACTIONS.

759

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 consequently
will hate and suspect every body that comes, in the most in-
nocent 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 been
so patient and persevering for so long a time, we never could
have hoped to do any thing 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."

"I think so too," said I.

" Now, what would you give him ? " inquired my aunt.

" Oh ! Before you come to that," 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 mak-
ing this lawless adjustment â€” for it's perfectly lawless from
beginning to end â€” of a difficult affair. Those I. O. U. 's, and
so forth, which Mr. Micawber gave him for the advances he
hadâ€”"

"Well ! They must be paid," said my aunt.

" Yes, but I don't know when they may be proceeded on,
or where they are," rejoined Traddles, opening his eyes ; " and
I anticipate, that, between this time and his departure, Mr.
Micawber will be constantly arrested, or taken in execution."

" Then he must be constantly set free again, and taken
out of execution," said my aunt. " What's the amount alto-
gether ? "

" Why, Mr. Micawber has entered the transactions â€” he calls
them transactions â€” with great form, in a book," rejoined
Traddles, smiling ; " and he makes the amount a hundred
and three pounds, five."

;6o

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" N<,w, 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 ? n

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
ihat Mr. Micawber's arrangement for the repayment of the
advances should be gravely entered into, as it might be whole-
some for him to suppose himself under that responsibility. To
this, I added the suggestion, that I should give some explana-
tion 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. Micawber in Mr. Peggotty,
by confiding so much of Mr. Peggotty's story to him as I
might feel justified it relating, or might think expedient ; and
to endeavor 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 them*
selves 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. Micawber's memora-
ble denunciation, a threatening allusion was made by Uriah
Heep to your aunt's â€” husband."

My aunt, retaining her stiff position, and apparent com-
posure, assented with a nod.

" Perhaps," observed Traddles, "it was mere purposeless
impertinence ? "

u No," returned my aunt

" There was â€” pardon me â€” 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;
tha/ it had shared the fate of Mr. Micawber's liabilities, irc

MR. MICAWBER'S TRANSACTIOA'S.

76.

not being comprehended in the terms he had made ; that we
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 thoughtfuj
to mention it."

" Can I â€” or Copperneld â€” 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 car-
riage, 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 I'll tell you what arrangements we propose."

These she explained to the unbounded satisfaction of the
family, â€” children and all being then present, â€” 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 re-
ceived a sudden check ; for within five minutes, he returned
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. Micaw-
ber was seated at the table, filling up the stamps with an
expression of perfect joy, which only that congenial employ-
ment, or the making of punch, could impart in full complete-
ness 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 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.

762

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

Micawber will attest it. I trust," said Mr. Micawber, sol*
emnly, " 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 mo-
ment 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. Wickfield's 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 Ileeps,
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 aunt's house â€” not to mine j
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."

" You have had sorrow enough, child," 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. " I'll 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 recognized
my aunt, and in obedience to a motion of her hand at the
window, drove slowly off ; we following.

MR. MIC A WEEK'S TRANSACTIONS.

763

" 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.

u He was there once before," said my aunt presenttyo
"He was ailing a long time â€” 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. Very
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 Horn-
sey. " Better here than in the streets," said my aunt. " He
was born here."

We alighted ; and followed the plain coffin to a corner I
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 ! "

Wre 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 â€”
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 :

'â€¢ ' Canterbury,

" Friday.

My dear Madam, and Copperfield,

"The fair land of promise lately looming on the hori-

764

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

zon is again enveloped in impenetrable mists, and forever
withdrawn from the eyes of a drifting wretch whose DoonÂ« 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. Micawber, 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,
Bee the front of battle lower,
See approach proud Edward's power s

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,
Some future traveller, visiting, from motives of curiosity, not
unmingled, let us hope, with sympathy, the place of confine-
ment 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 forecast shadow even
on the incidents of my childish days.

For years after it occurred, I dreamed of it often. I have

TEMPEST.

765

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. V

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.
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 conver-
sation, 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
ner 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
Tine to Mr. Peggotty, requesting him to give it to her ; antf
Went to bed at day-break.

766

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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," 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.

" Mas'r Davy," he said, when we had shaken hands, "I
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. Oh, 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 played 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. IrÂ»
another world, if I am forgiven, J may wake a child and come to vou. All thanks and
blessings, ^a-rewell. ""^rmore."

This, 61otted 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 â€” "but I am thinking â€” "

" Yes, Mas'r Davy ? "

" I am thinking," said I, " that I'll go down again to Yar-
mouth. 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 commission, 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 endeavored 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

TEMPEST.

that conveyance, down the road I had traversed under so
many vicissitudes.

" Don't you think that," I asked the coachman, in the first
stage out of London, "a very remarkable sky? I don't,
remember to have seen one like it."

"Nor I â€” not equal to it," he replied, "That's wind, sir.
There'll be mischief done at sea, I expect, before long."

It was a murky confusion â€” here and there blotted with a
color like the color of the smoke from damp fuel â€” 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 apprehen-
sion that the coach would be blown over. Sweeping gusts of
rain came up before this storm, like showers of steel ; and. at
fhose 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 ble\7 great guns,
but I had never known the like of this, or anything approach-
ing to it. We came to Ipswich â€” 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 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 neighboring villages, who
had seen great trees lying torn out of the earth, and whol*

763

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 build-
ings. 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 fall-
ing 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 ; shipowners,
excited and uneasy ; children, huddling together, and peering
into older faces ; even stout mariners, disturbed and 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-
lieaded billows thundered on, and dashed themselves to pieces

TEMPEST.

before they reached the land, every fragment of the late
whole seemed possessed by the full might of its wrath, rush-
ing to be gathered to the composition of another monster.
Undulating hills were changed to valleys, undulating valleys
(with a solitary storm-bird sometimes skimming through them)
were lifted up to hills ; masses of watef 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 flew fast and thick ; I seemed to see a rending and
upheaving of all nature.

Not finding Ham among the people whom this memora-
able wind â€” for it is still remembered down there, as the
greatest ever known to blow upon that coast â€” 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 after
noon. I had not sat five minutes by the coffee-room fire,
when the waiter coming to stir it, as an excuse for talking,
told me that two colliers had gone down, with all hands, ?
few miles away ; and that some other ships had been seek
laboring 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 1 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 distant and
vivid.

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 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
steadfast 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, â€” 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 con
sciousness, 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 â€” or rather when I
shook off the lethargy that bound me in my chair â€” 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

TEMPEST,

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 re-assuring, on s'ich a night, to be told that some
of the inn-servants had agreed together to sit up until morn-
ing. I went to bed, exceedingly weary 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 j
imagining, now, that I heard shrieks out at sea ; now, that I
distinctly heard the firing of signal guns ; and now, the fall 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, reterring to
the topic they had been discussing, asked me whether 1
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 sea-weed, 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 â€” off a tower and down a precipice â€” 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

772

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

I could not hear something I much desired to hear, until \
made a great exertion and awoke. It was broad day â€” eight
or nine o'clock ; the storm raging, in lieu of the batteries ;
' and some one knocking and calling at my door.

" 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 clamoring 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 pre-
sented, bore the expression of being stvelled ; and the height to
which the breakers rose, and, looking over one another, bore
one another down, and rolled in, in interminable 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 con-
fused 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 â€” which
she did without a moment's pause, and with a violence quite
inconceivable â€” beat the side as if it would stave it in. Some
efforts were even then being made, to cut this portion of the
wreck away ; for, as the ship, which was broadside on, turned
towards us in her rolling, I plainly descried her people at work
â– with axes, especially one active Lgure with long curling hah;

TEMPEST.

773

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 â€” I don't
know how, for the little I could hear I was scarcely composed
enough to understand â€” that the life-boat had been bravely
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 â€” as well as I know, to repeat my appeal for
help. But, distracted though I was, by a sight so new and
terrible, the determination in his face, and his look, out to sea
â– â€” exactly the same look as I remembered in connection with
the morning after Emily's flight â€” awoke me to a knowledge of

774

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 b]ow, beat off the lower of the
two men, and fly up in triumph round the active figure left
alone upon the mast.

Against such 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 en-
freated the wind. " Mas'r Davy," he said, cheerily grasping
me by both hands, " if my time is come, 'tis come. If 't an't,
I'll 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 con-
fusedly 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 cap-
stan 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, 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 was 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, â€” not like a sailor's
cap, but of a finer color ; and as the few yielding planks be-
tween him and destruction rolled and bulged, and his antici-
pative 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 buffeting
with the water ; rising with the hills, falling with the valleys,

TEMpEST.

lost beneath the foam â€¢ then drawn again to land. Thej
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 â€” or so
I judged from the motion of his arm â€” and was gonÂ° as before.

And now he made for the wreck, rising with the hills, fall-
ing 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, â€” 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 !

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 â€” insensible â€” dead. He was carried to
!he nearest house : and, no one prevented 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 â€” on that part of
it where some lighter fragments of the old boat, blown down
last night, had been scattered by the wind â€” among the ruins
of the home he had wronged â€” 1 saw him lying with his head
upon his arm, as I had cvten seen him lie at school-

;76 DAVID COPPERFIELD.

CHAPTER LV1.

TK^ 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 part-
ing-hourâ€” 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
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 round 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

THE NEW WOUND, AND THE OLD.

Ill

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 all 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 parlor-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 ? â€” Mr. James ? "

" 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 sel-
dom out now, even in a carriage ; that she kept her room j
that she saw no company, but would see me. Her mistress
was up, she said, and Miss Dartle was with her. What mes-
sage 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 gone,
and the shutters were half closed. The harp had not been
used for many and many a day. His picture, as a boy, was
there. The cabinet in which his mother had kept his letters
was there. I wondered if she ever read them now .; if she
would ever read them more !

I The house was' so still that I heard the girl's light step up-
stairs. On her return, she brought a message, to the effect
that Mrs. Steerforth was an invalid and could not come down ;
but, that if I would excuse her being in her chamber, she
would be glad to see me. In a few moments I stood before
her.

She was in his room ; not in her own. I felt, of course,
that she had taken to occupy it, in remembrance of him ; and
that the many tokens of his old sports and accomplishments,
by which she was surrounded, remained there, just as he had
left them, for the same rerson. She murmured, however, even

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

in her reception of me, that she was out of her own chambef
because its aspect was unsuited to her infirmity ; and with
her stately look repelled the least suspicion of the truth.

At her chair, as usual, was Rosa Dartle. From the first
moment of her dark eyes resting on me, I saw she knew I was
the bearer of evil tidings. The scar sprung into view that
instant. She withdrew herself a step behind the chair, to keej
her own face out of Mrs. Steerforth's observation ; and.
scrutinized me with a piercing gaze that never faltered, nevei
shrunk.

" I am sorry to observe you are in mourning, sir," said
Mrs. Steerforth.

"I am unhappily a widower," said I.

" You are very young to know so great a loss," she re-
turned. " I am grieved to hear it I am grieved to hear it.
I hope Time will be good to you."

" I hzzz Time," said I, looking at her, "will be good to
all of us. Dear Mrs. Steerforth, we must all trust to that> in
our heaviest misfortunes."

The earnestness of my manner and the tears in my eyes,
alarmed her. The whole course of her thoughts appeared to
stop, and change.

I tried to command my voice in gently saying his name, but
it trembled. . She repeated it to herself, two or three times, in
a low tone. Then addressing me, she said, with enforced
calmness :

" My son is ill."

" Very ill."

" You have seen him ? n
" I have."

" Are you reconciled ? "

I could not say Yes, I could not say No. She slightly
turned her head towards the spot where Rosa Dartle had been
standing at her elbow, and in that moment I said, by the
motion of my lips, to Rosa, " Dead ! "

That Mrs. Steerforth might not be induced to look behind
her, and read plainly written, what she was not yet prepared
to know, I met her look quickly ; but I had seen Rosa Dartle
throw her hands up in the air with vehemence of despair and
horror, and then clasp them on her face.

The handsome lady â€” so like, oh so like ! â€” regarded me
with a fixed look, and put her hand to her forehead. I besought
het to be calm, and prepare herself to bear what I had to tell ;

THE NEW WOUND, AND- THE OLD.

779

but I should rather have entreated her to weep, for she sat
like a stone figure.

"When I was last here," I faltered, " Miss Dartle told me
he was sailing here and there. The night before last was a
dreadful one at sea. If he were at sea that night, and near a
dangerous coast, as it is said he was ; and if -the vessel that
was seen should really be the ship which "

" Rosa ! " said Mrs. Steerforth, " come to me ! "

She came, but with no sympathy or gentleness. Her eyes
gleamed like fire as she confronted his mother, and broke into
a frightful laugh.

" Now," she said, " is your pride appeased, you madwoman?

Now has he made atonement to you with his life ! Do you

hear ?â€” His life ! "

Mrs. Steerforth, fallen back stiffly in her chair, and mak*
ing no sound but a moan, cast her eyes upon her with a wide
stare.

" Ay ! " 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
irnade him ! "

"Miss Dartle," I entreated her. "For Heaven's sake â€” :
" 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 wai; gray, the qualities which made both when you

780

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 ! "

" 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 ca-
prices for a word of love a year. I should have been. Who
knows it better than I ? You are exacting, proud, punctilious,
selfish. My love would have been devoted â€” 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 re-
lentless hand. " When he grew into the better understanding
of what he had done, he saw it, and repented of it ! I could
sing to him and talk to him, and show the ardor that I felt in
all he did, and attain with labor to such kuowledge 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
â€” for it was little less â€” yet with an eager remembrance of it,
in which the smouldering embers of a gentler feeling kindled
for the moment.

" I descended â€” as I might have known I should, but that
he fascinated me with his boyish courtship â€” into a doll, a
trifle for the occupation of an idle hour, to be dropped and
iaken up, and trifled with, as the inconsistent humor 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 feelings, no remembrances.
Moan ? Moan for what you made him ; not foi your love. I
tell you that the time was, when I loved him better than you
ever did ! "

THE NEW WOUND, AND THE OLD. 781

She stood with her bright angry eyes confronting the wide
stare, and the set face ; and softened no more, when the moan-
ing 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 thaÂ£ 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 faultsâ€” you
have been bitter on them "

" It's false," she cried, tearing her black hair; "I loved
him ! "

" â€” if his faults cannot," 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,
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 1
went out.

Later in the day, I returned, and we laid him in his moth-
er'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 l;i*e a statue except for the low sound
now and then.

y82 DAVID COPPERFIELD.

I went through the dreary house, and darkened the win?
dows. The windows of the chamber where he lay, I dark-
ened 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 oc-
curred, 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 intel-
ligence 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 J "

Mr. Micawber, I must observe, in his adaptation of him-
self to a new state of society, had acquired a bold buccaneer-
ing air, not absolutely lawless, but defensive and prompt.
One might have supposed him a child of the wilderness, long
accustomed to live out of the confines of civilization, 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, were
cleared for action. I found Mrs. Micawber in the closest and
most uncompromising of bonnets, made fast under die 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 be*

THE EMIGRANTS.

7Â«3

hind 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 eld-
est 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 â€” Heave â€” Yeo !" on the shortest no-
tice.

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, tum-
ble-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 inter-
est 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 under-
neath. 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 whis-
per Mr. Peggotty, when Mr. Micawber brought him in, that I
had given the letter, and all was well. But I did both, and
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 ? " s*aid my aunt.

"It did, ma'am," he returned.

"Well ? " said my aunt. " An â€¢ file sails â€” "

784

DAVID COPPERFIEL D,

" Madam," he replied, " I am informed that we must pos:
iively 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', afternoon 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. MI
cawber, with a glance of intelligence at me, " Mr. Peggotty and"
myself will constantly keep a double lookout together, on ou:
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 neces-
sary to the composition of a moderate portion of that Bever-
age which is peculiarly associated, in our minds, with the
Roast Beef of Old England. I allude to â€” 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 ! " said Agnes, with a smile.

Mr. Micawber immediately descended to the bar, where
he 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 mem-
bers of the family I now found to be provided with similar
formidable instruments, while every child had its own wooden
spoon attached to its body by a strong line. In a similar an-
ticipation of life afloat, and in the Bush, Mr. Micawber, in-
stead ot helping Mrs. Micawber and his oldest son and daugh-
ter 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 en-
joy any thing. so much as drinking out of his own particular
Dint pot, and putting it in his pocket at the close of the evening.

" The luxuries of the old country," said Mr. Micawbe^
with an intense satisfaction in their renouncement, " we aban*

THE EMIGRANTS. 785

don. 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, with his usual
suddenness of warmth on that subject, " as the member of
your family â€” whoever he, she, or it, may be â€” 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 â€” "

" 1 It is not meet,' " said Mr. Micawber, rising, " ' that every
nice offence should bear its comment ! ' Emma, I stand re-
proved."

" 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, ex^
posed them, and now desire to extend the hand of fellowship,
let it not be repulsed."

" 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 mem-
ber 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 docu-
ment, 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 thÂ£

786

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

boy to pay the money, where I found Mr. Micawber sitting in
a corner, looking darkly at the Sheriff's Officer who had ef-
fected the capture. On his release, he embraced me with the
utmost fervor, and made an entry of the transaction in his
pocket-book â€” being very particular, I recollect, about a half -
penny 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
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 va-
rious periods. After a careful consideration of these, and an
elaborate estimate of his resources, he had come to the con-
clusion 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, pern
sively shaking her head, "that my family will appear on board,
before we finally depart."

Mr. Micawber evidently had his presentiment on the sub*
ject 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 clear Miss Trotwood," she replied, " I shall only be
too happy to think that anyone expects to hear from us. 1
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, inÂ»

THE EMIGRANTS.

78?

running over. It is merely crossing," said Mr. Micawber,
trifling with his eye-glass, " merely crossing. The distance is
quite imaginary."

I think, now, how odd it was, but how wonderfully like
Mr. Micawber, that, when he went from London to Canterbury,
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 endeavor," 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 â€” an expression in which I
hope there is no conventional impropriety â€” 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 described. In short," said Mr. Micawber, with
the old genteel air, " the probability is, all will be found so ex-
citing, alow and aloft, that when the look-out, stationed in the
main-top, cries Land-oh ! we shall be very considerably aston-
ished ! "

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 ex-
amination 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. Micawber,
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,
to strengthen, not to weaken, the connection between yourself
and Albion."

"The connection in question, my love" rejoined Mr. Mi-
cawber, " has not laid me, I repeat, under that load of per-
sonal obligation, that I am at all sensitive as to the formation
of another connection.^

738

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" 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 connection 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 em-
barkation, 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 in-
conveniences. 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 ves*
sel's prow, and firmly say, : This country I am come to con*
quer ! Have you honors ? Have you riches ? Have 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 disappointment :
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.

THE EMIGRANTS.

789

"And doing that," said Mrs. Micawber, " â€” feeling his
position â€” am I not right in saying that Mr. Micawber will
strengthen, and not weaken, his connection 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 power in Australia, will be nothingln 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 â€” I cannot disguise from
myself that the probability is, Mr. Micawber will be â€” 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 foi*
me not to be touched by your affection. I am always willing
to defer to your good sense. What will be â€” 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. Peg-
gotty, " 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 Micaw-
bers 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. Micawber's 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 condition, sob-
bing 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

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

make, that although my association of them with the tumbld
down public-house and the wooden stairs dated only from las)
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, sur*
rounded by a crowd of boats ; a favorable wind blowing â€¢ the
signal for sailing at her mast head. I hired a boat directly,
and we put off to her ; and getting through the 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 Heep, and that, in compliance
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
rumors of what nad happened, were dispelled by Mr. Micaw-
ber'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 â€” lighted up, here and there,
by dangling lanterns ; and elsewhere by the yellow day-light
straying down a windsail or a hatchway â€” 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.
mth. their little households arranged, and tiny children estab *â–
lished on stools, or in dwarf elbow-chairs ; others, despair-
ing 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 carry-
ing 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.

THE EMIGRANTS

79*

As my eye glanced round this place, I thought I saw sit-
ting, by an open port, with one of the Micawber children neal
her, a figuie 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 â€” Agnes \
But in the rapid motion and -confusion, and in the unsettle-
ment of my own thoughts, I lost it again ; and only knew tha,
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, Mas'r 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 honored any man, I loved and honored 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 \
. and every taper line and spar was visible against the glow. A
sight at once so beautiful, so mournful, and so hopeful, as the
glorious ship, lying, still, on the flushed water, with all the
life on board her crowded at the bulwarks, and there cluster
sng for a moment, bare-headed and silent, I never saw.

Silent, only for a moment. As the sails rose to the wind,

79-'

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

and the ship began to move, there broke from all the boats
three resounding cheers, which those on board took up, and
echoed back, and which were echoed and re-echoed. My
heart burst out when I heard the sound, and beheld the wav-
ing of the hats and handkerchiefs â€” and then I saw her !

Then I saw her, at her uncle's side, and trembling on his
shoulder. He pointed to us with an eager hand ; and she
saw us, and waved her last good-bye to me. Aye, Emily,
beautiful and drooping, cling to him with the utmost trust of
thy bruised heart ; for he has clung to thee, with all the might
of his great love !

Surrounded by the rosy light, and standing high upon the
deck, apart together, she clinging to him, and he holding her,
they solemnly passed away. The night had fallen on the
Kentish hills when we were rowed ashore â€” and fallen darkly
upon me.

CHAPTER LVIII.

ABSENCE.

It was a long and gloomy night that gathered on me,
haunted by the ghosts of many hopes, of many dear remem-
brances, many errors, many unavailing sorrows and uegrets.

I went away from England ; not knowing even then, how
great the shock was, that I had to bear. I left all who were
dear to me, and went away ; and believed that I had borne it,
and it was past. As a man upon a field of battle will receive
a mortal hurt, and scarcely know that he is struck, so I, when
I was left alone with my undisciplined heart, had no concep-
tion of the wound with which it had to strive.

The knowledge came upon me, not quickly, but little by
little, and grain by grain. The desolate feeling with which I
went abroad, deepened and widened hourly. At first it was a
heavy sense of loss and sorrow, wherein I could distinguish
little else. By imperceptible degrees, it became a hopeless
consciousness of all that I had lost â€” love, friendship, interest;
of all that had been shattered â€” my first trust, my first affec-
tion, the whole airy castle of my life ; of all that remained â€” a

ABSENCE.

793

ruined blank and waste, lying wide around me, unbroken, to
the dark horizon.

If my grief were selfish, I did not know it to be so. I
mourned for my child-wife, taken from her blooming world, so
^oung. I mourned for him who might have won the love and
admiration of thousands, as lie had won mine long ago. I
mourned for the broken heart that had found rest in the
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 de-
scribed ; 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
â€” the old abiding places of History and Fancy â€” as a dreamer
might ; bearing my painful load through all, and hardly con-
scious 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 â€” as at last I did,
thank Heaven ! â€” 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 re-
turning home â€” reasons then struggling within me, vainly, for
more distinct expression â€” kept me on my pilgrimage. Some-
times, I had proceeded restlessly from place to place, stopping
nowhere ; sometimes, I had lingered long in one spot. I had
no purpose, no sustaining soul within me, anywhere.

I was in Switzerland. I had come out of Italy, over one

794

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

or the great passes of the Alps, and had since wandered witfr
a guide among the bye-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 wind-
ing track along the mountain-side, from which I saw it shining
far below, I think some long-unwonted sense of beauty and
tranquility, 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 despair-
ing. 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, gray
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 lone-
ly 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 dis-
tant singing- â€” shepherd voices ; but, as one bright evening
cloud floated midway along the mountain's side, I could al-
most 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 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 min-
utes 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 Una
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 \
left home.

ABSENCE.

795

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 pur-
pose 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 augmentation, well knew that I
would labor 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 dar-
ling to His rest ; and in her sisterly affection cherished me al-
ways, and was always at my side go where I would ; proud of
what I had done, but infinitely prouder yet of what I was re-
served to do.

I put the letter in my breast, and thought what I had been
an hour ago ! When I heard the voices die away, and saw the
quiet evening cloud grow dim, and all the colors in the valley
fade, and the golden snow upon the mountain 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 neighborhood, 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 remembrance
of that evening ; to resume my pen ; to work.

796

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

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 val-
ley 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 ex-
perience, 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 execu-
tion 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. 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 â€” 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 realized, of which I had been
sensible. But the thought came into my mind as a new re
proach 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

ABSENCE.

797

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 â€” and I some-
times thought the time was when she might have done so â€” 1
had cast it away. It was nothing, now, that I had accustomed
myself to think of her, when we were both mere children^ as
one who was far removed from my wild fancies. I had be-
stowed my passionate tenderness upon another object ; and
what I might have clone, 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 I tried to get a better understanding of myself and
be a better man, I did glance, through some indefinite proba-
tion, to a period when I might possibly hope to cancel the
mistaken pass, and to be so blessed as to marry her. But,
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 con-
stancy and fortitude ; and now I felt it more and more. What-
ever I might have been to her, or she to me, if I had been
more worthy of her long ago, I was not now, and she was not.
The time was past. I 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 I had a sus
taining sense that it was required of me, in right and honor, 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 â€” which
consideration was at the root of every thought I had concern-
ing her â€” 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

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

I had thought, much and often, of my Dora's shadowing
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. â€¢ 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 endeavored 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 ot the packet vessel that brought me home, look-
ing 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 toe â€” â–
but she was not mine â€” 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 â€” I suppose everybody has â€” that
one's going away from a familiar place, would seem to be the

RETURN.

799

signal for change in it. As I looked out of the coach- window
and observed that an old house on Fish-strett Hill, which had
stood untouched by painter, carpenter, or bricklayer, for a
century, had been pulled down in my absence ; and that a neigh-
boring street, of time-honored 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 cham-
bers 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 I might have die 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 re-
called, 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 â€” 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 the 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.

8oo

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

"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 ? "

" Not above three years,*' said I.

The waiter, who I supposed had lived in his church-
warden's pew for forty years, could not pursue such an in-
significant subject. He asked me what I would have for din-
ner ?

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- â€” if he ever was a boy, which appeared im-
probable ; and at the shining tables, where I saw myself re-
flected, 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 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 bed-
room to change my wet clothes ; and the vast extent of that
old wainscoted apartment (which was over the archway lead-
ing to the Inn, I remember), and the sedate immensity of the
four-post bedstead, and the indomitable gravity of the chest
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 â€” which was bare of
guests, the Long Vacation not yet being over â€” were eloquent

RE TURK.

8oi

on the audacity ot Traddles, and his small hopes of a liveli-
hood for twenty years to come.

1 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 convey-
ancer living in the Square, and worth a mint of money, which
;t was expected he would leave to his laundress's daughter ;
likewise that it was rumored 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 as-
cended 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 attor-
ney 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 Honorable Socie-
ty 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. 1 raddles painted on it, open. I knocked. A consider-
able 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 legallv, presented himself

"Is Mr. Traddles within ? " I said.

"Yes. sir, but he's engaged."

802

DAVID COPPER FIELD

' 1 want to see him."

After a moment's survey of me, the sharp-looking lad de*
cided to let me in ; and opening the door wider for that pur-
pose, 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 bend-
ing 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 honor, 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 I
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, Trad-
dles, 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 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," said Traddles, " that you should have been
so nearly coming home as you must have been, my 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
tny knees, " I am married ! "

KL TURN-

803

" Married ! " I cried joyfully.

" Lord bless me, yes ! " said Traddles â€” " by the Rev.
Horace â€” to Sophy â€” clown in Devonshire. Why, my dear old
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 ac-
quaintance 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 Copperfield \
<k>d 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 to have a peep at London.
The fact is, when â€” was it you that tumbled up stairs, Copper-
â– field ? "

" 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 â€” 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 ity my dear Copperfield ? " said
Traddles. " It's very agreeable to hear. It quite lights up

8o4

DAVID COPPERFIELD .

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 â€” who, I do assure you, Copperfield, is and ever was,
the dearest girl ! â€” 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
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 low
confidential voice, "Caroline. .And Sarah's here â€” 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 â€” I mean the
chambers â€” is only three rooms ; but Sophy arranges for the
girls in the most wonderful way, and they sleep as comfortably
as possible. Three in that room," said Traddles pointing.
u Two in that."

I could not help glancing round, in search of the accommo-
dation remaining for Mr. and Mrs. Traddles. Traddles under-
stood 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 â€” a very nice
room, when you're up there â€” which Sophy papered her self, to
surprise me ; and that's our own 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 L "How rejoiced I am!"

RETURN.

" 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, nod-
ding triumphantly at the flower-pot and stand ; " and there's
the table with the marble top ! All the other furniture is
plain and serviceable, you perceive. And as to plate, Lord
bless you, we haven't so much as a teaspoon."

" All to be earned ? " said I cheerfully.

" Exactly so," replied Traddles, " all to be earned. Of
course we have something in the shape of teaspoons, 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 delivered my argument in Doe dem Jipes versus
Wigzell, which did me great service with the profession, I
went down into Devonshire, and had some serious conversa-
tion in private with the Reverend Horace. I dwelt upon the
fact that Sophy â€” 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 Rever-
end 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 â€” in short,"
said Traddles, with his old frank smile, " on our present Bri-
tannia-metal footing. Very well. I then purposed to the
Reverend Horace â€” 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 â€” that if I could
turn the corner, say of two hundred and fifty pounds, in one
Â«ear; and could see my way pretty clearly to that, or some-
thing 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 cir-
cumstance of Sophy's being extraordinarily useful at home,
ought not to operate with her affectionate parents, against her
establishment in life â€” don't you see ? "

" Certainly it ought not," said I.

8o6

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" 1 am glad you think so, Copperfield," rejoined Trad-
dies, "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 â€” I refer to the Reverend
\ Horaceâ€”"

" I understand," said I.

u â€” Or to Mrs. Crewler â€” it v/ould 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 feel-
ings, 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
headâ€”"

" 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 unremit-
ting and affectionate attention ; and we were married yester-
day six weeks. You have no idea what a Monster I felt, Cop-
perfield, when I saw the whole family crying and fainting away
in every direction ! Mrs. Crewler couldn't see me before we
left â€” couldn't forgive me, then, for depriving her of her child
â€” but she is a good creature, and has done so ^ince. I had a
delightful letter from her, only this morning."

" And in short, my dear friend," said I, " you feel as blest
â– its you deserve to feel ! "

" Oh ! That's your partiality ! " laughed Traddles. w 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 ail. 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 â€” Miss
Sarah â€” Miss Louisa â€” Margaret and Lucy !

They were a perfect nest of noses ; they looked so whole-

RETURN

807

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 thai 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 composure
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 commo-
tion ; 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, and essentially a part of their character. If Trad-
dles ever for an instant missed the teaspoons that were stil!
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 1
observed in the Beauty, were manifestly considered, by Trad-
dles and his wife, as her birthright and natural endowment.
If she had been born a Queen Bee, and they laboring 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 bnng something here, or carry something there, or take
something up, or put something down, or find something, or
fetch something, he was so addressed, by one or other of his

8c8

DAVID COPPERFIELD*

sisters-in-law, at least twelve times in an hour. Neither coulo
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 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 Trad-
dies 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

RETURN

8og

think about him at my leisure, I gradually fell from the con-
sideration 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 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 tender-
ness ; 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, â€” when
I found my eyes resting on a countenance that might have
arisen out of the fire, in its association with my early remem-
brances.

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, cairn 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 parlor, waiting for me to be born.

Mr. Chillip had left Blunderstone six or seven years ago,
and 1 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 con-
ciliatory in his manner that he seemed to apologize 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 hsypz you are well."

" You don't remember me ? " said L

8io

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Well, sir," returned Mr. Chillip, smiling very meekly;
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.

j "Did I indeed, sir?" said Mr. Chillip. "Is it possible

that I had the honor, 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 favor of your name ? "

On my telling him my name, he was really moved. He
quite shook hands with me â€” 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 disengage
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 ob<
served.

"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.
w You must find it a trying occupation, sir ! "

" What is your part of the country now ? " I asked, seat-
ing myself near him.

" I am established within a few miles of Bury St. Ed-
mund's, sir," said Mr. Chillip. " Mrs. Chillip coming into a
little property in that neighborhood, 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 tali

RETURN.

811

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 puf 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
accustomed to ; but I can't deny myself the pleasure of your
conversation. It seems but yesterday that I had the honor 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 dissipa^
tion ! " said Mr. Chillip, stirring it, " but I can't resist so
extraordinary 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 neighbor
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. â€” 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.
" 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, "Ahr
dear me ! Wre remember old times, Mr. Copperneld ! "

" And the brother and sister are pursuing their old course,
are they ? " said I.

"Well, sir," replied Mr. Chillip, "a medical man, being so

$12

DAVID COPFERFIELD.

much in families, ought to have neither eyes nor ears for any
thing 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 ob-
servers, sir."

" I suppose she was to be subdued and broken to their
detestable 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 im-
becility."

I told him I could easily believe it.

" I have no hesitation in saying," said Mr. Chillip, for'
tifying himself with another sip of negus, " between you and
â– me, sir, that her mother died of it â€” 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 in-
dulging. " One of Mrs. Chillip's most impressive remarks,
Mrs. Chillip," he proceeded, in the calmest and slowest man-

RETURN.

8i3

Jier, u 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, â€” in short, sir, it is
said by Mrs. Chillip, â€” 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 humors
and arrogance. And do you know I must say, sir," he
continued, mildly laying his head on one side, " that I don' I
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
â€¢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 neighborhood ! 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 i!: 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 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
alarming lady, on the night of your birth, Mr. Copperfield ? r

814

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

I told him that I was going down to my aunt, the DragOB
of that night, early in the morning ; and that she was one ot
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 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 parlor while she was at tea (she wore spectacles
now) ; and was received by her, and Mr. Dick, and clear 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," â€” on whom I think no pain or penalty would have in-
duced 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,
returning into my aunt's service when she came back to Dover,
J^d finally carried out her renunciation of mankind by enter-

AGNES.

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 â€” 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
jie incessantly occupied himself in copying everything he
â– 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 ? "

" 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."

Then I should ride, I said. I could not have come through
Canterbury to-day without stopping, if I had been coming to
anyone 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 â€” " Blind, blind, blind ! "

We both kept silence for some minutes. When I raised
my eyes, I found that she was steadily observant of me. Per-
haps 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 â€” a reclaimed
man. Neither will you find him measuring all human inter-
ests, and joys, and sorrows, with his one poor little inch-rule
now. Trust me, child, such things must shrink very muchÂ«
before they can be measured off in that way."

Si6

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Indeed they must," said J.

"You will find her," pursued my aunt, "as good, as
beautiful, 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
be like herself," said my aunt, earnest even to the filling of
her eyes with tears, " Heaven knows, her life will be well em-
ployed ! Useful and happy, as she said that day ! How
could she be otherwise than useful and happy ! "

" Has Agnes any â€” " 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 â€” "

" 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 m]>

AGNES.

817

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 1
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 parlor 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 re-
quested 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 labored at my lessons,
many a night, stood yet at the sam: old corner of the table.
All the little changes that had crepf in when the Heeps were
there, were changed again. EveryUiing 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 or
wet afternoons, when I first came there ; and how I had used
to speculate about the people who appeared at any of the win-
dows, and had followed them with my eyes up and down
stairs, while women went clicking along the pavement in pat-
tens, 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 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 panneled wall made
me start and turn. Her beautiful serene eyes met mine as
she came towards me. She stopped and laid her hand upor*
?ier bosom, and I caught her in my arms.

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

" Agnes \ my dear girl ! I have come too suddenly upoft
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
iface 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, â€” â–
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 let-
ters) 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 soft!)
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 ?

"And you, Agnes," I said, by and by. " Tell me of your-
self. 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
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 color, 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 j
for, sharply painful to me as it must be to receive that confi-
dence, I was to discipline my heart, and do my duty to net,
I saw, however, that she was uneasy, and I let it pass.

" You have much to do, clear Agnes ? "

* With my school ? " said she, looking up again.

AGNES. 819
"Yes. It is laborious, is it not ? "

" The labor 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 color 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
aunt'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 th& old books, Trotwoocl, 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 I.

"And every little thing that has reminded me of my
brother," said Agnes, with her cordial eyes turned cheerfully
upon me, "has been a welcome companion. Even this,"
showing me the basket-trifle, full of keys, still hanging at her
side, " seems to jingle a kind of old tune ! "

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 for-
get it.

I walked through the streets ; and, once more seeing my
old adversary, the butcher â€” now a constable, with his staff
hanging up in the shop â€” 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

S20

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

.garden he had, a couple of miles or so out of town, where hs
now employed himself almost every day. I found him as my
aunt had described him. We sat down to dinner, with some
half-dozen girls ; and he seemed but the shadow of his hand-
some 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 by-gone days.

" My part in them," said Mr. Wickfield, shaking his white
head, " has much matter for regret â€” for deep regret, and 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," 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 â€” I have
always held it â€” 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 connec-
tion 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 â€” though it was much to suffer. She mar-
ried me in opposition to her father's wish, and he renounced
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 hi* 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 no^ She loved me dearly, but was neve*

AGNES

821

happy. She was always laboring, in secret, under this distress ;
and being delicate and downcast at the time of his last repulse
â€¢ â€” for it was not the first, by many â€” pined away and died.
She left me Agnes, two weeks old ; and the gray 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
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,
â€¢n 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 mora 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 father's side, before long ; and
going softly to her piano, played some of the old airs to which
we had oftened 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."

" 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 I 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 â€” pointing upward,
Agnes ? "

'* Oh, Trotwood ! " she returned, her eyes filled with tears.
" So loving, so confiding, and so young ! Can I ever for-
get?"

" As you were then, my sister, I have often thought since,

822

DAVID COPFERFIELD.

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 t
life long I shall look up to you, and be guided by you, as I
have been through the darkness that is past. Whatever be-
tides, whatever new 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 up-
ward ! "

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 with-
out removing her eyes from me.

" Do you know, what I have heard to-night, Agnes," said
2, " strangely seems to be a part of the feeling with which I
regarded you when I saw you first â€” 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.

Â£<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 discourage-
ment, and never cease to be so, until you ceased to live ? â€”
Will you laugh at such a dream ? "

"Oh, no! Oh, no!"

For an instant, a distressful shadow crossed her face ; butr
even in the start it gave me, it was gone ; and she was play-
ing on, and looking at me with her own calm smile.

As I rode back in the lonely night, the wind going by me

I AM SHOWN TWO INTERESTING PENITENTS. 823

like a restless memory, I thought of this, and feared she was
not happy. / was not happy ; but, thus far, I had faithfully
set the seal upon the Past, and, thinking of her, pointing up-
ward, thought of her as pointing to that sky above me, where,
in the mystery to come, I might yet love her with a love un-
known on earth, and tell her what the strife had been within
me when I loved her here. ,

CHAPTER LXI.

I AM SHOWN TWO INTERESTING PENITENTS

For a time â€” at all events until my book should be com-
pleted, which would be the work of several months â€” 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, T 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 earnestness, 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 pur-
pose, and the rest will be of interest to no one.

Occasionally I went to London ; to lose myself In the
â™¦swarm of life there, or to consult with Traddles on some bus-
iness point. He had managed for me, in my absence, with
the soundest judgment ; and my worldly affairs were prosper-
ing. As my notoriety began to bring upon me an enormous
quantity of letters from people of whom I had no knowledge
â€” chiefly about nothing, and extremely difficult to answer â€” I
agreed with Traddles to have my name painted up on his door.
There, the devoted postman on that beat delivered bushels of
letters for me ; and there, at intervals, I labored through them,
like a Home Secretary of State without the salary.

Among this correspondence, there dropped in, every now

824

DAVID COPPERFIELD

and then, an obliging proposal from one of the numerous out-
siders always lurking about the Commons, to practice undei
cover of my name (if I would take the necessary steps remain-
ing to make a proctor of myself), and pay me a percentage on
the profits. But I declined these offers ; being already aware
that there were plenty of such covert practitioners 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 ap-
peared, 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, don't, 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," said I. " I don't
think I ever saw such a stiff hand."

"Not like a lady's hand, is it ? " said Traddles.

" A lady's ! " I repeated. " Bricks and mortar are more
like a lady's hand ! "

Traddles broke into a rapturous laugh, and informed me
that it was Sophy's writing ; that Sophy had vowed and de-
clared he would need a copying clerk soon, and she would be
that clerk â€¢ that she had acquired this hand from a pattern ;
and that she could throw off â€” 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 ; averr-
ing 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.

I AM SHOWN TWO INTERESTING PENITENTS. 825

u My dear Copperfield," returned Traddles, "she ?s, with-
out any exception, the clearest 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 >vorld."

" 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 every-
thing in its right place, always so neat and ornamental her-
self, 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 enjoy ingly 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 an
evening, and shut the outer door, and draw those curtains â€” â–
which she made â€” 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 jeweller's 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 afford 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 â€” such a rocm 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

826

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

we go at half-price to the pit of the theatre â€” the very smell of
which is cheap, in my opinion, at the money â€” 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, Copper-
field, 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
how I had preserved that accomplishment. And I am afraid
there's a skeleton â€” in a wig â€” 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 forgiving
way, " Old Creakle ! "

" I have a letter from that old â€” 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.

"â€¢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 diffi-
cult to answer that question. Perhaps he voted for somebody,
or lent money to somebody, or bought something of some-
body, 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

/ AM SHOWN TWO INTERESTING PENITENTS. 827

Writes to me here, that he will be glad to show me, in Â» opera-
lion, the only true system of prison discipline ; the only un-
challengeable way of making sincere .and lasting converts and
penitents â€” which, you know, is by solitary confinement. 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.

"l 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, you'll find he is the tenderest
of men to prisoners convicted of the whole calendar of felon-
ies," 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 â€” I think it was the next day, but no
matter â€” 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 industrial
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 ;

828

DAVID COPPEKFIELD.

his eyes were as small, and rather deeper set. The scanty,
wet-looking gray hair, by which I remembered him, 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 Trad-
dies, 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, laborers, the great bulk of the honest, work-
ing 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. No-
body 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 pas-
sages, 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 â€” 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 con-
trition 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
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 prev-

J AM SHOWN TWO INTERESTING PENITENTS. 829

alent 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 excitem ' At, 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
favorite, 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 par-
ticular 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 every-
body 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 state of
the greatest admiration, that he was reading a Hymn Book.

There was such a rush of heads immediately, to see Num-
ber 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 con-
verted Number Twenty-Seven, but Uriah Heep !

He knew us directly ; and said, as he came out â€” with the
old writhe, â€”

" How do you do, Mr. Copperheld ? How do you do, Mr.
Traddles ? "

This recognition caused a general admiration in the party.

$3 o DAVID COPPERFJELD

I rather thought that everyone was struck by his not being
proud, and taking notice of us.

"Well, Twenty-Seven," said Mr. Creakle, mournfully
admiring 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 out-
side. I see my follies now, sir. That's what makes me com-
fortable."

Several gentlemen were much affected ; and a third ques-
tioner, forcing himself to the front, inquired with extreme feel-
ing : " How do you find the beef ? "

" Thank you, sir," replied Uriah, glancing in the new direc-
tion 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."

A murmur, partly of gratification at Twenty-Seven's celes-
tial state of mind, and partly of indignation against the Con
tractor who had given him any cause of complaint (a note oJ
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 meritorious 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
land 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 Lon-
don, and that the article in a pure state is difficult to be ob-
tained."

It appeared to me that the gentleman in spectacles backed
his Twenty-Eight against Mr. Creakle's Twenty-Seven, foi
Â«ach of them took his own man in hand.

f AM SHOWN TWO INTERESTING PENITENTS. 83 1

"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, nod
ding encouragement. V

" 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."

" Sir," said Mr. Littimer, without looking up, " if my eyes
have not deceived me, there is a gentleman present who was
acquainted with me in my former life. It may be profitable to
that gentleman to know, sir, that I attribute my past follies,
entirely to having lived a thoughtless life in the service of
young men ; and to having allowed myself to be led by them
into weaknesses, which I had not the strength to resist. I
hope that gentleman will take warning, sir, and will not be
offended at my freedom. It is for his good. I am conscious
of my own pasi follies. I hope he may repent of all the
wickedness and sin, to which he has been a party."

I observed that several gentlemen were shading their eyes.,
each, with one hand, as if they had just come into church.

" This does you credit, Twenty-Eight," returned the ques-
doner. " I should have expected it of you. Is there any-
thing else ? "

" Sir," returned Mr. Littimer, slightly lifting up his eye-
brows, but not his eyes, "there was a young woman who fell
into dissolute courses, that I endeavored to save, sir, but
could not rescue. I beg that gentleman, if he has it ?n his
power, to inform that young woman trom me that I forgive her
her bad conduct towards myself ; and that I call her to repent-
anceâ€” if he will be so good."

" I have no doubt, Twenty-Eight," returned the questioner,
" that the gentleman you refer to feels very strongly â€” as we
all must â€” what you have so properly said. We will not detain
you."

" I thank you, sir," said Mr. Littimer. " Gentlemen, 1
wish you a good day, and hoping you and your families will
also see your wickedness, and amend ! "

With this. Number Twenty-Eight retired, after a glance

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

between him and Uriah ; as if they were not altogether

unknown to each other, through some medium of communica-
tion ; and a murmur went round the group, as his door shut
upon him, that he was a most respectable man, and a beauti-
ful case.

" Now, Twenty-Seven," said Mr. Creakle, entering on a
clear stage with his man, " is there anything that anyone can
do for you ? If so, mention it."

" I would umbly ask, sir," returned Uriah, with a jerk of
his malevolent head, " for leave to write again to mother."

" It shall certainly be granted," said Mr. Creakle.

" Thank you sir ! I am anxious about mother. I am
afraid she ain't safe."

Somebody incautiously asked, what from ? But there was
a scandalized whisper of " Hush ! "

" Immortally safe, sir," returned Uriah, writhing in the
direction of the voice. " I should wish mother to be got into
my state. I never should have been got into my present state,
if I hadn't come here. I wish mother had come here. It
would be better for everybody, if they got took up, and was
brought here."

This sentiment gave unbounded satisfactipn â€” greater sat-
isfaction, I think, than anything that had passed yet.

" Before I come here," said Uriah, stealing a look at us,
as if he would have blighted the outer world to which we
belonged, if he could, " I was given to follies ; but now I am
sensible of my follies. There's a deal of sin outside. There's
a deal of sin in mother. There's nothing but sin everywhere
â€” except here."

" You are quite changed ? " said Mr. Creakle.

" Oh dear, yes, sir ! " cried this hopeful penitent.

" You wouldn't relapse, if you were going out ? " asked
somebody else.

" Oh de-ar no, sir ! "

" Well ! " said Mr. Creakle, " this is very gratifying. You
have addressed Mr. Copperfield, Twenty-Seven. Do you
wish to say anything further to him ? "

" You knew me a long time before I came here and was
changed, Mr. Copperfield," said Uriah, looking at me ; and a
more villainous look I never saw, even on his visage. " You
knew me when, in spite of my follies, I was umble among
them that was proud, and meek among them that was violent
â€” you was violent to me yourself, Mr. Copperfield. Once,
you struck me a blow in the face, you know."

f AM SHOWN TWO INTEkESTING PENITENTS. 833

General commiseration. Several indignant glances di-
rected at me.

44 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 would 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, thai 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 war-
ders, who, I suspected, from certain latent indications in their
faces, knew pretty well what all this stir was worth.

44 Do you know," said I, as we walked along the passage,
" what felony was Number Twenty-Seven's last 4 folly ? ' "

The answer was that it was a Bank case.

44 A fraud on the Bank of England ? " I asked.

44 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 him-
>self safe ; but not quite. The Bank was just able to put salt
upon his tail â€” and only just."

44 Do you know Twenty-Eight's offence ? "

rt 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 ; 44 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 bv a dwarf."

Â®34

DAVID C0PPERF1ELD.

" 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
Httle woman, being in Southampton, met him walking along
he street â€” picked him out with her sharp eye in a moment â€” ,
ran betwixt his legs to upset him â€” 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 compli-
mented 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.

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 per-
fectly 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
Jid, 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 wonder-
ing.

" Perhaps it's a good thing, Traddles," said I, " to have
an unsound Hobby ridden hard ; for it's the sooner ridden ta
death."

" I hope so," replied Traddles.

A LIGHT SHINES ON MY WA Y

835

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.
However loud the general voice might be in giving me encour
agement, and however fervent the emotions and endeavors 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
â€” most sorrowfully when I left her â€” and I was glad to be up
and out, rather than wandering over the past in weary wake-
fulness 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 â€” but only thought so, as I
had thought after I was married to Dora, what I could have
wished my wife to be.

My duty to Agnes, who loved me with a love, which, if I
disquieted, I wronged most selfishly and poorly, and cculd never
restore ; my matured assurance that I, who had worked out
my own destiny, and won what I had impetuously set my
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 con-
ceive .1 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 ! "

836

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

She did not once show me any change in herself. WhaJ

she always had been to me, she still was ; wholly unaltered

Between my aunt and me there had been something, in
this connection, 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
*iot 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 un-
broken silence. I believed that she had read, or partly reao
my thoughts that night ; and that she fully comprehended
why I gave mine no more distinct expression.

This Christmas-time being come, and Agnes having re-
posed no new confidence in me, a doubt that had several times
arisen in my mind â€” whether she could have that perception
of the true state of.my breast, which restrained her with the
apprehension of giving me pain â€” began to oppress me heavily.
If that were so, my sacrifice was nothing ; my plainest obligaÂ»
tion to her unfulfilled ; and every poor action I had shrunk
from, I was hourly doing. I resolved to set this right beyond
all doubt ; â€” if such a barrier were between us, to break it
down at once with a determined hand.

It was â€” what lasting reason have I to remember it ! â€” a
cold, harsh, winter day. There had been snow some hours
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 inacces-
sible 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 forbid-
den ground, but had not at all relented towards the donkeys.
" He will be fresh enough, presently ! " said I.
*' The ride will do his master good, at all evente," observed

A LIGHT SHINES ON MV WA Y.

837

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.
" As 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 compos-
edly before her â€” 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.

" And what is more, Trot â€” " 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 be-
fore 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 beat-
ing 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 wagon 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 wel-
comed 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

83a

DAVID COPPER FT ELD.

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 her 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."

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 â€”
but from other lips than yours, Agnes, which seemed strange
â€” 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 without
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 ? "

M Let me go away, Trotwood. I am not well. I am not

A LIGHT SHINES ON MY WA Y.

839

myself. I will speak to you by and by â€” another time. I wiU
write to you. Don't speak to me now. Don't ! don't ! 9

I sought to recollect what she had said, when I had spoken
to her on that former night, of her affection needing no return,
It seemed a very world that I must search through in a mo
ment. ,

" 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 unhappiness. 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 suf-
fered quite in vain. You have not taught me quite in vain.
There is no alloy of self in what I feel for you."

Sh<; 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 â€” which,
indeed, I do not doubt â€” 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 â€” no new one ; and is â€” not
what you suppose. I cannot reveal it, or divide it. ' It has
long been mine, and must remain mine."

" Agnes ! Stay ! A moment ! "

She was going away, but I detained her. I clasped my
arm about her waist. " In the ccv.r; c of years ! " " It is not

840

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

a new one ! " New thoughts and hopes were whirling through
my mind, and all the colors of my life were changing.

" Dearest Agnes ! Whom I so respect and honor â€” whom
I so devotedly love ! When I came here to-day, I thought
that nothing could havG 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 â€” joyfully ! And clasped in
my arms as she had never been, as I had thought she never
was to be !

" When I loved Dora â€” fondly, Agnes, as you know "

" Yes ! " she cried, earnestly. " I am glad to know it ! "

" When I loved her â€” 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 ! "

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

A LIGHT SHINES ON MY WA Y.

841

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 tenderesl
recollections of the Blossom that had withered in its bloom !

" I am so blest, Trotwood â€” my heart is so overchargedâ€”
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
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;
M 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 ; " but seeing that I looked as usual, she
took oil her spectacles in despair, and rubbed her nose with
them.

542

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

She greeted Agnes heartily, nevertheless ; and we wera
soon in the lighted parlor 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 attach-
ment."

" 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
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 honored, 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
conversation 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
Â©all you by that name, I have one thing more to tell you."
" Let me hear it, love."

" It grows out of the night jyhen Dora died. She sent you
for me."

A VISITOR-.

843

"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. j

As this sounded mysterious to the children, and moreover f
was like the beginning of a favorite story Agnes used to tell
them, introductory to the arrival of a w'icked old Fairy in a
cloak who hated everybody, it produced some commotion.
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 0/
golden curls from between the window-curtains, to see what
happened next.

" Let him come in here ! " said I.

844

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

There soon appeared, pausing in the dark doorway as he
entered, a hale, gray-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. PeggottyJ

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 joy-
ful 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, kbsing her hand, "quite alone.'*

We sat him between us, not knowing how to give him wel-
come enough ; and as I began to listen to his old familiar
voice, I could have fancied he was still pursuing his long jour-
ney in search of his darling niece.

"It's a mort of water," said Mr. Peggotty, "fur to corns
across, and on'y stay a matter of fower weeks. But water
('specially when 'tis salt) comes nat'ral to me ; and friends is
dear, and I am heer. â€” Which is verse," 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 'U And its alius been on my

A VISITOR.

845

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 gray 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 alius
thrived. We've worked as we ought to't, and maybe we lived
a leetle hard at first or so, but we have alius thrived. What
with sheep-farming, and what with stock-farming, 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 â€” 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 â€” and arter she and me lost sight of Mas'r
Davy, that theer shining sundown â€” was that low, at first,
that, if she had knbw'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 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 Bein' 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."

846

DA FID COPPERFIELD.

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.

" Ay, 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
Pavy, whether you'd know her ! "

" Is she so altered ? " I inquired.

" 1 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 â€” timid a'most. That's Em'ly ! 99

We silently observed him as he sat 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
how 'tis. She 'might have married well a mort of times, ' but,
uncle,' she says to me, ' that's gone for ever.' Cheerful along
with me ; retired when others is by â€¢ fond of going any dis-
tance fur to teach a child, or fur to tend a sick person, or fur
to do some kindness tow'rds a young girl's wedding (and she's
done a many, but has never seen one) â– 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 face, and with a half-sup-
pressed 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-laborer, as come by us on
his way to market with his mas'r's drays â€” a journey of over
five hundred mile, theer and back â€” made offers fur to take her
fur his wive (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 sing-
ing 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 en
joyed himself in the long-shipwrecked boat.

A VISITOR.

847

" Would you believe it ! " he said. " Why, someun even
made offers fur to marry her! If a ship's cook that was turn-
ing settler, Mas'r Davy, didn't make offers fur to marry
Missis Gummidge, I'm Gormed â€” 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.

" If you'll believe me," returned Mr. Peggotty, " Missis
Gummidge, 'stead of saying 1 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 Ag-
nes 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 willingest,
the trewest, the honestest-helping woman, Mas'r Davy, as evei
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 thinking 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 â€” even to Traddles's
bill, you remember, my dear Agnes â€” 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 understan', 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 Harbor, 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

848

DAVID C0PPERF1ELD

a will. I never wish to meet a better gen'l'man for turning t(\
with a will. I've seen that theer bald head of his, a perspir-
ing 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.

Mr. Peggotty pointed to a certain paragraph in the news-
paper, where I read aloud as follows, from the " Port Middle-
bay Times : "

" ^sH'The public dinner to our distinguished fellow-colonist
and townsman, Wilkins Micawber, Esquire, Port Middle-
bay District Magistrate, came off yesterday in the large room
of the Hotel, which was crowded to suffocation. It is esti-
mated that not fewer than forty-seven persons must have been
accommodated with dinner at one time, exclusive of the com-
pany in the passage and on the stairs. The beauty, fashion,
and exclusiveness of Port Middlebay, flocked to do honor 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 * Our distinguished Guest, the ornament of our town.
May he never leave us but to better himself, and may his suc-
cess among us be such as to render his bettering himself im-
possible ! ' 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 comparatively imperfect state of
the resources of our establishment, to endeavor to follow our
distinguished townsman through the smoothly-flowing periods
of his polished and highly-ornate address ! Suffice it to ob-
serve, that it was a masterpiece of eloquence ; and that those
passages in which he more particularly traced his own success-
ful career to its source, and warned the younger portion of his
auditory from the shoals of ever incurring pecuniary liabilities
which they were unable to liquidate, brought a tear into the
manliest eye present. The remaining toasts were Doctor

A VISITOR.

849

Mell ; Mrs. Micawber (who gracefully bowed her acknowl-
edgments 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 tha^t 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, Ju-
nior, and the lovely and accomplished Miss Helena, fourth
daughter of Doctor Mell, were particularly 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 Lad an opportunity of
ocularly perusing the lineaments, now familiar to the imagina-
tions of a considerable portion of the civilized world.

" But, my dear sir, though estranged (by the force of cir-
cumstances over which I have had no control) from the per-
sonal society of the friend and companion of my youth, I have
not been unmindful of his soaring flight. Nor have I been
debarred,

Though seas between us braid ha' roared,

(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 thank-
ing you, on my own behalf, and, I may undertake to add, on

DAVID COPP&PFIELD.

that of the whole of the Inhabitants of Port Middlebay, 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,' we are neither * un-
friended/ 4 melancholy,' nor (I may add ) 4 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 news-
paper, that Mr. Micawber was a diligent and esteemed corre-
spondent of that Journal. There was another letter from him
in the same paper, touching a bridge ; there was an adver-
tisement of a collection of similar letters by him, to be shortly
republished, in a neat volume, " with considerable additions ;
and, unless I am very much mistaken, the Trading Article
was his also.

We talked much of Mr. Micawber, on many other evenings
while Mr. Peggotty remained with us. He lived with us dur-
ing the whole term of his stay, â€” which, I think, was something
less than a month, â€” and his sister and my aunt came to Lon-
don to see him. Agnes and I parted from him aboard-ship,
when he sailed : and we shall never part from him more, ok
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. " J pTors;.
ised, Mas'r Davy."

A LAST RETROSPECT.

85Â«

CHAPTER LXIV.

Â« V

A LAST RETROSPECT.

And now my written story ends. I look back, once more
â€¢â€”for the last time â€” 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 neighborhood 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 totters from my aunt to her, I think of our little parlor
at home, when I could scarcely walk. My aunt's old disap-
pointment is set right, now. She is god-mother 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 noth
ing smaller than the Crocodile-Book, which is in rather a di-
lapidated condition by this time, with divers of the leaves torn
and stitched across, but which Peggotty exhibits to the chil-
dren as a precious relic. I find it very curious to see my own
infant face, looking up at me from the Crocodile stories ; and

Â»5Â»

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

to be reminded by it of my old acquaintance Brooks of ShefÂ«
field.

Among my boys, this summer holiday time, I see an old
man making giant kites, and gazing at them in the air, with a
deiight for which there are no words. He greets me raptur-
ously, 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 ex-
traordinary 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, im-
becile, 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,
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 ! " â€” 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 Eng-
lish 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-colored 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.

A LAST RETROSPECT.

853

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 " so-
ciety," I see ; among it Mr. Jack Maldon, from his Patent
Place, sneering at the hand that gave it him,vand 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 every-
thing 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, laboring 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 as-
pect, 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 then / "

" 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 pro-
moted 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 goodfellows ;
there are three of the girls married very comfortably ; there

*54

DAVID COPPERFIELD.

are three more living with us ; there are three more keeping
house for the Reverend Horace since Mrs. Crewler's decease ;
and all of them happy."
" Except â€” " 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 â€” or it easily
may have been â€” which he and Sophy used to parcel out, in
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, re-
serving the best bed-rooms 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 Trad-
dles about to be kissed, until he is out of breath. Here, es-
tablished 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 hus-
band'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 Patri-
arch ; 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 lingei
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 thes
near me, pointing upward 1

PR Dickens, Charles

A550 cDickens' works

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