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DAVID COPPERFIELD

by CHARLES DICKENS


AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO
THE HON. Mr. AND Mrs. RICHARD WATSON
OF ROCKINGHAMNORTHAMPTONSHIRE.


CONTENTS


I. I Am Born
II. I Observe
III. I Have a Change
IV. I Fall into Disgrace
V. I Am Sent Away
VI. I Enlarge My Circle of Acquaintance
VII. My 'First Half' at Salem House
VIII. My Holidays. Especially One Happy Afternoon
IX. I Have a Memorable Birthday
X. I Become Neglectedand Am Provided For
XI. I Begin Life on My Own Accountand Don't Like It
XII. Liking Life on My Own Account No BetterI Form a Great Resolution
XIII. The Sequel of My Resolution
XIV. My Aunt Makes up Her Mind About Me
XV. I Make Another Beginning
XVI. I Am a New Boy in More Senses Than One
XVII. Somebody Turns Up
XVIII. A Retrospect
XIX. I Look About Me and Make a Discovery
XX. Steerforth's Home
XXI. Little Em'ly
XXII. Some Old Scenesand Some New People
XXIII. I Corroborate Mr. Dickand Choose a Profession
XXIV. My First Dissipation
XXV. Good and Bad Angels
XXVI. I Fall into Captivity
XXVII. Tommy Traddles
XXVIII. Mr. Micawber's Gauntlet
XXIX. I Visit Steerforth at His HomeAgain
XXX. A Loss
XXXI. A Greater Loss
XXXII. The Beginning of a Long Journey
XXXIII. Blissful
XXXIV. My Aunt Astonishes Me
XXXV. Depression
XXXVI. Enthusiasm
XXXVII. A Little Cold Water
XXXVIII. A Dissolution of Partnership
XXXIX. Wickfield and Heep
XL. The Wanderer
XLI. Dora's Aunts
XLII. Mischief
XLIII. Another Retrospect

XLIV. Our Housekeeping
XLV. Mr. Dick Fulfils My Aunt's Predictions
XLVI. Intelligence
XLVII. Martha
XLVIII. Domestic
XLIX. I Am Involved in Mystery
L. Mr. Peggotty's Dream Comes True
LI. The Beginning of a Longer Journey
LII. I Assist at an Explosion
LIII. Another Retrospect
LIV. Mr. Micawber's Transactions
LV. Tempest
LVI. The New Woundand the Old
LVII. The Emigrants
LVIII. Absence
LIX. Return
LX. Agnes
LXI. I Am Shown Two Interesting Penitents
LXII. A Light Shines on My Way
LXIII. A Visitor
LXIV. A Last Retrospect
PREFACE TO 1850 EDITION

I do not find it easy to get sufficiently far away from this Book
in the first sensations of having finished itto refer to it with
the composure which this formal heading would seem to require. My
interest in itis so recent and strong; and my mind is so divided
between pleasure and regret - pleasure in the achievement of a long
designregret in the separation from many companions - that I am
in danger of wearying the reader whom I lovewith personal
confidencesand private emotions.

Besides whichall that I could say of the Storyto any purpose
I have endeavoured to say in it.

It would concern the reader littleperhapsto knowhow
sorrowfully the pen is laid down at the close of a two-years'
imaginative task; or how an Author feels as if he were dismissing
some portion of himself into the shadowy worldwhen a crowd of the
creatures of his brain are going from him for ever. YetI have
nothing else to tell; unlessindeedI were to confess (which
might be of less moment still) that no one can ever believe this
Narrativein the readingmore than I have believed it in the
writing.

Instead of looking backthereforeI will look forward. I cannot
close this Volume more agreeably to myselfthan with a hopeful
glance towards the time when I shall again put forth my two green
leaves once a monthand with a faithful remembrance of the genial
sun and showers that have fallen on these leaves of David
Copperfieldand made me happy.

LondonOctober1850.

PREFACE TO
THE CHARLES DICKENS EDITION

I REMARKED in the original Preface to this Bookthat I did not


find it easy to get sufficiently far away from itin the first
sensations of having finished itto refer to it with the composure
which this formal heading would seem to require. My interest in it
was so recent and strongand my mind was so divided between
pleasure and regret - pleasure in the achievement of a long design
regret in the separation from many companions - that I was in
danger of wearying the reader with personal confidences and private
emotions.

Besides whichall that I could have said of the Story to any
purposeI had endeavoured to say in it.

It would concern the reader littleperhapsto 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 dismissing
some portion of himself into the shadowy worldwhen a crowd of the
creatures of his brain are going from him for ever. YetI had
nothing else to tell; unlessindeedI were to confess (which
might be of less moment still)that no one can ever believe this
Narrativein the readingmore than I believed it in the writing.

So true are these avowals at the present daythat I can now only
take the reader into one confidence more. Of all my booksI like
this the best. It will be easily believed that I am a fond parent
to every child of my fancyand that no one can ever love that
family as dearly as I love them. Butlike many fond parentsI
have in my heart of hearts a favourite child. And his name is
DAVID COPPERFIELD.

1869

THE PERSONAL HISTORY AND
EXPERIENCE OF
DAVID COPPERFIELD THE YOUNGER

CHAPTER 1
I AM BORN

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

In consideration of the day and hour of my birthit was declared
by the nurseand by some sage women in the neighbourhood who had
taken a lively interest in me several months before there was any
possibility of our becoming personally acquaintedfirstthat I
was destined to be unlucky in life; and secondlythat I was
privileged to see ghosts and spirits; both these gifts inevitably
attachingas they believedto all unlucky infants of either
genderborn towards the small hours on a Friday night.

I need say nothing hereon the first headbecause nothing can
show better than my history whether that prediction was verified or
falsified by the result. On the second branch of the questionI
will only remarkthat unless I ran through that part of my


inheritance while I was still a babyI 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
ithe is heartily welcome to keep it.

I was born with a caulwhich was advertised for salein the
newspapersat the low price of fifteen guineas. Whether sea-going
people were short of money about that timeor were short of faith
and preferred cork jacketsI don't know; all I know isthat there
was but one solitary biddingand that was from an attorney
connected with the bill-broking businesswho offered two pounds in
cashand the balance in sherrybut declined to be guaranteed from
drowning on any higher bargain. Consequently the advertisement was
withdrawn at a dead loss - for as to sherrymy poor dear mother's
own sherry was in the market then - and ten years afterwardsthe
caul was put up in a raffle down in our part of the countryto
fifty members at half-a-crown a headthe winner to spend five
shillings. I was present myselfand I remember to have felt quite
uncomfortable and confusedat a part of myself being disposed of
in that way. The caul was wonI recollectby an old lady with a
hand-basketwhovery reluctantlyproduced from it the stipulated
five shillingsall in halfpenceand twopence halfpenny short - as
it took an immense time and a great waste of arithmeticto
endeavour without any effect to prove to her. It is a fact which
will be long remembered as remarkable down therethat she was
never drownedbut died triumphantly in bedat ninety-two. I have
understood that it wasto the lasther proudest boastthat she
never had been on the water in her lifeexcept upon a bridge; and
that over her tea (to which she was extremely partial) sheto the
lastexpressed her indignation at the impiety of mariners and
otherswho had the presumption to go 'meandering' about the world.
It was in vain to represent to her that some conveniencestea
perhaps includedresulted from this objectionable practice. She
always returnedwith greater emphasis and with an instinctive
knowledge of the strength of her objection'Let us have no
meandering.'

Not to meander myselfat presentI will go back to my birth.

I was born at Blunderstonein Suffolkor 'there by'as they say
in Scotland. I was a posthumous child. My father's eyes had
closed upon the light of this world six monthswhen mine opened on
it. There is something strange to meeven nowin the reflection
that he never saw me; and something stranger yet in the shadowy
remembrance that I have of my first childish associations with his
white grave-stone in the churchyardand of the indefinable
compassion I used to feel for it lying out alone there in the dark
nightwhen our little parlour was warm and bright with fire and
candleand the doors of our house were - almost cruellyit seemed
to me sometimes - bolted and locked against it.

An aunt of my father'sand consequently a great-aunt of mineof
whom I shall have more to relate by and bywas the principal
magnate of our family. Miss Trotwoodor Miss Betseyas my poor
mother always called herwhen she sufficiently overcame her dread
of this formidable personage to mention her at all (which was
seldom)had been married to a husband younger than herselfwho
was very handsomeexcept in the sense of the homely adage
'handsome isthat handsome does' - for he was strongly suspected
of having beaten Miss Betseyand even of having onceon a
disputed question of suppliesmade some hasty but determined
arrangements to throw her out of a two pair of stairs' window.
These evidences of an incompatibility of temper induced Miss Betsey
to pay him offand effect a separation by mutual consent. He went


to India with his capitaland thereaccording to a wild legend in
our familyhe was once seen riding on an elephantin company with
a Baboon; but I think it must have been a Baboo - or a Begum.
Anyhowfrom India tidings of his death reached homewithin ten
years. How they affected my auntnobody knew; for immediately
upon the separationshe took her maiden name againbought a
cottage in a hamlet on the sea-coast a long way offestablished
herself there as a single woman with one servantand was
understood to live secludedever afterwardsin an inflexible
retirement.

My father had once been a favourite of hersI believe; but she was
mortally affronted by his marriageon the ground that my mother
was 'a wax doll'. She had never seen my motherbut she knew her
to be not yet twenty. My father and Miss Betsey never met again.
He was double my mother's age when he marriedand of but a
delicate constitution. He died a year afterwardsandas I have
saidsix months before I came into the world.

This was the state of matterson the afternoon ofwhat I may be
excused for callingthat eventful and important Friday. I can
make no claim therefore to have knownat that timehow matters
stood; or to have any remembrancefounded on the evidence of my
own sensesof what follows.

My mother was sitting by the firebut poorly in healthand very
low in spiritslooking at it through her tearsand desponding
heavily about herself and the fatherless little strangerwho was
already welcomed by some grosses of prophetic pinsin a drawer
upstairsto a world not at all excited on the subject of his
arrival; my motherI saywas sitting by the firethat bright
windy March afternoonvery timid and sadand very doubtful of
ever coming alive out of the trial that was before herwhen
lifting her eyes as she dried themto the window oppositeshe saw
a strange lady coming up the garden.

MY mother had a sure foreboding at the second glancethat it was
Miss Betsey. The setting sun was glowing on the strange ladyover
the garden-fenceand 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 houseshe gave another proof of her identity.
My father had often hinted that she seldom conducted herself like
any ordinary Christian; and nowinstead of ringing the bellshe
came and looked in at that identical windowpressing the end of
her nose against the glass to that extentthat my poor dear mother
used to say it became perfectly flat and white in a moment.

She gave my mother such a turnthat 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 agitationand gone behind it
in the corner. Miss Betseylooking round the roomslowly and
inquiringlybegan on the other sideand carried her eyes onlike
a Saracen's Head in a Dutch clockuntil they reached my mother.
Then she made a frown and a gesture to my motherlike one who was
accustomed to be obeyedto come and open the door. My mother
went.

'Mrs. David CopperfieldI think' said Miss Betsey; the emphasis
referringperhapsto my mother's mourning weedsand her
condition.


'Yes' said my motherfaintly.


'Miss Trotwood' said the visitor. 'You have heard of herI 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 headand
begged her to walk in.


They went into the parlour my mother had come fromthe fire in the
best room on the other side of the passage not being lighted - not
having been lightedindeedsince my father's funeral; and when
they were both seatedand Miss Betsey said nothingmy mother
after vainly trying to restrain herselfbegan to cry.
'Oh tuttuttut!' said Miss Betseyin a hurry. 'Don't do that!
Comecome!'


My mother couldn't help it notwithstandingso she cried until she
had had her cry out.


'Take off your capchild' said Miss Betsey'and let me see you.'


MY mother was too much afraid of her to refuse compliance with this
odd requestif she had any disposition to do so. Therefore she
did as she was toldand did it with such nervous hands that her
hair (which was luxuriant and beautiful) fell all about her face.


'Whybless my heart!' exclaimed Miss Betsey. 'You are a very
Baby!'


My mother wasno doubtunusually youthful in appearance even for
her years; she hung her headas if it were her faultpoor thing
and saidsobbingthat indeed she was afraid she was but a
childish widowand would be but a childish mother if she lived.
In a short pause which ensuedshe had a fancy that she felt Miss
Betsey touch her hairand that with no ungentle hand; butlooking
at herin her timid hopeshe found that lady sitting with the
skirt of her dress tucked upher hands folded on one kneeand her
feet upon the fenderfrowning at the fire.


'In the name of Heaven' said Miss Betseysuddenly'why Rookery?'


'Do you mean the housema'am?' asked my mother.


'Why Rookery?' said Miss Betsey. 'Cookery would have been more to
the purposeif you had had any practical ideas of lifeeither of
you.'


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


The evening wind made such a disturbance just nowamong some tall
old elm-trees at the bottom of the gardenthat neither my mother
nor Miss Betsey could forbear glancing that way. As the elms bent
to one anotherlike giants who were whispering secretsand after
a few seconds of such reposefell into a violent flurrytossing
their wild arms aboutas if their late confidences were really too
wicked for their peace of mindsome weatherbeaten ragged old
rooks'-nestsburdening their higher branchesswung like wrecks
upon a stormy sea.



'Where are the birds?' asked Miss Betsey.

'The -? ' My mother had been thinking of something else.

'The rooks - what has become of them?' asked Miss Betsey.

'There have not been any since we have lived here' said my mother.
'We thought - Mr. Copperfield thought - it was quite a large
rookery; but the nests were very old onesand 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 itand takes the birds on trustbecause
he sees the nests!'

'Mr. Copperfield' returned my mother'is deadand if you dare to
speak unkindly of him to me -'

My poor dear motherI supposehad some momentary intention of
committing an assault and battery upon my auntwho could easily
have settled her with one handeven 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 meeklyand fainted.

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

'Well?' said Miss Betseycoming back to her chairas 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 dieI am sure!'

'Nonono' said Miss Betsey. 'Have some tea.'

'Oh dear medear medo 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 girlyetma'am' said my mother
innocently.

'Bless the Baby!' exclaimed Miss Betseyunconsciously quoting the
second sentiment of the pincushion in the drawer upstairsbut
applying it to my mother instead of me'I don't mean that. I mean
your servant-girl.'

'Peggotty' said my mother.

'Peggotty!' repeated Miss Betseywith some indignation. 'Do you
mean to saychildthat any human being has gone into a Christian
churchand got herself named Peggotty?'
'It's her surname' said my motherfaintly. 'Mr. Copperfield
called her by itbecause her Christian name was the same as mine.'


'Here! Peggotty!' cried Miss Betseyopening the parlour door.
'Tea. Your mistress is a little unwell. Don't dawdle.'


Having issued this mandate with as much potentiality as if she had
been a recognized authority in the house ever since it had been a
houseand 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 againand sat down as before: with her
feet on the fenderthe skirt of her dress tucked upand her hands
folded on one knee.


'You were speaking about its being a girl' said Miss Betsey. 'I
have no doubt it will be a girl. I have a presentiment that it
must be a girl. Now childfrom 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 moment of this girl's
birthchildI intend to be her friend. I intend to be her
godmotherand 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 affectionspoor dear. She must be
well brought upand 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 headafter each of these
sentencesas if her own old wrongs were working within herand
she repressed any plainer reference to them by strong constraint.
So my mother suspectedat leastas she observed her by the low
glimmer of the fire: too much scared by Miss Betseytoo uneasy in
herselfand too subdued and bewildered altogetherto observe
anything very clearlyor to know what to say.


'And was David good to youchild?' asked Miss Betseywhen she had
been silent for a little whileand these motions of her head had
gradually ceased. 'Were you comfortable together?'


'We were very happy' said my mother. 'Mr. Copperfield was only
too good to me.'


'Whathe spoilt youI suppose?' returned Miss Betsey.


'For being quite alone and dependent on myself in this rough world
againyesI fear he did indeed' sobbed my mother.


'Well! Don't cry!' said Miss Betsey. 'You were not equally
matchedchild - if any two people can be equally matched - and so
I asked the question. You were an orphanweren't you?'
'Yes.'


'And a governess?'


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


'Ha! Poor Baby!' mused Miss Betseywith her frown still bent upon
the fire. 'Do you know anything?'



'I beg your pardonma'am' faltered my mother.

'About keeping housefor instance' said Miss Betsey.

'Not muchI fear' returned my mother. 'Not so much as I could
wish. But Mr. Copperfield was teaching me -'

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

-'And I hope I should have improvedbeing very anxious to learn
and he very patient to teach meif the great misfortune of his
death' - my mother broke down again hereand could get no farther.
'Wellwell!' said Miss Betsey.

-'I kept my housekeeping-book regularlyand balanced it with Mr.
Copperfield every night' cried my mother in another burst of
distressand breaking down again.

'Wellwell!' said Miss Betsey. 'Don't cry any more.'

-'And I am sure we never had a word of difference respecting it
except when Mr. Copperfield objected to my threes and fives being
too much like each otheror to my putting curly tails to my sevens
and nines' resumed my mother in another burstand 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-daughter. Come! You
mustn't do it!'

This argument had some share in quieting my motherthough her
increasing indisposition had a larger one. There was an interval
of silenceonly broken by Miss Betsey's occasionally ejaculating
'Ha!' as she sat with her feet upon the fender.

'David had bought an annuity for himself with his moneyI know'
said sheby and by. 'What did he do for you?'

'Mr. Copperfield' said my motheranswering with some difficulty
'was so considerate and good as to secure the reversion of a part
of 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 Peggottycoming in with the teaboard and candlesand
seeing at a glance how ill she was- as Miss Betsey might have
done sooner if there had been light enough- conveyed her upstairs
to her own room with all speed; and immediately dispatched Ham
Peggottyher nephewwho had been for some days past secreted in
the houseunknown to my motheras a special messenger in case of
emergencyto fetch the nurse and doctor.

Those allied powers were considerably astonishedwhen they arrived
within a few minutes of each otherto find an unknown lady of
portentous appearancesitting before the firewith her bonnet
tied over her left armstopping her ears with jewellers' cotton.
Peggotty knowing nothing about herand my mother saying nothing


about hershe was quite a mystery in the parlour; and the fact of
her having a magazine of jewellers' cotton in her pocketand
sticking the article in her ears in that waydid not detract from
the solemnity of her presence.

The doctor having been upstairs and come down againand having
satisfied himselfI supposethat there was a probability of this
unknown lady and himself having to sit thereface to facefor
some hourslaid himself out to be polite and social. He was the
meekest of his sexthe mildest of little men. He sidled in and
out of a roomto take up the less space. He walked as softly as
the Ghost in Hamletand more slowly. He carried his head on one
sidepartly in modest depreciation of himselfpartly 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 mad dog. He might have offered him one gentlyor half a oneor
a fragment of one; for he spoke as slowly as he walked; but he
wouldn't have been rude to himand he couldn't have been quick
with himfor any earthly consideration.

Mr. Chilliplooking mildly at my aunt with his head on one side
and making her a little bowsaidin allusion to the jewellers'
cottonas he softly touched his left ear:

'Some local irritationma'am?'

'What!' replied my auntpulling the cotton out of one ear like a
cork.

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

'Some local irritationma'am?'

'Nonsense!' replied my auntand corked herself againat one blow.

Mr. Chillip could do nothing after thisbut sit and look at her
feeblyas she sat and looked at the fireuntil he was called
upstairs again. After some quarter of an hour's absencehe
returned.

'Well?' said my aunttaking the cotton out of the ear nearest to
him.

'Wellma'am' returned Mr. Chillip'we are- we are progressing
slowlyma'am.'

'Ba--a--ah!' said my auntwith a perfect shake on the contemptuous
interjection. And corked herself as before.

Really - really - as Mr. Chillip told my motherhe was almost
shocked; speaking in a professional point of view alonehe was
almost shocked. But he sat and looked at hernotwithstandingfor
nearly two hoursas she sat looking at the fireuntil he was
again called out. After another absencehe again returned.

'Well?' said my aunttaking out the cotton on that side again.

'Wellma'am' returned Mr. Chillip'we are - we are progressing

slowlyma'am.'

'Ya--a--ah!' said my aunt. With such a snarl at himthat Mr.


Chillip absolutely could not bear it. It was really calculated to
break his spirithe said afterwards. He preferred to go and sit
upon the stairsin the dark and a strong draughtuntil he was
again sent for.

Ham Peggottywho went to the national schooland was a very
dragon at his catechismand who may therefore be regarded as a
credible witnessreported next daythat happening to peep in at
the parlour-door an hour after thishe was instantly descried by
Miss Betseythen walking to and fro in a state of agitationand
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 excludefrom the circumstance of his evidently
being clutched by the lady as a victim on whom to expend her
superabundant agitation when the sounds were loudest. That
marching him constantly up and down by the collar (as if he had
been taking too much laudanum)sheat those timesshook him
rumpled his hairmade light of his linenstopped his ears as if
she confounded them with her ownand otherwise tousled and
maltreated him. This was in part confirmed by his auntwho saw
him at half past twelve o'clocksoon after his releaseand
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 parlour as soon as he was at
libertyand said to my aunt in his meekest manner:

'Wellma'amI am happy to congratulate you.'

'What upon?' said my auntsharply.

Mr. Chillip was fluttered againby the extreme severity of my
aunt's manner; so he made her a little bow and gave her a little
smileto mollify her.

'Mercy on the manwhat's he doing!' cried my auntimpatiently.
'Can't he speak?'

'Be calmmy dear ma'am' said Mr. Chillipin his softest accents.

'There is no longer any occasion for uneasinessma'am. Be calm.'

It has since been considered almost a miracle that my aunt didn't
shake himand shake what he had to sayout of him. She only
shook her own head at himbut in a way that made him quail.

'Wellma'am' resumed Mr. Chillipas soon as he had courage'I
am happy to congratulate you. All is now overma'amand well
over.'

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

'How is she?' said my auntfolding her arms with her bonnet still
tied on one of them.

'Wellma'amshe will soon be quite comfortableI hope' returned
Mr. Chillip. 'Quite as comfortable as we can expect a young mother
to beunder these melancholy domestic circumstances. There cannot
be any objection to your seeing her presentlyma'am. It may do
her good.'

'And SHE. How is SHE?' said my auntsharply.


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

'The baby' said my aunt. 'How is she?'

'Ma'am' returned Mr. Chillip'I apprehended you had known. It's
a boy.'

My aunt said never a wordbut took her bonnet by the stringsin
the manner of a slingaimed a blow at Mr. Chillip's head with it
put it on bentwalked outand 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 basketand my mother lay in her bed; but Betsey
Trotwood Copperfield was for ever in the land of dreams and
shadowsthe 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 travellersand the mound above the
ashes and the dust that once was hewithout whom I had never been.

CHAPTER 2
I OBSERVE

The first objects that assume a distinct presence before meas I
look far backinto the blank of my infancyare my mother with her
pretty hair and youthful shapeand Peggotty with no shape at all
and eyes so dark that they seemed to darken their whole
neighbourhood in her faceand 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 floorand
I going unsteadily from the one to the other. I have an impression
on my mind which I cannot distinguish from actual remembranceof
the touch of Peggotty's forefinger as she used to hold it out to
meand of its being roughened by needleworklike a pocket
nutmeg-grater.

This may be fancythough 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 numbers of very young children
to be quite wonderful for its closeness and accuracy. IndeedI
think that most grown men who are remarkable in this respectmay
with greater propriety be said not to have lost the facultythan
to have acquired it; the ratheras I generally observe such men to
retain a certain freshnessand gentlenessand capacity of being
pleasedwhich are also an inheritance they have preserved from
their childhood.

I might have a misgiving that I am 'meandering' in stopping to say
thisbut that it brings me to remark that I build these
conclusionsin 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 observationor that as a man I have a
strong memory of my childhoodI undoubtedly lay claim to both of
these characteristics.

Looking backas I was sayinginto the blank of my infancythe
first objects I can remember as standing out by themselves from a


confusion of thingsare my mother and Peggotty. What else do I
remember? Let me see.

There comes out of the cloudour house - not new to mebut quite
familiarin its earliest remembrance. On the ground-floor is
Peggotty's kitchenopening into a back yard; with a pigeon-house
on a polein the centrewithout any pigeons in it; a great dogkennel
in a cornerwithout any dog; and a quantity of fowls that
look terribly tall to mewalking aboutin 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 windowwho makes me shiverhe 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 wayI dream at night: as
a man environed by wild beasts might dream of lions.

Here is a long passage - what an enormous perspective I make of it!

-leading from Peggotty's kitchen to the front door. A dark
store-room opens out of itand 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-chestswhen there is nobody in there with a dimly-burning
lightletting a mouldy air come out of the doorin which there is
the smell of soappicklespeppercandlesand coffeeall at one
whiff. Then there are the two parlours: the parlour in which we
sit of an eveningmy mother and I and Peggotty - for Peggotty is
quite our companionwhen her work is done and we are alone - and
the best parlour where we sit on a Sunday; grandlybut not so
comfortably. There is something of a doleful air about that room
to mefor Peggotty has told me - I don't know whenbut apparently
ages ago - about my father's funeraland the company having their
black cloaks put on. One Sunday night my mother reads to Peggotty
and me in therehow Lazarus was raised up from the dead. And I am
so frightened that they are afterwards obliged to take me out of
bedand show me the quiet churchyard out of the bedroom window
with the dead all lying in their graves at restbelow the solemn
moon.
There is nothing half so green that I know anywhereas the grass
of that churchyard; nothing half so shady as its trees; nothing
half so quiet as its tombstones. The sheep are feeding therewhen
I kneel upearly in the morningin my little bed in a closet
within my mother's roomto look out at it; and I see the red light
shining on the sun-dialand think within myself'Is the sun-dial
gladI wonderthat it can tell the time again?'

Here is our pew in the church. What a high-backed pew! With a
window near itout of which our house can be seenand IS seen
many times during the morning's serviceby Peggottywho likes to
make herself as sure as she can that it's not being robbedor is
not in flames. But though Peggotty's eye wandersshe is much
offended if mine doesand frowns to meas I stand upon the seat
that I am to look at the clergyman. But I can't always look at him

-I know him without that white thing onand I am afraid of his
wondering why I stare soand perhaps stopping the service to
inquire - and what am I to do? It's a dreadful thing to gapebut
I must do something. I look at my motherbut she pretends not to
see me. I look at a boy in the aisleand he makes faces at me.
I look at the sunlight coming in at the open door through the
porchand there I see a stray sheep - I don't mean a sinnerbut
mutton - half making up his mind to come into the church. I feel
that if I looked at him any longerI might be tempted to say
something out loud; and what would become of me then! I look up at
the monumental tablets on the walland try to think of Mr. Bodgers

late of this parishand what the feelings of Mrs. Bodgers must
have beenwhen affliction sorelong time Mr. Bodgers boreand
physicians were in vain. I wonder whether they called in Mr.
Chillipand he was in vain; and if sohow he likes to be reminded
of it once a week. I look from Mr. Chillipin his Sunday
neckclothto the pulpit; and think what a good place it would be
to play inand what a castle it would makewith another boy
coming up the stairs to attack itand having the velvet cushion
with the tassels thrown down on his head. In time my eyes
gradually shut up; andfrom seeming to hear the clergyman singing
a drowsy song in the heatI hear nothinguntil I fall off the
seat with a crashand am taken outmore dead than aliveby
Peggotty.

And now I see the outside of our housewith the latticed
bedroom-windows standing open to let in the sweet-smelling airand
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 a
very preserve of butterfliesas I remember itwith a high
fenceand a gate and padlock; where the fruit clusters on the
treesriper and richer than fruit has ever been sincein any
other gardenand where my mother gathers some in a basketwhile
I stand bybolting furtive gooseberriesand trying to look
unmoved. A great wind risesand the summer is gone in a moment.
We are playing in the winter twilightdancing about the parlour.
When my mother is out of breath and rests herself in an
elbow-chairI watch her winding her bright curls round her
fingersand straitening her waistand nobody knows better than I
do that she likes to look so welland is proud of being so pretty.

That is among my very earliest impressions. Thatand a sense that
we were both a little afraid of Peggottyand submitted ourselves
in most things to her directionwere among the first opinions - if
they may be so called - that I ever derived from what I saw.

Peggotty and I were sitting one night by the parlour firealone.
I had been reading to Peggotty about crocodiles. I must have read
very perspicuouslyor the poor soul must have been deeply
interestedfor I remember she had a cloudy impressionafter I had
donethat they were a sort of vegetable. I was tired of reading
and dead sleepy; but having leaveas a high treatto sit up until
my mother came home from spending the evening at a neighbour'sI
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 forefingersand looked perseveringly at her as she sat at
work; at the little bit of wax-candle she kept for her thread - how
old it lookedbeing so wrinkled in all directions! - at the little
house with a thatched roofwhere the yard-measure lived; at her
work-box with a sliding lidwith a view of St. Paul's Cathedral
(with a pink dome) painted on the top; at the brass thimble on her
finger; at herselfwhom I thought lovely. I felt so sleepythat
I knew if I lost sight of anything for a momentI was gone.

'Peggotty' says Isuddenly'were you ever married?'

'LordMaster Davy' replied Peggotty. 'What's put marriage in
your head?'

She answered with such a startthat it quite awoke me. And then
she stopped in her workand looked at mewith her needle drawn
out to its thread's length.


'But WERE you ever marriedPeggotty?' says I. 'You are a very
handsome womanan't you?'

I thought her in a different style from my mothercertainly; but
of another school of beautyI considered her a perfect example.
There was a red velvet footstool in the best parlouron which my
mother had painted a nosegay. The ground-work of that stooland
Peggotty's complexion appeared to me to be one and the same thing.
The stool was smoothand Peggotty was roughbut that made no
difference.

'Me handsomeDavy!' said Peggotty. 'Lawknomy dear! But what
put marriage in your head?'

'I don't know! - You mustn't marry more than one person at a time
may youPeggotty?'

'Certainly not' says Peggottywith the promptest decision.

'But if you marry a personand the person dieswhy then you may
marry another personmayn't youPeggotty?'

'YOU MAY' says Peggotty'if you choosemy dear. That's a matter
of opinion.'

'But what is your opinionPeggotty?' said I.

I asked herand looked curiously at herbecause she looked so
curiously at me.

'My opinion is' said Peggottytaking her eyes from meafter a
little indecision and going on with her work'that I never was
married myselfMaster Davyand that I don't expect to be. That's
all I know about the subject.'

'You an't crossI supposePeggottyare you?' said Iafter
sitting quiet for a minute.

I really thought she wasshe had been so short with me; but I was
quite mistaken: for she laid aside her work (which was a stocking
of her own)and opening her arms widetook my curly head within
themand gave it a good squeeze. I know it was a good squeeze
becausebeing very plumpwhenever she made any little exertion
after she was dressedsome of the buttons on the back of her gown
flew off. And I recollect two bursting to the opposite side of the
parlourwhile 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 queeror why
she was so ready to go back to the crocodiles. Howeverwe
returned to those monsterswith fresh wakefulness on my partand
we left their eggs in the sand for the sun to hatch; and we ran
away from themand baffled them by constantly turningwhich they
were unable to do quicklyon account of their unwieldy make; and
we went into the water after themas nativesand put sharp pieces
of timber down their throats; and in short we ran the whole
crocodile gauntlet. I didat least; but I had my doubts of
Peggottywho was thoughtfully sticking her needle into various
parts of her face and armsall the time.

We had exhausted the crocodilesand begun with the alligators


when the garden-bell rang. We went out to the door; and there was
my motherlooking unusually prettyI thoughtand with her a
gentleman with beautiful black hair and whiskerswho had walked
home with us from church last Sunday.

As my mother stooped down on the threshold to take me in her arms
and kiss methe gentleman said I was a more highly privileged
little fellow than a monarch - or something like that; for my later
understanding comesI am sensibleto my aid here.

'What does that mean?' I asked himover her shoulder.

He patted me on the head; but somehowI didn't like him or his
deep voiceand I was jealous that his hand should touch my
mother's in touching me - which it did. I put it awayas well as
I could.

'OhDavy!' remonstrated my mother.

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

I never saw such a beautiful colour on my mother's face before.
She gently chid me for being rude; andkeeping me close to her
shawlturned to thank the gentleman for taking so much trouble as
to bring her home. She put out her hand to him as she spokeand
as he met it with his ownshe glancedI thoughtat me.

'Let us say "good night"my fine boy' said the gentlemanwhen he
had bent his head - I saw him! - over my mother's little glove.

'Good night!' said I.

'Come! Let us be the best friends in the world!' said the
gentlemanlaughing. 'Shake hands!'

My right hand was in my mother's leftso I gave him the other.

'Whythat's the Wrong handDavy!' laughed the gentleman.

MY mother drew my right hand forwardbut I was resolvedfor my
former reasonnot to give it himand I did not. I gave him the
otherand he shook it heartilyand said I was a brave fellowand
went away.

At this minute I see him turn round in the gardenand give us a
last look with his ill-omened black eyesbefore the door was shut.

Peggottywho had not said a word or moved a fingersecured the
fastenings instantlyand we all went into the parlour. My mother
contrary to her usual habitinstead of coming to the elbow-chair
by the fireremained at the other end of the roomand sat singing
to herself.

-'Hope you have had a pleasant eveningma'am' said Peggotty
standing as stiff as a barrel in the centre of the roomwith a
candlestick in her hand.
'Much obliged to youPeggotty' returned my motherin a cheerful
voice'I have had a VERY pleasant evening.'

'A stranger or so makes an agreeable change' suggested Peggotty.

'A very agreeable changeindeed' returned my mother.


Peggotty continuing to stand motionless in the middle of the room
and my mother resuming her singingI fell asleepthough I was not
so sound asleep but that I could hear voiceswithout hearing what
they said. When I half awoke from this uncomfortable dozeI found
Peggotty and my mother both in tearsand both talking.

'Not such a one as thisMr. Copperfield wouldn't have liked' said
Peggotty. 'That I sayand 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
marriedPeggotty?'

'God knows you havema'am' returned Peggotty.
'Thenhow can you dare' said my mother - 'you know I don't mean
how can you darePeggottybut how can you have the heart - to
make me so uncomfortable and say such bitter things to mewhen you
are well aware that I haven'tout of this placea single friend
to turn to?'

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

'How can you be so aggravating' said my mothershedding more
tears than before'as to talk in such an unjust manner! How can
you go on as if it was all settled and arrangedPeggottywhen I
tell you over and over againyou cruel thingthat beyond the
commonest civilities nothing has passed! You talk of admiration.
What am I to do? If people are so silly as to indulge the
sentimentis it my fault? What am I to doI ask you? Would you
wish me to shave my head and black my faceor disfigure myself
with a burnor a scaldor something of that sort? I dare say you
wouldPeggotty. I dare say you'd quite enjoy it.'

Peggotty seemed to take this aspersion very much to heartI
thought.

'And my dear boy' cried my mothercoming to the elbow-chair in
which I wasand caressing me'my own little Davy! Is it to be
hinted to me that I am wanting in affection for my precious
treasurethe dearest little fellow that ever was!'

'Nobody never went and hinted no such a thing' said Peggotty.

'You didPeggotty!' returned my mother. 'You know you did. What
else was it possible to infer from what you saidyou unkind
creaturewhen you know as well as I dothat on his account only
last quarter I wouldn't buy myself a new parasolthough that old
green one is frayed the whole way upand the fringe is perfectly
mangy? You know it isPeggotty. You can't deny it.' Then
turning affectionately to mewith her cheek against mine'Am I a
naughty mama to youDavy? Am I a nastycruelselfishbad mama?
Say I ammy child; say "yes"dear boyand Peggotty will love
you; and Peggotty's love is a great deal better than mineDavy.
I don't love you at alldo I?'

At thiswe all fell a-crying together. I think I was the loudest
of the partybut I am sure we were all sincere about it. I was
quite heart-broken myselfand am afraid that in the first
transports of wounded tenderness I called Peggotty a 'Beast'. That
honest creature was in deep afflictionI rememberand must have


become quite buttonless on the occasion; for a little volley of
those explosives went offwhenafter having made it up with my
mothershe kneeled down by the elbow-chairand made it up with
me.

We went to bed greatly dejected. My sobs kept waking mefor a
long time; and when one very strong sob quite hoisted me up in bed
I found my mother sitting on the coverletand leaning over me.
fell asleep in her armsafter thatand slept soundly.

Whether it was the following Sunday when I saw the gentleman again
or whether there was any greater lapse of time before he
reappearedI cannot recall. I don't profess to be clear about
dates. But there he wasin churchand he walked home with us
afterwards. He came intooto look at a famous geranium we had
in the parlour-window. It did not appear to me that he took much
notice of itbut before he went he asked my mother to give him a
bit of the blossom. She begged him to choose it for himselfbut
he refused to do that - I could not understand why - so she plucked
it for himand 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 fall to pieces in a day or two.

Peggotty began to be less with usof an eveningthan she had
always been. My mother deferred to her very much - more than
usualit occurred to me - and we were all three excellent friends;
still we were different from what we used to beand were not so
comfortable among ourselves. Sometimes I fancied that Peggotty
perhaps objected to my mother's wearing all the pretty dresses she
had in her drawersor to her going so often to visit at that
neighbour's; but I couldn'tto my satisfactionmake out how it
was.

GraduallyI became used to seeing the gentleman with the black
whiskers. I liked him no better than at firstand had the same
uneasy jealousy of him; but if I had any reason for it beyond a
child's instinctive dislikeand a general idea that Peggotty and
I could make much of my mother without any helpit certainly was
not THE reason that I might have found if I had been older. No
such thing came into my mindor near it. I could observein
little piecesas it were; but as to making a net of a number of
these piecesand catching anybody in itthat wasas yetbeyond
me.

One autumn morning I was with my mother in the front gardenwhen
Mr. Murdstone - I knew him by that name now - came byon
horseback. He reined up his horse to salute my motherand said he
was going to Lowestoft to see some friends who were there with a
yachtand merrily proposed to take me on the saddle before him if
I would like the ride.

The air was so clear and pleasantand the horse seemed to like the
idea of the ride so much himselfas he stood snorting and pawing
at the garden-gatethat I had a great desire to go. So I was sent
upstairs to Peggotty to be made spruce; and in the meantime Mr.
Murdstone dismountedandwith his horse's bridle drawn over his
armwalked slowly up and down on the outer side of the sweetbriar
fencewhile 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 themas they strolled along; and
howfrom being in a perfectly angelic temperPeggotty turned
cross in a momentand brushed my hair the wrong wayexcessively
hard.


Mr. Murdstone and I were soon offand trotting along on the green
turf by the side of the road. He held me quite easily with one
armand I don't think I was restless usually; but I could not make
up my mind to sit in front of him without turning my head
sometimesand looking up in his face. He had that kind of shallow
black eye - I want a better word to express an eye that has no
depth in it to be looked into - whichwhen it is abstractedseems
from some peculiarity of light to be disfiguredfor a moment at a
timeby a cast. Several times when I glanced at himI observed
that appearance with a sort of aweand wondered what he was
thinking about so closely. His hair and whiskers were blacker and
thickerlooked at so nearthan even I had given them credit for
being. A squareness about the lower part of his faceand the
dotted indication of the strong black beard he shaved close every
dayreminded me of the wax-work that had travelled into our
neighbourhood some half-a-year before. Thishis regular eyebrows
and the rich whiteand blackand brownof his complexion -
confound his complexionand his memory! - made me think himin
spite of my misgivingsa very handsome man. I have no doubt that
my poor dear mother thought him so too.


We went to an hotel by the seawhere two gentlemen were smoking
cigars in a room by themselves. Each of them was lying on at least
four chairsand had a large rough jacket on. In a corner was a
heap of coats and boat-cloaksand a flagall bundled up together.


They both rolled on to their feet in an untidy sort of mannerwhen
we came inand said'HalloaMurdstone! We thought you were
dead!'


'Not yet' said Mr. Murdstone.


'And who's this shaver?' said one of the gentlementaking hold of
me.


'That's Davy' returned Mr. Murdstone.


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


'Copperfield' said Mr. Murdstone.


'What! Bewitching Mrs. Copperfield's encumbrance?' cried the
gentleman. 'The pretty little widow?'


'Quinion' said Mr. Murdstone'take careif you please.
Somebody's sharp.'


'Who is?' asked the gentlemanlaughing.
I looked upquickly; being curious to know.


'Only Brooks of Sheffield' said Mr. Murdstone.


I was quite relieved to find that it was only Brooks of Sheffield;
forat firstI really thought it was I.


There seemed to be something very comical in the reputation of Mr.
Brooks of Sheffieldfor both the gentlemen laughed heartily when
he was mentionedand Mr. Murdstone was a good deal amused also.
After some laughingthe gentleman whom he had called Quinion
said:


'And what is the opinion of Brooks of Sheffieldin reference to
the projected business?'



'WhyI don't know that Brooks understands much about it at
present' replied Mr. Murdstone; 'but he is not generally
favourableI believe.'

There was more laughter at thisand Mr. Quinion said he would ring
the bell for some sherry in which to drink to Brooks. This he did;
and when the wine camehe made me have a littlewith a biscuit
andbefore I drank itstand up and say'Confusion to Brooks of
Sheffield!' The toast was received with great applauseand such
hearty laughter that it made me laugh too; at which they laughed
the more. In shortwe quite enjoyed ourselves.

We walked about on the cliff after thatand sat on the grassand
looked at things through a telescope - I could make out nothing
myself when it was put to my eyebut I pretended I could - and
then we came back to the hotel to an early dinner. All the time we
were outthe two gentlemen smoked incessantly - whichI thought
if I might judge from the smell of their rough coatsthey must
have been doingever since the coats had first come home from the
tailor's. I must not forget that we went on board the yachtwhere
they all three descended into the cabinand were busy with some
papers. I saw them quite hard at workwhen I looked down through
the open skylight. They left meduring this timewith a very
nice man with a very large head of red hair and a very small shiny
hat upon itwho had got a cross-barred shirt or waistcoat onwith
'Skylark' in capital letters across the chest. I thought it was
his name; and that as he lived on board ship and hadn't a street
door to put his name onhe put it there instead; but when I called
him Mr. Skylarkhe 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 anotherbut seldom with him. It appeared to me
that he was more clever and cold than they wereand that they
regarded him with something of my own feeling. I remarked that
once or twice when Mr. Quinion was talkinghe looked at Mr.
Murdstone sidewaysas if to make sure of his not being displeased;
and that once when Mr. Passnidge (the other gentleman) was in high
spiritshe trod upon his footand gave him a secret caution with
his eyesto observe Mr. Murdstonewho was sitting stern and
silent. Nor do I recollect that Mr. Murdstone laughed at all that
dayexcept at the Sheffield joke - and thatby the bywas his
own.

We went home early in the evening. It was a very fine eveningand
my mother and he had another stroll by the sweetbriarwhile I was
sent in to get my tea. When he was gonemy mother asked me all
about the day I had hadand what they had said and done. I
mentioned what they had said about herand she laughedand told
me they were impudent fellows who talked nonsense - 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 Sheffieldbut she answered Noonly she supposed he must be a
manufacturer in the knife and fork way.

Can I say of her face - altered as I have reason to remember it
perished as I know it is - that it is gonewhen here it comes
before me at this instantas distinct as any face that I may
choose to look on in a crowded street? Can I say of her innocent
and girlish beautythat it fadedand was no morewhen its breath
falls on my cheek nowas it fell that night? Can I say she ever
changedwhen my remembrance brings her back to lifethus only;
andtruer to its loving youth than I have beenor 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
talkand she came to bid me good night. She kneeled down
playfully by the side of the bedand laying her chin upon her
handsand laughingsaid:

'What was it they saidDavy? 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 saidlaughing. 'It never could
have been bewitchingDavy. Now I know it wasn't!'

'Yesit was. "Bewitching Mrs. Copperfield"' I repeated stoutly.
'Andpretty.'

'Nonoit was never pretty. Not pretty' interposed my mother
laying her fingers on my lips again.

'Yes it was. "Pretty little widow."'

'What foolishimpudent creatures!' cried my motherlaughing and
covering her face. 'What ridiculous men! An't they? Davy dear -'

'WellMa.'

'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 promisedof course; and we kissed one another over and over
againand I soon fell fast asleep.

It seems to meat this distance of timeas if it were the next
day when Peggotty broached the striking and adventurous proposition
I am about to mention; but it was probably about two months
afterwards.

We were sitting as beforeone evening (when my mother was out as
before)in company with the stocking and the yard-measureand the
bit of waxand the box with St. Paul's on the lidand the
crocodile bookwhen Peggottyafter looking at me several times
and opening her mouth as if she were going to speakwithout doing
it - which I thought was merely gapingor I should have been
rather alarmed - said coaxingly:

'Master Davyhow 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 manPeggotty?' I inquired
provisionally.

'Ohwhat an agreeable man he is!' cried Peggottyholding 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 Hammentioned in my first chapter; but
she spoke of him as a morsel of English Grammar.

I was flushed by her summary of delightsand replied that it would
indeed be a treatbut what would my mother say?


'Why then I'll as good as bet a guinea' said Peggottyintent upon
my face'that she'll let us go. I'll ask herif you likeas
soon as ever she comes home. There now!'

'But what's she to do while we're away?' said Iputting my small
elbows on the table to argue the point. 'She can't live by
herself.'

If Peggotty were looking for a holeall of a suddenin the heel
of that stockingit must have been a very little one indeedand
not worth darning.

'I say! Peggotty! She can't live by herselfyou know.'

'Ohbless you!' said Peggottylooking 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 itI was quite ready to go. I waitedin the
utmost impatienceuntil my mother came home from Mrs. Grayper's
(for it was that identical neighbour)to ascertain if we could get
leave to carry out this great idea. Without being nearly so much
surprised as I had expectedmy mother entered into it readily; and
it was all arranged that nightand 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 sooneven to mewho was in a fever of expectationand half
afraid that an earthquake or a fiery mountainor some other great
convulsion of naturemight interpose to stop the expedition. We
were to go in a carrier's cartwhich departed in the morning after
breakfast. I would have given any money to have been allowed to
wrap myself up over-nightand sleep in my hat and boots.

It touches me nearly nowalthough I tell it lightlyto 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
gateand my mother stood there kissing mea 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 tooand that
I felt her heart beat against mine.

I am glad to recollect that when the carrier began to movemy
mother ran out at the gateand called to him to stopthat she
might kiss me once more. I am glad to dwell upon the earnestness
and love with which she lifted up her face to mineand did so.

As we left her standing in the roadMr. Murdstone came up to where
she wasand seemed to expostulate with her for being so moved.
was looking back round the awning of the cartand wondered what
business it was of his. Peggottywho was also looking back on the
other sideseemed anything but satisfied; as the face she brought
back in the cart denoted.

I sat looking at Peggotty for some timein a reverie on this
supposititious case: whetherif she were employed to lose me like
the boy in the fairy taleI should be able to track my way home
again by the buttons she would shed.


CHAPTER 3
I HAVE A CHANGE

The carrier's horse was the laziest horse in the worldI should
hopeand shuffled alongwith his head downas if he liked to
keep people waiting to whom the packages were directed. I fancied
indeedthat 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 downlike his horseand
of drooping sleepily forward as he drovewith 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 himfor the
horse did all that; and as to conversationhe had no idea of it
but whistling.

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

We made so many deviations up and down lanesand were such a long
time delivering a bedstead at a public-houseand calling at other
placesthat I was quite tiredand very gladwhen we saw
Yarmouth. It looked rather spongy and soppyI thoughtas I
carried my eye over the great dull waste that lay across the river;
and I could not help wonderingif the world were really as round
as my geography book saidhow any part of it came to be so flat.
But I reflected that Yarmouth might be situated at one of the
poles; which would account for it.

As we drew a little nearerand saw the whole adjacent prospect
lying a straight low line under the skyI 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 seaand the town and the
tide had not been quite so much mixed uplike toast and waterit
would have been nicer. But Peggotty saidwith greater emphasis
than usualthat we must take things as we found themand that
for her partshe was proud to call herself a Yarmouth Bloater.

When we got into the street (which was strange enough to me) and
smelt the fishand pitchand oakumand tarand saw the sailors
walking aboutand 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 Peggottywho heard my expressions of delight with great
complacencyand told me it was well known (I suppose to those who
had the good fortune to be born Bloaters) that Yarmouth wasupon
the wholethe finest place in the universe.

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

He was waiting for usin factat the public-house; and asked me
how I found myselflike an old acquaintance. I did not feelat
firstthat I knew him as well as he knew mebecause he had never
come to our house since the night I was bornand naturally he had
the advantage of me. But our intimacy was much advanced by his
taking me on his back to carry me home. He wasnowa huge
strong fellow of six feet highbroad in proportionand
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 jacketand a pair of such very stiff trousers that they


would have stood quite as well alonewithout any legs in them.
And you couldn't so properly have said he wore a hatas that he
was covered in a-toplike an old buildingwith something pitchy.

Ham carrying me on his back and a small box of ours under his arm
and Peggotty carrying another small box of ourswe turned down
lanes bestrewn with bits of chips and little hillocks of sandand
went past gas-worksrope-walksboat-builders' yardsshipwrights'
yardsship-breakers' yardscaulkers' yardsriggers' lofts
smiths' forgesand a great litter of such placesuntil we came
out upon the dull waste I had already seen at a distance; when Ham
said

'Yon's our houseMas'r Davy!'

I looked in all directionsas far as I could stare over the
wildernessand away at the seaand away at the riverbut no
house could I make out. There was a black bargeor some other
kind of superannuated boatnot far offhigh and dry on the
groundwith an iron funnel sticking out of it for a chimney 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 itMas'r Davy' returned Ham.

If it had been Aladdin's palaceroc's egg and allI suppose I
could not have been more charmed with the romantic idea of living
in it. There was a delightful door cut in the sideand it was
roofed inand there were little windows in it; but the wonderful
charm of it wasthat it was a real boat which had no doubt been
upon the water hundreds of timesand which had never been intended
to be lived inon dry land. That was the captivation of it to me.
If it had ever been meant to be lived inI might have thought it
smallor inconvenientor lonely; but never having been designed
for any such useit became a perfect abode.

It was beautifully clean insideand as tidy as possible. There
was a tableand a Dutch clockand a chest of drawersand on the
chest of drawers there was a tea-tray with a painting on it of a
lady with a parasoltaking a walk with a military-looking child
who was trundling a hoop. The tray was kept from tumbling downby
a bible; and the trayif it had tumbled downwould have smashed
a quantity of cups and saucers and a teapot that were grouped
around the book. On the walls there were some common coloured
picturesframed and glazedof scripture subjects; such as I have
never seen since in the hands of pedlarswithout seeing the whole
interior of Peggotty's brother's house againat one view. Abraham
in red going to sacrifice Isaac in blueand Daniel in yellow cast
into a den of green lionswere the most prominent of these. Over
the little mantelshelfwas a picture of the 'Sarah Jane' lugger
built at Sunderlandwith a real little wooden stern stuck on to
it; a work of artcombining composition with carpentrywhich I
considered to be one of the most enviable possessions that the
world could afford. There were some hooks in the beams of the
ceilingthe use of which I did not divine then; and some lockers
and boxes and conveniences of that sortwhich served for seats and
eked out the chairs.

All this I saw in the first glance after I crossed the threshold child-
likeaccording to my theory - and then Peggotty opened a
little door and showed me my bedroom. It was the completest and
most desirable bedroom ever seen - in the stern of the vessel; with


a little windowwhere the rudder used to go through; a little
looking-glassjust the right height for menailed against the
walland framed with oyster-shells; a little bedwhich 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 milkand
the patchwork counterpane made my eyes quite ache with its
brightness. One thing I particularly noticed in this delightful
housewas the smell of fish; which was so searchingthat when I
took out my pocket-handkerchief to wipe my noseI found it smelt
exactly as if it had wrapped up a lobster. On my imparting this
discovery in confidence to Peggottyshe informed me that her
brother dealt in lobsterscrabsand crawfish; and I afterwards
found that a heap of these creaturesin a state of wonderful
conglomeration with one anotherand never leaving off pinching
whatever they laid hold ofwere 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 apronwhom I had
seen curtseying at the door when I was on Ham's backabout a
quarter of a mile off. Likewise by a most beautiful little girl
(or I thought her so) with a necklace of blue beads onwho
wouldn't let me kiss her when I offered tobut ran away and hid
herself. By and bywhen we had dined in a sumptuous manner off
boiled dabsmelted butterand potatoeswith a chop for mea
hairy man with a very good-natured face came home. As he called
Peggotty 'Lass'and gave her a hearty smack on the cheekI had no
doubtfrom the general propriety of her conductthat he was her
brother; and so he turned out - being presently introduced to me as
Mr. Peggottythe master of the house.

'Glad to see yousir' said Mr. Peggotty. 'You'll find us rough
sirbut you'll find us ready.'

I thanked himand replied that I was sure I should be happy in
such a delightful place.

'How's your Masir?' said Mr. Peggotty. 'Did you leave her pretty
jolly?'

I gave Mr. Peggotty to understand that she was as jolly as I could
wishand that she desired her compliments - which was a polite
fiction on my part.

'I'm much obleeged to herI'm sure' said Mr. Peggotty. 'Well
sirif you can make out herefur a fortnut'long wi' her'
nodding at his sister'and Hamand little Em'lywe shall be
proud of your company.'

Having done the honours of his house in this hospitable mannerMr.
Peggotty went out to wash himself in a kettleful of hot water
remarking that 'cold would never get his muck off'. He soon
returnedgreatly improved in appearance; but so rubicundthat I
couldn't help thinking his face had this in common with the
lobsterscrabsand crawfish- that it went into the hot water
very blackand came out very red.

After teawhen 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 conceive. To hear the
wind getting up out at seato know that the fog was creeping over
the desolate flat outsideand to look at the fireand think that
there was no house near but this oneand this one a boatwas like
enchantment. Little Em'ly had overcome her shynessand was
sitting by my side upon the lowest and least of the lockerswhich


was just large enough for us twoand just fitted into the chimney
corner. Mrs. Peggotty with the white apronwas knitting on the
opposite side of the fire. Peggotty at her needlework was as much
at home with St. Paul's and the bit of wax-candleas if they had
never known any other roof. Hamwho had been giving me my first
lesson in all-fourswas trying to recollect a scheme of telling
fortunes with the dirty cardsand 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 Hambecause you lived in a sort
of ark?'

Mr. Peggotty seemed to think it a deep ideabut answered:

'Nosir. I never giv him no name.'

'Who gave him that namethen?' said Iputting question number two
of the catechism to Mr. Peggotty.

'Whysirhis father giv it him' said Mr. Peggotty.

'I thought you were his father!'

'My brother Joe was his father' said Mr. Peggotty.

'DeadMr. Peggotty?' I hintedafter 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 relationship
to anybody else there. I was so curious to knowthat I made up my
mind to have it out with Mr. Peggotty.

'Little Em'ly' I saidglancing at her. 'She is your daughter
isn't sheMr. Peggotty?'

'Nosir. My brother-in-lawTomwas her father.'

I couldn't help it. '- DeadMr. Peggotty?' I hintedafter
another respectful silence.

'Drowndead' said Mr. Peggotty.

I felt the difficulty of resuming the subjectbut had not got to
the bottom of it yetand must get to the bottom somehow. So I
said:

'Haven't you ANY childrenMr. Peggotty?'

'Nomaster' he answered with a short laugh. 'I'm a bacheldore.'

'A bachelor!' I saidastonished. 'Whywho's thatMr. Peggotty?'
pointing to the person in the apron who was knitting.

'That's Missis Gummidge' said Mr. Peggotty.

'GummidgeMr. Peggotty?'


But at this point Peggotty - I mean my own peculiar Peggotty - made
such impressive motions to me not to ask any more questionsthat
I could only sit and look at all the silent companyuntil it was
time to go to bed. Thenin 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 different times adopted in their childhood
when they were left destitute: and that Mrs. Gummidge was the widow
of his partner in a boatwho had died very poor. He was but a
poor man himselfsaid Peggottybut as good as gold and as true as
steel - those were her similes. The only subjectshe informed me
on which he ever showed a violent temper or swore an oathwas this
generosity of his; and if it were ever referred toby any one of
themhe struck the table a heavy blow 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 goodif it was ever
mentioned again. It appearedin answer to my inquiriesthat
nobody had the least idea of the etymology of this terrible verb
passive to be gormed; but that they all regarded it as constituting
a most solemn imprecation.

I was very sensible of my entertainer's goodnessand listened to
the women's going to bed in another little crib like mine at the
opposite end of the boatand to him and Ham hanging up two
hammocks for themselves on the hooks I had noticed in the roofin
a very luxurious state of mindenhanced by my being sleepy. As
slumber gradually stole upon meI heard the wind howling out at
sea and coming on across the flat so fiercelythat I had a lazy
apprehension of the great deep rising in the night. But I
bethought myself that I was in a boatafter all; and that a man
like Mr. Peggotty was not a bad person to have on board if anything
did happen.

Nothing happenedhoweverworse than morning. Almost as soon as
it shone upon the oyster-shell frame of my mirror I was out of bed
and out with little Em'lypicking up stones upon the beach.

'You're quite a sailorI suppose?' I said to Em'ly. I don't know
that I supposed anything of the kindbut I felt it an act of
gallantry to say something; and a shining sail close to us made
such a pretty little image of itselfat the momentin her bright
eyethat it came into my head to say this.

'No' replied Em'lyshaking her head'I'm afraid of the sea.'

'Afraid!' I saidwith a becoming air of boldnessand looking very
big at the mighty ocean. 'I an't!'

'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 oneI
never see that boat.'

'Nor him?' I asked her.

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 happiest state imaginableand lived so


thenand always meant to live so; and how my father's grave was in
the churchyard near our houseand shaded by a treebeneath 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 mineit appeared. She had lost her mother before
her father; and where her father's grave was no one knewexcept
that it was somewhere in the depths of the sea.

'Besides' said Em'lyas 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 a fisherman's daughter
and my uncle Dan is a fisherman.'

'Dan is Mr. Peggottyis he?' said I.

'Uncle Dan - yonder' answered Em'lynodding at the boat-house.

'Yes. I mean him. He must be very goodI should think?'

'Good?' said Em'ly. 'If I was ever to be a ladyI'd give him a
sky-blue coat with diamond buttonsnankeen trousersa red velvet
waistcoata cocked hata large gold watcha silver pipeand 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 nieceand 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 articlesas if they were a glorious vision.
We went on againpicking up shells and pebbles.

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

Emily looked at meand laughed and nodded 'yes'.

'I should like it very much. We would all be gentlefolks together
then. Meand uncleand Hamand Mrs. Gummidge. We wouldn't mind
thenwhen there comes stormy weather. - Not for our own sakesI
mean. We would for the poor fishermen'sto be sureand we'd help
'em with money when they come to any hurt.' This seemed to me to
be a very satisfactory and therefore not at all improbable picture.
I expressed my pleasure in the contemplation of itand little
Em'ly was emboldened to sayshyly

'Don't you think you are afraid of the seanow?'

It was quiet enough to reassure mebut I have no doubt if I had
seen a moderately large wave come tumbling inI should have taken
to my heelswith an awful recollection of her drowned relations.
HoweverI said 'No' and I added'You don't seem to be either
though you say you are' - for she was walking much too near the
brink of a sort of old jetty or wooden causeway we had strolled
uponand I was afraid of her falling over.

'I'm not afraid in this way' said little Em'ly. 'But I wake when
it blowsand 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!'

She started from my sideand ran along a jagged timber which


protruded from the place we stood uponand overhung the deep water
at some heightwithout the least defence. The incident is so
impressed on my remembrancethat if I were a draughtsman I could
draw its form hereI dare sayaccurately as it was that dayand
little Em'ly springing forward to her destruction (as it appeared
to me)with a look that I have never forgottendirected far out
to sea.

The lightboldfluttering little figure turned and came back safe
to meand I soon laughed at my fearsand at the cry I had
uttered; fruitlessly in any casefor there was no one near. But
there have been times sincein my manhoodmany times there have
beenwhen I have thoughtIs it possibleamong the possibilities
of hidden thingsthat in the sudden rashness of the child and her
wild look so far offthere was any merciful attraction of her into
dangerany tempting her towards him permitted on the part of her
dead fatherthat her life might have a chance of ending that day?
There has been a time since when I have wondered whetherif the
life before her could have been revealed to me at a glanceand so
revealed as that a child could fully comprehend itand if her
preservation could have depended on a motion of my handI ought to
have held it up to save her. There has been a time since - I do
not say it lasted longbut it has been - when I have asked myself
the questionwould it have been better for little Em'ly to have
had the waters close above her head that morning in my sight; and
when I have answered Yesit would have been.

This may be premature. I have set it down too soonperhaps. But
let it stand.

We strolled a long wayand loaded ourselves with things that we
thought curiousand put some stranded starfish carefully back into
the water - 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 soor the reverse - and then made our way home to Mr.
Peggotty's dwelling. We stopped under the lee of the
lobster-outhouse to exchange an innocent kissand went in to
breakfast glowing with health and pleasure.

'Like two young mavishes' Mr. Peggotty said. I knew this meant
in our local dialectlike two young thrushesand received it as
a compliment.

Of course I was in love with little Em'ly. I am sure I loved that
baby quite as trulyquite as tenderlywith greater purity and
more disinterestednessthan can enter into the best love of a
later time of lifehigh and ennobling as it is. I am sure my
fancy raised up something round that blue-eyed mite of a child
which etherealizedand made a very angel of her. Ifany sunny
forenoonshe had spread a little pair of wings and flown away
before my eyesI 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
mannerhours and hours. The days sported by usas if Time had
not grown up himself yetbut were a child tooand always at play.
I told Em'ly I adored herand that unless she confessed she adored
me I should be reduced to the necessity of killing myself with a
sword. She said she didand I have no doubt she did.

As to any sense of inequalityor youthfulnessor other difficulty
in our waylittle Em'ly and I had no such troublebecause we had
no future. We made no more provision for growing olderthan we
did for growing younger. We were the admiration of Mrs. Gummidge


and Peggottywho used to whisper of an evening when we sat
lovinglyon our little locker side by side'Lor! wasn't it
beautiful!' Mr. Peggotty smiled at us from behind his pipeand
Ham grinned all the evening and did nothing else. They had
something of the sort of pleasure in usI supposethat they might
have had in a pretty toyor a pocket model of the Colosseum.

I soon found out that Mrs. Gummidge did not always make herself so
agreeable as she might have been expected to dounder the
circumstances of her residence with Mr. Peggotty. Mrs. Gummidge's
was rather a fretful dispositionand she whimpered more sometimes
than was comfortable for other parties in so small an
establishment. I was very sorry for her; but there were moments
when it would have been more agreeableI thoughtif Mrs. Gummidge
had had a convenient apartment of her own to retire toand had
stopped there until her spirits revived.

Mr. Peggotty went occasionally to a public-house called The Willing
Mind. I discovered thisby his being out on the second or third
evening of our visitand by Mrs. Gummidge's looking up at the
Dutch clockbetween eight and nineand saying he was thereand
thatwhat was moreshe had known in the morning he would go
there.

Mrs. Gummidge had been in a low state all dayand had burst into
tears in the forenoonwhen the fire smoked. 'I am a lone lorn
creetur'' were Mrs. Gummidge's wordswhen that unpleasant
occurrence took place'and everythink goes contrary with me.'

'Ohit'll soon leave off' said Peggotty - I again mean our
Peggotty - 'and besidesyou knowit's not more disagreeable to
you than to us.'

'I feel it more' said Mrs. Gummidge.

It was a very cold daywith cutting blasts of wind. Mrs.
Gummidge's peculiar corner of the fireside seemed to me to be the
warmest and snuggest in the placeas her chair was certainly the
easiestbut it didn't suit her that day at all. She was
constantly complaining of the coldand of its occasioning a
visitation in her back which she called 'the creeps'. At last she
shed tears on that subjectand said again that she was 'a lone
lorn creetur' and everythink went contrary with her'.

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

'I feel it more than other people' said Mrs. Gummidge.

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

Accordinglywhen Mr. Peggotty came home about nine o'clockthis
unfortunate Mrs. Gummidge was knitting in her cornerin a very
wretched and miserable condition. Peggotty had been working
cheerfully. Ham had been patching up a great pair of waterboots;
and Iwith little Em'ly by my sidehad been reading to them.
Mrs. Gummidge had never made any other remark than a forlorn sigh
and had never raised her eyes since tea.


'WellMates' said Mr. Peggottytaking his seat'and how are
you?'

We all said somethingor looked somethingto welcome himexcept
Mrs. Gummidgewho only shook her head over her knitting.

'What's amiss?' said Mr. Peggottywith a clap of his hands.
'Cheer upold 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 pocketkept it outand wiped them againand
still kept it outready for use.

'What's amissdame?' said Mr. Peggotty.

'Nothing' returned Mrs. Gummidge. 'You've come from The Willing
MindDan'l?'

'Why yesI've took a short spell at The Willing Mind tonight'
said Mr. Peggotty.

'I'm sorry I should drive you there' said Mrs. Gummidge.

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

'Very ready' said Mrs. Gummidgeshaking her headand wiping her
eyes. 'Yesyesvery 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. Peggotty. 'Don't
ye believe a bit on it.'

'Yesyesit is' cried Mrs. Gummidge. 'I know what I am. I know
that I am a lone lorn creetur'and not only that everythink goes
contrary with mebut that I go contrary with everybody. Yesyes.
I feel more than other people doand I show it more. It's my
misfortun'.'

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

'I an't what I could wish myself to be' said Mrs. Gummidge. 'I am
far from it. I know what I am. My troubles has made me contrary.
I feel my troublesand they make me contrary. I wish I didn't
feel 'embut I do. I wish I could be hardened to 'embut I an't.
I make the house uncomfortable. I don't wonder at it. I've made
your sister so all dayand Master Davy.'

Here I was suddenly meltedand roared out'Noyou haven'tMrs.
Gummidge' in great mental distress.

'It's far from right that I should do it' said Mrs. Gummidge. 'It
an't a fit return. I had better go into the house and die. I am
a lone lorn creetur'and had much better not make myself contrary
here. If thinks must go contrary with meand I must go contrary
myselflet me go contrary in my parish. Dan'lI'd better go into
the houseand die and be a riddance!'

Mrs. Gummidge retired with these wordsand betook herself to bed.


When she was goneMr. Peggottywho had not exhibited a trace of
any feeling but the profoundest sympathylooked round upon usand
nodding his head with a lively expression of that sentiment still
animating his facesaid 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 uponuntil Peggottyon seeing me to bed
explained that it was the late Mr. Gummidge; and that her brother
always took that for a received truth on such occasionsand that
it always had a moving effect upon him. Some time after he was in
his hammock that nightI heard him myself repeat to Ham'Poor
thing! She's been thinking of the old 'un!' And whenever Mrs.
Gummidge was overcome in a similar manner during the remainder of
our stay (which happened some few times)he always said the same
thing in extenuation of the circumstanceand always with the
tenderest commiseration.

So the fortnight slipped awayvaried by nothing but the variation
of the tidewhich altered Mr. Peggotty's times of going out and
coming inand altered Ham's engagements also. When the latter was
unemployedhe sometimes walked with us to show us the boats and
shipsand 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 anotherthough I believe this obtains
with most peoplein reference especially to the associations of
their childhood. I never hear the nameor read the nameof
Yarmouthbut I am reminded of a certain Sunday morning on the
beachthe bells ringing for churchlittle Em'ly leaning on my
shoulderHam lazily dropping stones into the waterand the sun
away at seajust breaking through the heavy mistand showing us
the shipslike their own shadows.

At last the day came for going home. I bore up against the
separation from Mr. Peggotty and Mrs. Gummidgebut my agony of
mind at leaving little Em'ly was piercing. We went arm-in-arm to
the public-house where the carrier put upand I promisedon the
roadto write to her. (I redeemed that promise afterwardsin
characters larger than those in which apartments are usually
announced in manuscriptas being to let.) We were greatly overcome
at parting; and if everin my lifeI have had a void made in my
heartI had one made that day.

Nowall the time I had been on my visitI had been ungrateful to
my home againand had thought little or nothing about it. But I
was no sooner turned towards itthan my reproachful young
conscience seemed to point that way with a ready finger; and I
feltall the more for the sinking of my spiritsthat it was my
nestand that my mother was my comforter and friend.

This gained upon me as we went along; so that the nearer we drew
the more familiar the objects became that we passedthe more
excited I was to get thereand to run into her arms. But
Peggottyinstead of sharing in those transportstried to check
them (though very kindly)and looked confused and out of sorts.

Blunderstone Rookery would comehoweverin spite of herwhen the
carrier's horse pleased - and did. How well I recollect iton a
cold grey afternoonwith a dull skythreatening rain!

The door openedand I lookedhalf laughing and half crying in my
pleasant agitationfor my mother. It was not shebut a strange
servant.


'WhyPeggotty!' I saidruefully'isn't she come home?'

'YesyesMaster Davy' said Peggotty. 'She's come home. Wait a
bitMaster Davyand I'll - I'll tell you something.'

Between her agitationand her natural awkwardness in getting out
of the cartPeggotty was making a most extraordinary festoon of
herselfbut I felt too blank and strange to tell her so. When she
had got downshe took me by the hand; led mewonderinginto the
kitchen; and shut the door.

'Peggotty!' said Iquite frightened. 'What's the matter?'

'Nothing's the matterbless youMaster Davy dear!' she answered
assuming an air of sprightliness.

'Something's the matterI'm sure. Where's mama?'

'Where's mamaMaster Davy?' repeated Peggotty.

'Yes. Why hasn't she come out to the gateand what have we come
in here for? OhPeggotty!' My eyes were fulland I felt as if
I were going to tumble down.

'Bless the precious boy!' cried Peggottytaking hold of me. 'What
is it? Speakmy pet!'

'Not deadtoo! Ohshe's not deadPeggotty?'

Peggotty cried out No! with an astonishing volume of voice; and
then sat downand began to pantand said I had given her a turn.

I gave her a hug to take away the turnor to give her another turn
in the right directionand then stood before herlooking at her
in anxious inquiry.

'You seedearI should have told you before now' said Peggotty
'but I hadn't an opportunity. I ought to have made itperhaps
but I couldn't azackly' - that was always the substitute for
exactlyin Peggotty's militia of words - 'bring my mind to it.'

'Go onPeggotty' said Imore frightened than before.

'Master Davy' said Peggottyuntying her bonnet with a shaking
handand speaking in a breathless sort of way. 'What do you
think? You have got a Pa!'

I trembledand turned white. Something - I don't know whator
how - connected with the grave in the churchyardand the raising
of the deadseemed to strike me like an unwholesome wind.

'A new one' said Peggotty.

'A new one?' I repeated.

Peggotty gave a gaspas if she were swallowing something that was
very hardandputting out her handsaid:

'Come and see him.'

'I don't want to see him.'

-'And your mama' said Peggotty.

I ceased to draw backand we went straight to the best parlour
where she left me. On one side of the firesat my mother; on the
otherMr. Murdstone. My mother dropped her workand arose
hurriedlybut timidly I thought.


'NowClara my dear' said Mr. Murdstone. 'Recollect! control
yourselfalways control yourself! Davy boyhow do you do?'


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


As soon as I could creep awayI crept upstairs. My old dear
bedroom was changedand I was to lie a long way off. I rambled
downstairs to find anything that was like itselfso altered it all
seemed; and roamed into the yard. I very soon started back from
therefor the empty dog-kennel was filled up with a great dog -
deep mouthed and black-haired like Him - and he was very angry at
the sight of meand sprang out to get at me.


CHAPTER 4
I FALL INTO DISGRACE


If the room to which my bed was removed were a sentient thing that
could give evidenceI might appeal to it at this day - who sleeps
there nowI wonder! - to bear witness for me what a heavy heart I
carried to it. I went up therehearing the dog in the yard bark
after me all the way while I climbed the stairs; andlooking as
blank and strange upon the room as the room looked upon mesat
down with my small hands crossedand thought.


I thought of the oddest things. Of the shape of the roomof the
cracks in the ceilingof the paper on the wallsof the flaws in
the window-glass making ripples and dimples on the prospectof the
washing-stand being rickety on its three legsand having a
discontented something about itwhich reminded me of Mrs. Gummidge
under the influence of the old one. I was crying all the time
butexcept that I was conscious of being cold and dejectedI 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'lyand
had been torn away from her to come here where no one seemed to
want meor to care about mehalf as much as she did. This made
such a very miserable piece of business of itthat I rolled myself
up in a corner of the counterpaneand cried myself to sleep.


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


'Davy' said my mother. 'What's the matter?'


I thought it was very strange that she should ask meand answered
'Nothing.' I turned over on my faceI recollectto hide my
trembling lipwhich answered her with greater truth.
'Davy' said my mother. 'Davymy child!'


I dare say no words she could have uttered would have affected me



so muchthenas her calling me her child. I hid my tears in the
bedclothesand pressed her from me with my handwhen she would
have raised me up.

'This is your doingPeggottyyou cruel thing!' said my mother.
'I have no doubt at all about it. How can you reconcile it to your
conscienceI wonderto prejudice my own boy against meor
against anybody who is dear to me? What do you mean by it
Peggotty?'

Poor Peggotty lifted up her hands and eyesand only answeredin
a sort of paraphrase of the grace I usually repeated after dinner
'Lord forgive youMrs. Copperfieldand for what you have said
this minutemay you never be truly sorry!'

'It's enough to distract me' cried my mother. 'In my honeymoon
toowhen my most inveterate enemy might relentone would think
and not envy me a little peace of mind and happiness. Davyyou
naughty boy! Peggottyyou savage creature! Ohdear me!' cried
my motherturning from one of us to the otherin her pettish
wilful manner'what a troublesome world this iswhen one has the
most right to expect it to be as agreeable as possible!'

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

'What's this? Claramy lovehave you forgotten? - Firmnessmy
dear!'

'I am very sorryEdward' said my mother. 'I meant to be very
goodbut I am so uncomfortable.'

'Indeed!' he answered. 'That's a bad hearingso soonClara.'

'I say it's very hard I should be made so now' returned my mother
pouting; 'and it is - very hard - isn't it?'

He drew her to himwhispered in her earand kissed her. I knew
as wellwhen I saw my mother's head lean down upon his shoulder
and her arm touch his neck - I knew as well that he could mould her
pliant nature into any form he choseas I knownowthat he did
it.

'Go you belowmy love' said Mr. Murdstone. 'David and I will
come downtogether. My friend' turning a darkening face on
Peggottywhen he had watched my mother outand dismissed her with
a nod and a smile; 'do you know your mistress's name?'

'She has been my mistress a long timesir' answered Peggotty'I
ought to know it.'
'That's true' he answered. 'But I thought I heard youas I came
upstairsaddress her by a name that is not hers. She has taken
mineyou know. Will you remember that?'

Peggottywith some uneasy glances at mecurtseyed herself out of
the room without replying; seeingI supposethat she was expected
to goand had no excuse for remaining. When we two were left
alonehe shut the doorand sitting on a chairand holding me
standing before himlooked steadily into my eyes. I felt my own
attractedno less steadilyto his. As I recall our being opposed
thusface to faceI seem again to hear my heart beat fast and
high.


'David' he saidmaking his lips thinby pressing them together
'if I have an obstinate horse or dog to deal withwhat do you
think I do?'

'I don't know.'

'I beat him.'

I had answered in a kind of breathless whisperbut I feltin my
silencethat my breath was shorter now.

'I make him winceand smart. I say to myselfI'll conquer that
fellow; and if it were to cost him all the blood he hadI 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 timeseach time with twenty blowsI 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
saidwith a grave smile that belonged to him'and you understood
me very wellI see. Wash that facesirand come down with me.'

He pointed to the washing-standwhich I had made out to be like
Mrs. Gummidgeand motioned me with his head to obey him directly.
I had little doubt thenand I have less doubt nowthat he would
have knocked me down without the least compunctionif I had
hesitated.

'Claramy dear' he saidwhen I had done his biddingand he
walked me into the parlourwith his hand still on my arm; 'you
will not be made uncomfortable any moreI hope. We shall soon
improve our youthful humours.'

God help meI might have been improved for my whole lifeI might
have been made another creature perhapsfor lifeby a kind word
at that season. A word of encouragement and explanationof pity
for my childish ignoranceof welcome homeof reassurance to me
that it was homemight have made me dutiful to him in my heart
henceforthinstead of in my hypocritical outsideand 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 strangeand that
presentlywhen I stole to a chairshe followed me with her eyes
more sorrowfully still - missingperhapssome freedom in my
childish tread - but the word was not spokenand the time for it
was gone.

We dined alonewe three together. He seemed to be very fond of my
mother - I am afraid I liked him none the better for that - and she
was very fond of him. I gathered from what they saidthat an
elder sister of his was coming to stay with themand that she was
expected that evening. I am not certain whether I found out then
or afterwardsthatwithout being actively concerned in any
businesshe had some share inor some annual charge upon the
profits ofa wine-merchant's house in Londonwith which his
family had been connected from his great-grandfather's timeand in
which his sister had a similar interest; but I may mention it in
this placewhether or no.

After dinnerwhen we were sitting by the fireand I was
meditating an escape to Peggotty without having the hardihood to
slip awaylest it should offend the master of the housea coach


drove up to the garden-gate and he went out to receive the visitor.
My mother followed him. I was timidly following herwhen she
turned round at the parlour doorin the duskand taking me in her
embrace as she had been used to dowhispered me to love my new
father and be obedient to him. She did this hurriedly and
secretlyas if it were wrongbut tenderly; andputting out her
hand behind herheld mine in ituntil we came near to where he
was standing in the gardenwhere she let mine goand drew hers
through his arm.

It was Miss Murdstone who was arrivedand a gloomy-looking lady
she was; darklike her brotherwhom she greatly resembled in face
and voice; and with very heavy eyebrowsnearly meeting over her
large noseas ifbeing disabled by the wrongs of her sex from
wearing whiskersshe had carried them to that account. She
brought with her two uncompromising hard black boxeswith her
initials on the lids in hard brass nails. When she paid the
coachman she took her money out of a hard steel purseand she kept
the purse in a very jail of a bag which hung upon her arm by a
heavy chainand shut up like a bite. I had neverat that time
seen such a metallic lady altogether as Miss Murdstone was.

She was brought into the parlour with many tokens of welcomeand
there formally recognized my mother as a new and near relation.
Then she looked at meand said:

'Is that your boysister-in-law?'

My mother acknowledged me.

'Generally speaking' said Miss Murdstone'I don't like boys. How
d'ye doboy?'

Under these encouraging circumstancesI replied that I was very
welland that I hoped she was the same; with such an indifferent
gracethat Miss Murdstone disposed of me in two words:

'Wants manner!'

Having uttered whichwith great distinctnessshe begged the
favour of being shown to her roomwhich became to me from that
time forth a place of awe and dreadwherein the two black boxes
were never seen open or known to be left unlockedand where (for
I peeped in once or twice when she was out) numerous little steel
fetters and rivetswith which Miss Murdstone embellished herself
when she was dressedgenerally hung upon the looking-glass in
formidable array.

As well as I could make outshe had come for goodand had no
intention of ever going again. She began to 'help' my mother next
morningand was in and out of the store-closet all dayputting
things to rightsand making havoc in the old arrangements. Almost
the first remarkable thing I observed in Miss Murdstone washer
being constantly haunted by a suspicion that the servants had a man
secreted somewhere on the premises. Under the influence of this
delusionshe dived into the coal-cellar at the most untimely
hoursand scarcely ever opened the door of a dark cupboard without
clapping it to againin the belief that she had got him.

Though there was nothing very airy about Miss Murdstoneshe was a
perfect Lark in point of getting up. She was up (andas I believe
to this hourlooking for that man) before 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 outand 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 teaMiss Murdstone gave her a kind of peck
on the cheekwhich was her nearest approach to a kissand said:

'NowClaramy dearI am come hereyou knowto relieve you of
all the trouble I can. You're much too pretty and thoughtless' my
mother blushed but laughedand seemed not to dislike this
character - 'to have any duties imposed upon you that can be
undertaken by me. If you'll be so good as give me your keysmy
dearI'll attend to all this sort of thing in future.'

From that timeMiss Murdstone kept the keys in her own little jail
all dayand under her pillow all nightand 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 Murdstone had been
developing certain household plans to her brotherof which he
signified his approbationmy mother suddenly began to cryand
said she thought she might have been consulted.

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

'Ohit's very well to say you wonderEdward!' cried my mother
'and it's very well for you to talk about firmnessbut you
wouldn't like it yourself.'

FirmnessI may observewas the grand quality on which both Mr.
and Miss Murdstone took their stand. However I might have
expressed my comprehension of it at that timeif I had been called
uponI nevertheless did clearly comprehend in my own waythat it
was another name for tyranny; and for a certain gloomyarrogant
devil's humourthat was in them both. The creedas I should
state it nowwas this. Mr. Murdstone was firm; nobody in his
world was to be so firm as Mr. Murdstone; nobody else in his world
was to be firm at allfor everybody was to be bent to his
firmness. Miss Murdstone was an exception. She might be firmbut
only by relationshipand in an inferior and tributary degree. My
mother was another exception. She might be firmand must be; but
only in bearing their firmnessand firmly believing there was no
other firmness upon earth.

'It's very hard' said my mother'that in my own house -'

'My own house?' repeated Mr. Murdstone. 'Clara!'

'OUR own houseI mean' faltered my motherevidently frightened

-'I hope you must know what I meanEdward - 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 mothersobbing; 'ask Peggotty if I
didn't do very well when I wasn't interfered with!'
'Edward' said Miss Murdstone'let there be an end of this. I go
tomorrow.'

'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 onat a grievous disadvantage
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 meand I only want to be
consulted as a mere formsometimes. I thought you were pleased
oncewith my being a little inexperienced and girlishEdward - I
am sure you said so - but you seem to hate me for it nowyou are
so severe.'

'Edward' said Miss Murdstoneagain'let there be an end of this.
I go tomorrow.'

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

Miss Murdstone made a jail-delivery of her pocket-handkerchiefand
held it before her eyes.

'Clara' he continuedlooking at my mother'you surprise me! You
astound me! YesI had a satisfaction in the thought of marrying
an inexperienced and artless personand forming her characterand
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 assistance in this endeavourand to assumefor my sakea
condition something like a housekeeper'sand when she meets with
a base return -'

'OhprayprayEdward' cried my mother'don't accuse me of
being ungrateful. I am sure I am not ungrateful. No one ever said
I was before. I have many faultsbut not that. Ohdon'tmy
dear!'

'When Jane Murdstone meetsI say' he went onafter waiting until
my mother was silent'with a base returnthat feeling of mine is
chilled and altered.'

'Don'tmy lovesay that!' implored my mother very piteously.
'Ohdon'tEdward! I can't bear to hear it. Whatever I amI am
affectionate. I know I am affectionate. I wouldn't say itif I
wasn't sure that I am. Ask Peggotty. I am sure she'll tell you
I'm affectionate.'

'There is no extent of mere weaknessClara' 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. I have a great many
defectsI knowand it's very good of youEdwardwith your
strength of mindto endeavour to correct them for me. JaneI
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 areI hopeuncommon. It is not my fault that so
unusual an occurrence has taken place tonight. 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 magnanimous words'is not a fit scene for the boy -
Davidgo to bed!'

I could hardly find the doorthrough the tears that stood in my
eyes. I was so sorry for my mother's distress; but I groped my way
outand groped my way up to my room in the darkwithout even


having the heart to say good night to Peggottyor to get a candle
from her. When her coming up to look for mean hour or so
afterwardsawoke meshe said that my mother had gone to bed
poorlyand that Mr. and Miss Murdstone were sitting alone.

Going down next morning rather earlier than usualI paused outside
the parlour dooron hearing my mother's voice. She was very
earnestly and humbly entreating Miss Murdstone's pardonwhich that
lady grantedand a perfect reconciliation took place. I never
knew my mother afterwards to give an opinion on any matterwithout
first appealing to Miss Murdstoneor without having first
ascertained by some sure meanswhat Miss Murdstone's opinion was;
and I never saw Miss Murdstonewhen 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 motherwithout
seeing that my mother was in a terrible fright.

The gloomy taint that was in the Murdstone blooddarkened the
Murdstone religionwhich was austere and wrathful. I have
thoughtsincethat its assuming that character was a necessary
consequence of Mr. Murdstone's firmnesswhich wouldn't allow him
to let anybody off from the utmost weight of the severest penalties
he could find any excuse for. Be this as it mayI well remember
the tremendous visages with which we used to go to churchand the
changed air of the place. Againthe dreaded Sunday comes round
and I file into the old pew firstlike a guarded captive brought
to a condemned service. AgainMiss Murdstonein a black velvet
gownthat looks as if it had been made out of a pallfollows
close upon me; then my mother; then her husband. There is no
Peggotty nowas in the old time. AgainI listen to Miss
Murdstone mumbling the responsesand emphasizing all the dread
words with a cruel relish. AgainI see her dark eyes roll round
the church when she says 'miserable sinners'as if she were
calling all the congregation names. AgainI catch rare glimpses
of my mothermoving her lips timidly between the twowith one of
them muttering at each ear like low thunder. AgainI wonder with
a sudden fear whether it is likely that our good old clergyman can
be wrongand Mr. and Miss Murdstone rightand that all the angels
in Heaven can be destroying angels. Againif I move a finger or
relax a muscle of my faceMiss Murdstone pokes me with her
prayer-bookand makes my side ache.

Yesand againas we walk homeI note some neighbours looking at
my mother and at meand whispering. Againas the three go on
arm-in-armand I linger behind aloneI follow some of those
looksand wonder if my mother's step be really not so light as I
have seen itand if the gaiety of her beauty be really almost
worried away. AgainI wonder whether any of the neighbours call
to mindas I dohow we used to walk home togethershe and I; and
I wonder stupidly about thatall the dreary dismal day.

There had been some talk on occasions of my going to boardingschool.
Mr. and Miss Murdstone had originated itand my mother
had of course agreed with them. Nothinghoweverwas concluded on
the subject yet. In the meantimeI learnt lessons at home.
Shall I ever forget those lessons! They were presided over
nominally by my motherbut really by Mr. Murdstone and his sister
who were always presentand found them a favourable occasion for
giving my mother lessons in that miscalled firmnesswhich was the
bane of both our lives. I believe I was kept at home for that
purpose. I had been apt enough to learnand willing enoughwhen
my mother and I had lived alone together. I can faintly remember
learning the alphabet at her knee. To this daywhen I look upon
the fat black letters in the primerthe puzzling novelty of their


shapesand the easy good-nature of O and Q and Sseem to present
themselves again before me as they used to do. But they recall no
feeling of disgust or reluctance. On the contraryI seem to have
walked along a path of flowers as far as the crocodile-bookand to
have been cheered by the gentleness of my mother's voice and manner
all the way. But these solemn lessons which succeeded thoseI
remember as the death-blow of my peaceand a grievous daily
drudgery and misery. They were very longvery numerousvery hard

-perfectly unintelligiblesome of themto me - and I was
generally as much bewildered by them as I believe my poor mother
was herself.
Let me remember how it used to beand bring one morning back
again.

I come into the second-best parlour after breakfastwith my books
and an exercise-bookand a slate. My mother is ready for me at
her writing-deskbut not half so ready as Mr. Murdstone in his
easy-chair by the window (though he pretends to be reading a book)
or as Miss Murdstonesitting near my mother stringing steel beads.
The very sight of these two has such an influence over methat I
begin to feel the words I have been at infinite pains to get into
my headall sliding awayand going I don't know where. I wonder
where they do goby the by?

I hand the first book to my mother. Perhaps it is a grammar
perhaps a historyor geography. I take a last drowning look at
the page as I give it into her handand 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 Murdstone
looks up. I reddentumble over half-a-dozen wordsand stop. I
think my mother would show me the book if she daredbut she does
not dareand she says softly:

'OhDavyDavy!'

'NowClara' says Mr. Murdstone'be firm with the boy. Don't
sayOh, Davy, Davy!That's childish. He knows his lessonor
he does not know it.'

'He does NOT know it' Miss Murdstone interposes awfully.

'I am really afraid he does not' says my mother.

'Thenyou seeClara' returns Miss Murdstone'you should just
give him the book backand make him know it.'

'Yescertainly' says my mother; 'that is what I intend to domy
dear Jane. NowDavytry once moreand don't be stupid.'

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

There is a pile of these arrears very soonand it swells like a


rolling snowball. The bigger it getsthe more stupid I get. The
case is so hopelessand I feel that I am wallowing in such a bog
of nonsensethat I give up all idea of getting outand abandon
myself to my fate. The despairing way in which my mother and I
look at each otheras I blunder onis 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 her lips. At that instantMiss Murdstonewho has been
lying in wait for nothing else all alongsays in a deep warning
voice:

'Clara!'

My mother startscoloursand smiles faintly. Mr. Murdstone comes
out of his chairtakes the bookthrows it at me or boxes my ears
with itand turns me out of the room by the shoulders.

Even when the lessons are donethe worst is yet to happenin the
shape of an appalling sum. This is invented for meand delivered
to me orally by Mr. Murdstoneand begins'If I go into a
cheesemonger's shopand buy five thousand double-Gloucester
cheeses at fourpence-halfpenny eachpresent payment' - at which I
see Miss Murdstone secretly overjoyed. I pore over these cheeses
without any result or enlightenment until dinner-timewhenhaving
made a Mulatto of myself by getting the dirt of the slate into the
pores of my skinI have a slice of bread to help me out with the
cheesesand am considered in disgrace for the rest of the evening.

It seems to meat this distance of timeas if my unfortunate
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 creditthere was not much gained but dinner; for Miss
Murdstone never could endure to see me untaskedand if I rashly
made any show of being unemployedcalled her brother's attention
to me by saying'Claramy dearthere's nothing like work - give
your boy an exercise'; which caused me to be clapped down to some
new labourthere and then. As to any recreation with other
children of my ageI 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 treatmentcontinuedI supposefor
some six months or morewas to make me sullendulland 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 upstairsto which I had access (for it adjoined my
own) and which nobody else in our house ever troubled. From that
blessed little roomRoderick RandomPeregrine PickleHumphrey
ClinkerTom Jonesthe Vicar of WakefieldDon QuixoteGil Blas
and Robinson Crusoecame outa glorious hostto keep me company.
They kept alive my fancyand my hope of something beyond that
place and time- theyand the Arabian Nightsand the Tales of
the Genii- and did me no harm; for whatever harm was in some of
them was not there for me; I knew nothing of it. It is astonishing
to me nowhow I found timein the midst of my porings and
blunderings over heavier themesto read those 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 favourite characters in them - as I did - and by putting Mr. and
Miss Murdstone into all the bad ones - which I did too. I have
been Tom Jones (a child's Tom Jonesa harmless creature) for a
week together. I have sustained my own idea of Roderick Random for
a month at a stretchI verily believe. I had a greedy relish for
a few volumes of Voyages and Travels - I forget whatnow - that
were on those shelves; and for days and days I can remember to have
gone about my region of our housearmed with the centre-piece out
of an old set of boot-trees - the perfect realization of Captain
Somebodyof the Royal British Navyin danger of being beset by
savagesand resolved to sell his life at a great price. The
Captain never lost dignityfrom having his ears boxed with the
Latin Grammar. I did; but the Captain was a Captain and a heroin
despite of all the grammars of all the languages in the worlddead
or alive.

This was my only and my constant comfort. When I think of itthe
picture always rises in my mindof a summer eveningthe boys at
play in the churchyardand I sitting on my bedreading as if for
life. Every barn in the neighbourhoodevery stone in the church
and every foot of the churchyardhad some association of its own
in my mindconnected with these booksand stood for some locality
made famous in them. I have seen Tom Pipes go climbing up the
church-steeple; I have watched Strapwith the knapsack on his
backstopping to rest himself upon the wicket-gate; and I know
that Commodore Trunnion held that club with Mr. Picklein the
parlour of our little village alehouse.

The reader now understandsas well as I dowhat 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 parlour with my booksI found my
mother looking anxiousMiss Murdstone looking firmand Mr.
Murdstone binding something round the bottom of a cane - a lithe
and limber canewhich he left off binding when I came inand
poised and switched in the air.

'I tell youClara' said Mr. Murdstone'I have been often flogged
myself.'

'To be sure; of course' said Miss Murdstone.

'Certainlymy dear Jane' faltered my mothermeekly. 'But - but
do you think it did Edward good?'

'Do you think it did Edward harmClara?' asked Mr. Murdstone
gravely.

'That's the point' said his sister.

To this my mother returned'Certainlymy dear Jane' and said no
more.

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

'NowDavid' he said - and I saw that cast again as he said it '
you must be far more careful today than usual.' He gave the cane
another poiseand another switch; and having finished his
preparation of itlaid it down beside himwith an impressive
lookand took up his book.

This was a good freshener to my presence of mindas a beginning.


I felt the words of my lessons slipping offnot one by oneor
line by linebut by the entire page; I tried to lay hold of them;
but they seemedif I may so express itto have put skates onand
to skim away from me with a smoothness there was no checking.

We began badlyand went on worse. I had come in with an idea of
distinguishing myself ratherconceiving that I was very well
prepared; but it turned out to be quite a mistake. Book after book
was added to the heap of failuresMiss 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 dayI remember)my mother
burst out crying.

'Clara!' said Miss Murdstonein her warning voice.

'I am not quite wellmy dear JaneI think' said my mother.

I saw him winksolemnlyat his sisteras he rose and said
taking up the cane:

'WhyJanewe can hardly expect Clara to bearwith perfect
firmnessthe worry and torment that David has occasioned her
today. That would be stoical. Clara is greatly strengthened and
improvedbut we can hardly expect so much from her. Davidyou
and I will go upstairsboy.'

As he took me out at the doormy mother ran towards us. Miss
Murdstone said'Clara! are you a perfect fool?' and interfered.
I saw my mother stop her ears thenand I heard her crying.

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

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

'Can't youindeedDavid?' he said. 'We'll try that.'

He had my head as in a vicebut I twined round him somehowand
stopped him for a momententreating him not to beat me. It was
only a moment that I stopped himfor he cut me heavily an instant
afterwardsand in the same instant I caught the hand with which he
held me in my mouthbetween my teethand bit it through. It sets
my teeth on edge to think of it.

He beat me thenas if he would have beaten me to death. Above all
the noise we madeI heard them running up the stairsand crying
out - I heard my mother crying out - and Peggotty. Then he was
gone; and the door was locked outside; and I was lyingfevered and
hotand tornand soreand raging in my puny wayupon the floor.

How well I recollectwhen I became quietwhat an unnatural
stillness seemed to reign through the whole house! How well I
rememberwhen my smart and passion began to coolhow wicked I
began to feel!

I sat listening for a long whilebut there was not a sound. I
crawled up from the floorand saw my face in the glassso
swollenredand ugly that it almost frightened me. My stripes
were sore and stiffand made me cry afreshwhen 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 criminalI dare say.


It had begun to grow darkand I had shut the window (I had been
lyingfor the most partwith my head upon the sillby turns
cryingdozingand looking listlessly out)when the key was
turnedand Miss Murdstone came in with some bread and meatand
milk. These she put down upon the table without a wordglaring at
me the while with exemplary firmnessand then retiredlocking the
door after her.

Long after it was dark I sat therewondering whether anybody else
would come. When this appeared improbable for that nightI
undressedand went to bed; andthereI began to wonder fearfully
what would be done to me. Whether it was a criminal act that I had
committed? Whether I should be taken into custodyand sent to
prison? Whether I was at all in danger of being hanged?

I never shall forget the wakingnext morning; the being cheerful
and fresh for the first momentand then the being weighed down by
the stale and dismal oppression of remembrance. Miss Murdstone
reappeared before I was out of bed; told mein so many wordsthat
I was free to walk in the garden for half an hour and no longer;
and retiredleaving the door openthat I might avail myself of
that permission.

I did soand did so every morning of my imprisonmentwhich lasted
five days. If I could have seen my mother aloneI should have
gone down on my knees to her and besought her forgiveness; but I
saw no oneMiss Murdstone exceptedduring the whole time - except
at evening prayers in the parlour; to which I was escorted by Miss
Murdstone after everybody else was placed; where I was stationed
a young outlawall alone by myself near the door; and whence I was
solemnly conducted by my jailerbefore any one arose from the
devotional posture. I only observed that my mother was as far off
from me as she could beand kept her face another way so that I
never saw it; and that Mr. Murdstone's hand 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 remembrance. The way in which
I listened to all the incidents of the house that made themselves
audible to me; the ringing of bellsthe opening and shutting of
doorsthe murmuring of voicesthe footsteps on the stairs; to any
laughingwhistlingor singingoutsidewhich seemed more dismal
than anything else to me in my solitude and disgrace - the
uncertain pace of the hoursespecially at nightwhen I would wake
thinking it was morningand find that the family were not yet gone
to bedand that all the length of night had yet to come - the
depressed dreams and nightmares I had - the return of daynoon
afternooneveningwhen the boys played in the churchyardand I
watched them from a distance within the roombeing ashamed to show
myself at the window lest they should know I was a prisoner - the
strange sensation of never hearing myself speak - the fleeting
intervals of something like cheerfulnesswhich came with eating
and drinkingand went away with it - the setting in of rain one
eveningwith a fresh smelland its coming down faster and faster
between me and the churchuntil it and gathering night seemed to
quench me in gloomand fearand remorse - all this appears to
have gone round and round for years instead of daysit is so
vividly and strongly stamped on my remembrance.
On the last night of my restraintI was awakened by hearing my own
name spoken in a whisper. I started up in bedand putting out my
arms in the darksaid:

'Is that youPeggotty?'


There was no immediate answerbut presently I heard my name again
in a tone so very mysterious and awfulthat I think I should have
gone into a fitif it had not occurred to me that it must have
come through the keyhole.

I groped my way to the doorand putting my own lips to the
keyholewhispered: 'Is that youPeggotty dear?'

'Yesmy own precious Davy' she replied. 'Be as soft as a mouse
or the Cat'll hear us.'

I understood this to mean Miss Murdstoneand was sensible of the
urgency of the case; her room being close by.

'How's mamadear Peggotty? Is she very angry with me?'

I could hear Peggotty crying softly on her side of the keyholeas
I was doing on minebefore she answered. 'No. Not very.'

'What is going to be done with mePeggotty dear? Do you know?'

'School. Near London' was Peggotty's answer. I was obliged to
get her to repeat itfor she spoke it the first time quite down my
throatin 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 dealI didn't hear them.

'WhenPeggotty?'

'Tomorrow.'

'Is that the reason why Miss Murdstone took the clothes out of my
drawers?' which she had donethough I have forgotten to mention
it.

'Yes' said Peggotty. 'Box.'

'Shan't I see mama?'

'Yes' said Peggotty. 'Morning.'

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

'Davydear. If I ain't been azackly as intimate with you.
Latelyas I used to be. It ain't because I don't love you. just
as well and moremy pretty poppet. It's because I thought it
better for you. And for someone else besides. Davymy darling
are you listening? Can you hear?'

'Ye-ye-ye-yesPeggotty!' I sobbed.

'My own!' said Peggottywith infinite compassion. 'What I want to
sayis. That you must never forget me. For I'll never forget
you. And I'll take as much care of your mamaDavy. 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 head. On her stupidcross old Peggotty's
arm again. And I'll write to youmy dear. Though I ain't no
scholar. And I'll - I'll -' Peggotty fell to kissing the keyhole
as she couldn't kiss me.


'Thank youdear Peggotty!' said I. 'Ohthank you! Thank you!
Will you promise me one thingPeggotty? Will you write and tell
Mr. Peggotty and little Em'lyand Mrs. Gummidge and Hamthat I am
not so bad as they might supposeand that I sent 'em all my love

-especially to little Em'ly? Will youif you pleasePeggotty?'
The kind soul promisedand we both of us kissed the keyhole with
the greatest affection - I patted it with my handI recollectas
if it had been her honest face - and parted. From that night there
grew up in my breast a feeling for Peggotty which I cannot very
well define. She did not replace my mother; no one could do that;
but she came into a vacancy in my heartwhich closed upon herand
I felt towards her something I have never felt for any other human
being. It was a sort of comical affectiontoo; and yet if she had
diedI cannot think what I should have doneor how I should have
acted out the tragedy it would have been to me.

In the morning Miss Murdstone appeared as usualand 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 dressedI was to
come downstairs into the parlourand have my breakfast. ThereI
found my mothervery pale and with red eyes: into whose arms I
ranand begged her pardon from my suffering soul.

'OhDavy!' she said. 'That you could hurt anyone I love! Try to
be betterpray to be better! I forgive you; but I am so grieved
Davythat you should have such bad passions in your heart.'

They had persuaded her that I was a wicked fellowand she was more
sorry for that than for my going away. I felt it sorely. I tried
to eat my parting breakfastbut my tears dropped upon my breadand-
butterand trickled into my tea. I saw my mother look at me
sometimesand then glance at the watchful Miss Murdstoneand than
look downor look away.

'Master Copperfield's box there!' said Miss Murdstonewhen wheels
were heard at the gate.

I looked for Peggottybut it was not she; neither she nor Mr.
Murdstone appeared. My former acquaintancethe carrierwas at
the door. the box was taken out to his cartand lifted in.

'Clara!' said Miss Murdstonein her warning note.

'Readymy dear Jane' returned my mother. 'Good-byeDavy. You
are going for your own good. Good-byemy child. You will come
home in the holidaysand be a better boy.'

'Clara!' Miss Murdstone repeated.

'Certainlymy dear Jane' replied my motherwho was holding me.
'I forgive youmy dear boy. God bless you!'

'Clara!' Miss Murdstone repeated.

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

CHAPTER 5


I AM SENT AWAY FROM HOME

We might have gone about half a mileand my pocket-handkerchief
was quite wet throughwhen the carrier stopped short. Looking out
to ascertain for whatI sawto MY amazementPeggotty burst from
a hedge and climb into the cart. She took me in both her armsand
squeezed me to her stays until the pressure on my nose was
extremely painfulthough I never thought of that till afterwards
when I found it very tender. Not a single word did Peggotty speak.
Releasing one of her armsshe put it down in her pocket to the
elbowand brought out some paper bags of cakes which she crammed
into my pocketsand a purse which she put into my handbut not
one word did she say. After another and a final squeeze with both
armsshe got down from the cart and ran away; andmy belief is
and has always beenwithout a solitary button on her gown. I
picked up oneof several that were rolling aboutand treasured it
as a keepsake for a long time.

The carrier looked at meas if to inquire if she were coming back.
I shook my headand 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 couldI began to
think it was of no use crying any moreespecially as neither
Roderick Randomnor that Captain in the Royal British Navyhad
ever criedthat I could rememberin trying situations. The
carrierseeing me in this resolutionproposed that my pockethandkerchief
should be spread upon the horse's back to dry. I
thanked himand assented; and particularly small it lookedunder
those circumstances.

I had now leisure to examine the purse. It was a stiff leather
pursewith a snapand had three bright shillings in itwhich
Peggotty had evidently polished up with whiteningfor my greater
delight. But its most precious contents were two half-crowns
folded together in a bit of paperon which was writtenin my
mother's hand'For Davy. With my love.' I was so overcome by
thisthat 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 itand I thought I really hadso I wiped my eyes on my
sleeve and stopped myself.

For goodtoo; thoughin consequence of my previous emotionsI
was still occasionally seized with a stormy sob. After we had
jogged on for some little timeI asked the carrier if he was going
all the way.

'All the way where?' inquired the carrier.

'There' I said.

'Where's there?' inquired the carrier.

'Near London' I said.

'Why that horse' said the carrierjerking 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 take you
to the stage-cutchand the stage-cutch that'll take you to wherever
it is.'


As this was a great deal for the carrier (whose name was Mr.
Barkis) to say - he beingas I observed in a former chapterof a
phlegmatic temperamentand not at all conversational - I offered
him a cake as a mark of attentionwhich he ate at one gulp
exactly like an elephantand which made no more impression on his
big face than it would have done on an elephant's.


'Did SHE make 'emnow?' said Mr. Barkisalways leaning forward
in his slouching wayon the footboard of the cart with an arm on
each knee.


'Peggottydo you meansir?'


'Ah!' said Mr. Barkis. 'Her.'


'Yes. She makes all our pastryand does all our cooking.'


'Do she though?' said Mr. Barkis.
He made up his mouth as if to whistlebut he didn't whistle. He
sat looking at the horse's earsas if he saw something new there;
and sat sofor a considerable time. By and byhe said:


'No sweetheartsI b'lieve?'


'Sweetmeats did you sayMr. Barkis?' For I thought he wanted
something else to eatand had pointedly alluded to that
description of refreshment.


'Hearts' said Mr. Barkis. 'Sweet hearts; no person walks with
her!'


'With Peggotty?'


'Ah!' he said. 'Her.'


'Ohno. She never had a sweetheart.'


'Didn't shethough!' said Mr. Barkis.


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


'So she makes' said Mr. Barkisafter a long interval of
reflection'all the apple parstiesand doos all the cookingdo
she?'


I replied that such was the fact.


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


'I shall certainly write to her' I rejoined.


'Ah!' he saidslowly turning his eyes towards me. 'Well! If you
was writin' to herp'raps you'd recollect to say that Barkis was
willin'; would you?'


'That Barkis is willing' I repeatedinnocently. 'Is that all the
message?'


'Ye-es' he saidconsidering. 'Ye-es. Barkis is willin'.'


'But you will be at Blunderstone again tomorrowMr. Barkis' I



saidfaltering a little at the idea of my being far away from it
thenand could give your own message so much better.'

As he repudiated this suggestionhoweverwith a jerk of his head
and once more confirmed his previous request by sayingwith
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 afternoonI procured a
sheet of paper and an inkstandand wrote a note to Peggottywhich
ran thus: 'My dear Peggotty. I have come here safe. Barkis is
willing. My love to mama. Yours affectionately. P.S. He says he
particularly wants you to know - BARKIS IS WILLING.'

When I had taken this commission on myself prospectivelyMr.
Barkis relapsed into perfect silence; and Ifeeling quite worn out
by all that had happened latelylay 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
drovethat I at once abandoned a latent hope I had had of meeting
with some of Mr. Peggotty's family thereperhaps even with little
Em'ly herself.

The coach was in the yardshining very much all overbut without
any horses to it as yet; and it looked in that state as if nothing
was more unlikely than its ever going to London. I was thinking
thisand wondering what would ultimately become of my boxwhich
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 mewhen a lady looked out of a bow-window
where some fowls and joints of meat were hanging upand said:

'Is that the little gentleman from Blunderstone?'

'Yesma'am' I said.

'What name?' inquired the lady.

'Copperfieldma'am' I said.

'That won't do' returned the lady. 'Nobody's dinner is paid for
herein that name.'

'Is it Murdstonema'am?' I said.

'If you're Master Murdstone' said the lady'why do you go and
give another namefirst?'

I explained to the lady how it waswho than rang a belland
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 itand 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
countriesand I cast away in the middle of them. I felt it was
taking a liberty to sit downwith my cap in my handon the corner
of the chair nearest the door; and when the waiter laid a cloth on
purpose for meand put a set of castors on itI think I must have
turned red all over with modesty.

He brought me some chopsand vegetablesand 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 tableand sayingvery affably'Nowsix-foot! come
on!'

I thanked himand took my seat at the board; but found it
extremely difficult to handle my knife and fork with anything like
dexterityor to avoid splashing myself with the gravywhile he
was standing oppositestaring so hardand making me blush in the
most dreadful manner every time I caught his eye. After watching
me into the second chophe said:

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

I thanked him and said'Yes.' Upon which he poured it out of a
jug into a large tumblerand held it up against the lightand
made it look beautiful.

'My eye!' he said. 'It seems a good dealdon't it?'

'It does seem a good deal' I answered with a smile. For it was
quite delightful to meto find him so pleasant. He was a
twinkling-eyedpimple-faced manwith his hair standing upright
all over his head; and as he stood with one arm a-kimboholding up
the glass to the light with the other handhe looked quite
friendly.

'There was a gentleman hereyesterday' he said - 'a stout
gentlemanby the name of Topsawyer - perhaps you know him?'

'No' I said'I don't think -'

'In breeches and gaitersbroad-brimmed hatgrey coatspeckled
choker' said the waiter.

'No' I said bashfully'I haven't the pleasure -'

'He came in here' said the waiterlooking at the light through
the tumbler'ordered a glass of this ale - WOULD order it - I told
him not - drank itand 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 accidentand
said I thought I had better have some water.

'Why you see' said the waiterstill looking at the light through
the tumblerwith one of his eyes shut up'our people don't like
things being ordered and left. It offends 'em. But I'll drink it
if you like. I'm used to itand use is everything. I don't think
it'll hurt meif I throw my head backand take it off quick.
Shall I?'

I replied that he would much oblige me by drinking itif he
thought he could do it safelybut by no means otherwise. When he
did throw his head backand take it off quickI had a horrible
fearI confessof seeing him meet the fate of the lamented Mr.
Topsawyerand fall lifeless on the carpet. But it didn't hurt
him. On the contraryI thought he seemed the fresher for it.

'What have we got here?' he saidputting a fork into my dish.
'Not chops?'

'Chops' I said.

'Lord bless my soul!' he exclaimed'I didn't know they were chops.
Whya 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 handand a potato in the
otherand ate away with a very good appetiteto my extreme
satisfaction. He afterwards took another chopand another potato;
and after thatanother chop and another potato. When we had done
he brought me a puddingand having set it before meseemed to
ruminateand to become absent in his mind for some moments.

'How's the pie?' he saidrousing himself.

'It's a pudding' I made answer.

'Pudding!' he exclaimed. 'Whybless meso it is! What!' looking
at it nearer. 'You don't mean to say it's a batter-pudding!'

'Yesit is indeed.'

'Whya batter-pudding' he saidtaking up a table-spoon'is my
favourite pudding! Ain't that lucky? Come onlittle 'unand
let's see who'll get most.'

The waiter certainly got most. He entreated me more than once to
come in and winbut what with his table-spoon to my tea-spoonhis
dispatch to my dispatchand his appetite to my appetiteI was
left far behind at the first mouthfuland had no chance with him.
I never saw anyone enjoy a pudding so muchI think; and he
laughedwhen it was all goneas if his enjoyment of it lasted
still.

Finding him so very friendly and companionableit was then that I
asked for the pen and ink and paperto write to Peggotty. He not
only brought it immediatelybut was good enough to look over me
while I wrote the letter. When I had finished ithe asked me
where I was going to school.

I said'Near London' which was all I knew.

'Oh! my eye!' he saidlooking very low-spirited'I am sorry for
that.'

'Why?' I asked him.

'OhLord!' he saidshaking his head'that's the school where
they broke the boy's ribs - two ribs - a little boy he was. I
should say he was - let me see - how old are youabout?'

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 secondand did for him.'

I could not disguise from myselfor from the waiterthat this was
an uncomfortable coincidenceand inquired how it was done. His
answer was not cheering to my spiritsfor it consisted of two
dismal words'With whopping.'

The blowing of the coach-horn in the yard was a seasonable
diversionwhich made me get up and hesitatingly inquirein 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. Threepence. That's
the way we're taxed in this country. There's nothing elseexcept
the waiter. Never mind the ink. I lose by that.'

'What should you - what should I - how much ought I to - what would
it be right to pay the waiterif you please?' I stammered
blushing.

'If I hadn't a familyand that family hadn't the cowpock' said
the waiter'I wouldn't take a sixpence. If I didn't support a
aged pairintand a lovely sister' - here the waiter was greatly
agitated - 'I wouldn't take a farthing. If I had a good placeand
was treated well hereI should beg acceptance of a trifleinstead
of taking of it. But I live on broken wittles - and I sleep on the
coals' - here the waiter burst into tears.

I was very much concerned for his misfortunesand felt that any
recognition short of ninepence would be mere brutality and hardness
of heart. Therefore I gave him one of my three bright shillings
which he received with much humility and venerationand spun up
with his thumbdirectly afterwardsto try the goodness of.

It was a little disconcerting to meto findwhen I was being
helped up behind the coachthat I was supposed to have eaten all
the dinner without any assistance. I discovered thisfrom
overhearing the lady in the bow-window say to the guard'Take care
of that childGeorgeor 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 waiterwho
had quite recovered his spiritsdid not appear to be disturbed by
thisbut joined in the general admiration without being at all
confused. If I had any doubt of himI suppose this half awakened
it; but I am inclined to believe that with the simple confidence of
a childand 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 hardI must ownto be madewithout deserving
itthe subject of jokes between the coachman and guard as to the
coach drawing heavy behindon account of my sitting thereand as
to the greater expediency of my travelling by waggon. The story of
my supposed appetite getting wind among the outside passengers
they were merry upon it likewise; and asked me whether I was going
to be paid forat schoolas two brothers or threeand whether I
was contracted foror went upon the regular terms; with other
pleasant questions. But the worst of it wasthat I knew I should
be ashamed to eat anythingwhen an opportunity offeredand that
after a rather light dinnerI should remain hungry all night - for
I had left my cakes behindat the hotelin my hurry. My
apprehensions were realized. When we stopped for supper I couldn't
muster courage to take anythough I should have liked it very
muchbut sat by the fire and said I didn't want anything. This
did not save me from more jokeseither; for a husky-voiced
gentleman with a rough facewho had been eating out of a
sandwich-box nearly all the wayexcept when he had been drinking
out of a bottlesaid I was like a boa-constrictor who took enough
at one meal to last him a long time; after whichhe actually
brought a rash out upon himself with boiled beef.


We had started from Yarmouth at three o'clock in the afternoonand
we were due in London about eight next morning. It was Mid-summer
weatherand the evening was very pleasant. When we passed through
a villageI pictured to myself what the insides of the houses were
likeand what the inhabitants were about; and when boys came
running after usand got up behind and swung there for a little
wayI wondered whether their fathers were aliveand whether they
Were happy at home. I had plenty to think ofthereforebesides
my mind running continually on the kind of place I was going to which
was an awful speculation. SometimesI rememberI resigned
myself to thoughts of home and Peggotty; and to endeavouringin a
confused blind wayto recall how I had feltand what sort of boy
I used to bebefore I bit Mr. Murdstone: which I couldn't satisfy
myself about by any meansI seemed to have bitten him in such a
remote antiquity.

The night was not so pleasant as the eveningfor it got chilly;
and being put between two gentlemen (the rough-faced one and
another) to prevent my tumbling off the coachI was nearly
smothered by their falling asleepand completely blocking me up.
They squeezed me so hard sometimesthat I could not help crying
out'Oh! If you please!' - which they didn't like at allbecause
it woke them. Opposite me was an elderly lady in a great fur
cloakwho looked in the dark more like a haystack than a ladyshe
was wrapped up to such a degree. This lady had a basket with her
and she hadn't known what to do with itfor a long timeuntil she
found that on account of my legs being shortit could go
underneath me. It cramped and hurt me sothat it made me
perfectly miserable; but if I moved in the leastand made a glass
that was in the basket rattle against something else (as it was
sure to do)she gave me the cruellest poke with her footand
said'Comedon't YOU fidget. YOUR bones are young enoughI'm
sure!'

At last the sun roseand then my companions seemed to sleep
easier. The difficulties under which they had laboured all night
and which had found utterance in the most terrific gasps and
snortsare not to be conceived. As the sun got highertheir
sleep became lighterand so they gradually one by one awoke. I
recollect being very much surprised by the feint everybody made
thenof not having been to sleep at alland by the uncommon
indignation with which everyone repelled the charge. I labour
under the same kind of astonishment to this dayhaving invariably
observed that of all human weaknessesthe 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
distanceand how I believed all the adventures of all my favourite
heroes to be constantly enacting and re-enacting thereand how I
vaguely made it out in my own mind to be fuller of wonders and
wickedness than all the cities of the earthI need not stop here
to relate. We approached it by degreesand gotin due timeto
the inn in the Whitechapel districtfor which we were bound. I
forget whether it was the Blue Bullor the Blue Boar; but I know
it was the Blue Somethingand that its likeness was painted up on
the back of the coach.

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

'Is there anybody here for a yoongster booked in the name of
Murdstonefrom BloonderstoneSooffolkto be left till called
for?'


Nobody answered.

'Try Copperfieldif you pleasesir' said Ilooking helplessly
down.

'Is there anybody here for a yoongsterbooked in the name of
Murdstonefrom BloonderstoneSooffolkbut owning to the name of
Copperfieldto 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 bystandersif I except a man in
gaiterswith one eyewho suggested that they had better put a
brass collar round my neckand tie me up in the stable.

A ladder was broughtand I got down after the ladywho was like
a haystack: not daring to stiruntil her basket was removed. The
coach was clear of passengers by that timethe luggage was very
soon cleared outthe horses had been taken out before the luggage
and now the coach itself was wheeled and backed off by some
hostlersout of the way. Stillnobody appearedto claim the
dusty youngster from BlunderstoneSuffolk.

More solitary than Robinson Crusoewho had nobody to look at him
and see that he was solitaryI went into the booking-officeand
by invitation of the clerk on dutypassed behind the counterand
sat down on the scale at which they weighed the luggage. Hereas
I sat looking at the parcelspackagesand booksand inhaling the
smell of stables (ever since associated with that morning)a
procession of most tremendous considerations began to march through
my mind. Supposing nobody should ever fetch mehow 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 binswith the other luggageand wash myself at the pump in
the yard in the morning; or should I be turned out every nightand
expected to come again to be left till called forwhen the office
opened next day? Supposing there was no mistake in the caseand
Mr. Murdstone had devised this plan to get rid of mewhat should
I do? If they allowed me to remain there until my seven shillings
were spentI couldn't hope to remain there when I began to starve.
That would obviously be inconvenient and unpleasant to the
customersbesides entailing on the Blue Whatever-it-wasthe risk
of funeral expenses. If I started off at onceand tried to walk
back homehow could I ever find my wayhow could I ever hope to
walk so farhow could I make sure of anyone but Peggottyeven if
I got back? If I found out the nearest proper authoritiesand
offered myself to go for a soldieror a sailorI was such a
little fellow that it was most likely they wouldn't take me in.
These thoughtsand a hundred other such thoughtsturned me
burning hotand made me giddy with apprehension and dismay. I was
in the height of my fever when a man entered and whispered to the
clerkwho presently slanted me off the scaleand pushed me over
to himas if I were weighedboughtdeliveredand paid for.

As I went out of the officehand in hand with this new
acquaintanceI stole a look at him. He was a gauntsallow young
manwith hollow cheeksand a chin almost as black as Mr.
Murdstone's; but there the likeness endedfor his whiskers were
shaved offand his hairinstead of being glossywas rusty and
dry. He was dressed in a suit of black clothes which were rather
rusty and dry tooand rather short in the sleeves and legs; and he
had a white neck-kerchief onthat was not over-clean. I did not
and do notsuppose that this neck-kerchief was all the linen he


worebut it was all he showed or gave any hint of.

'You're the new boy?' he said.
'Yessir' 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 commonplace thing like my boxto a scholar and a
master at Salem Housethat 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 pleasesir' I saidwhen we had accomplished about the
same distance as before'is it far?'

'It's down by Blackheath' he said.

'Is that farsir?' I diffidently asked.

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

I was so faint and tiredthat the idea of holding out for six
miles morewas too much for me. I took heart to tell him that I
had had nothing all nightand that if he would allow me to buy
something to eatI should be very much obliged to him. He
appeared surprised at this - I see him stop and look at me now and
after considering for a few momentssaid he wanted to call on
an old person who lived not far offand that the best way would be
for me to buy some breador whatever I liked best that was
wholesomeand make my breakfast at her housewhere we could get
some milk.

Accordingly we looked in at a baker's windowand after I had made
a series of proposals to buy everything that was bilious in the
shopand he had rejected them one by onewe decided in favour of
a nice little loaf of brown breadwhich cost me threepence. Then
at a grocer's shopwe bought an egg and a slice of streaky bacon;
which still left what I thought a good deal of changeout of the
second of the bright shillingsand made me consider London a very
cheap place. These provisions laid inwe went on through a great
noise and uproar that confused my weary head beyond description
and over a bridge whichno doubtwas London Bridge (indeed I
think he told me sobut I was half asleep)until we came to the
poor person's housewhich was a part of some alms-housesas I
knew by their lookand by an inscription on a stone over the gate
which said they were established for twenty-five poor women.

The Master at Salem House lifted the latch of one of a number of
little black doors that were all alikeand had each a little
diamond-paned window on one sideand another little diamond- paned
window above; and we went into the little house of one of these
poor old womenwho was blowing a fire to make a little saucepan
boil. On seeing the master enterthe old woman stopped with the
bellows on her kneeand said something that I thought sounded like
'My Charley!' but on seeing me come in tooshe got upand rubbing
her hands made a confused sort of half curtsey.

'Can you cook this young gentleman's breakfast for himif you


please?' said the Master at Salem House.

'Can I?' said the old woman. 'Yes can Isure!'

'How's Mrs. Fibbitson today?' said the Masterlooking at another
old woman in a large chair by the firewho was such a bundle of
clothes that I feel grateful to this hour for not having sat upon
her by mistake.

'Ahshe's poorly' said the first old woman. 'It's one of her bad
days. If the fire was to go outthrough any accidentI verily
believe she'd go out tooand never come to life again.'

As they looked at herI looked at her also. Although it was a
warm dayshe 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 baconin dudgeon; for I saw herwith my own
discomfited eyesshake her fist at me oncewhen those culinary
operations were going onand no one else was looking. The sun
streamed in at the little windowbut she sat with her own back and
the back of the large chair towards itscreening the fire as if
she were sedulously keeping IT warminstead of it keeping her
warmand watching it in a most distrustful manner. The completion
of the preparations for my breakfastby relieving the firegave
her such extreme joy that she laughed aloud - and a very
unmelodious laugh she hadI must say.

I sat down to my brown loafmy eggand my rasher of baconwith
a basin of milk besidesand made a most delicious meal. While I
was yet in the full enjoyment of itthe old 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 womancoaxingly. 'Do!'

The Masterupon thisput his hand underneath the skirts of his
coatand brought out his flute in three pieceswhich he screwed
togetherand began immediately to play. My impression isafter
many years of considerationthat there never can have been anybody
in the world who played worse. He made the most dismal sounds I
have ever heard produced by any meansnatural or artificial. I
don't know what the tunes were - if there were such things in the
performance at allwhich I doubt - but the influence of the strain
upon me wasfirstto make me think of all my sorrows until I
could hardly keep my tears back; then to take away my appetite; and
lastlyto make me so sleepy that I couldn't keep my eyes open.
They begin to close againand I begin to nodas the recollection
rises fresh upon me. Once more the little roomwith its open
corner cupboardand its square-backed chairsand its angular
little staircase leading to the room aboveand its three peacock's
feathers displayed over the mantelpiece - I remember wondering when
I first went inwhat that peacock would have thought if he had
known what his finery was doomed to come to - fades from before me
and I nodand sleep. The flute becomes inaudiblethe wheels of
the coach are heard insteadand I am on my journey. The coach
joltsI wake with a startand the flute has come back againand
the Master at Salem House is sitting with his legs crossedplaying
it dolefullywhile the old woman of the house looks on delighted.
She fades in her turnand he fadesand all fadesand there is no
fluteno Masterno Salem Houseno David Copperfieldno anything


but heavy sleep.

I dreamedI thoughtthat once while he was blowing into this
dismal flutethe old woman of the housewho had gone nearer and
nearer to him in her ecstatic admirationleaned over the back of
his chair and gave him an affectionate squeeze round the neck
which stopped his playing for a moment. I was in the middle state
between sleeping and wakingeither then or immediately afterwards;
foras he resumed - it was a real fact that he had stopped playing

-I saw and heard the same old woman ask Mrs. Fibbitson if it
wasn't delicious (meaning the flute)to which Mrs. Fibbitson
replied'Ayay! yes!' and nodded at the fire: to whichI am
persuadedshe gave the credit of the whole performance.
When I seemed to have been dozing a long whilethe Master at Salem
House unscrewed his flute into the three piecesput them up as
beforeand took me away. We found the coach very near at hand
and got upon the roof; but I was so dead sleepythat when we
stopped on the road to take up somebody elsethey put me inside
where there were no passengersand where I slept profoundlyuntil
I found the coach going at a footpace up a steep hill among green
leaves. Presentlyit stoppedand had come to its destination.


A short walk brought us - I mean the Master and me - to Salem
Housewhich was enclosed with a high brick walland 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 facewhich I foundon the door being
openedbelonged to a stout man with a bull-necka wooden leg
overhanging templesand his hair cut close all round his head.


'The new boy' said the Master.


The man with the wooden leg eyed me all over - it didn't take long
for there was not much of me - and locked the gate behind usand
took out the key. We were going up to the houseamong some dark
heavy treeswhen he called after my conductor.
'Hallo!'


We looked backand he was standing at the door of a little lodge
where he livedwith a pair of boots in his hand.


'Here! The cobbler's been' he said'since you've been outMr.
Melland he says he can't mend 'em any more. He says there ain't
a bit of the original boot leftand he wonders you expect it.'


With these words he threw the boots towards Mr. Mellwho went back
a few paces to pick them upand looked at them (very
disconsolatelyI was afraid)as we went on together. I observed
thenfor the first timethat the boots he had on were a good deal
the worse for wearand that his stocking was just breaking out in
one placelike a bud.


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


I gazed upon the schoolroom into which he took meas the most
forlorn and desolate place I had ever seen. I see it now. A long



room with three long rows of desksand six of formsand bristling
all round with pegs for hats and slates. Scraps of old copy-books
and exercises litter the dirty floor. Some silkworms' housesmade
of the same materialsare scattered over the desks. Two miserable
little white miceleft behind by their ownerare running up and
down in a fusty castle made of pasteboard and wirelooking in all
the corners with their red eyes for anything to eat. A birdin a
cage very little bigger than himselfmakes a mournful rattle now
and then in hopping on his perchtwo inches highor dropping from
it; but neither sings nor chirps. There is a strange unwholesome
smell upon the roomlike mildewed corduroyssweet apples wanting
airand rotten books. There could not well be more ink splashed
about itif it had been roofless from its first constructionand
the skies had rainedsnowedhailedand blown ink through the
varying seasons of the year.

Mr. Mell having left me while he took his irreparable boots
upstairsI went softly to the upper end of the roomobserving all
this as I crept along. Suddenly I came upon a pasteboard placard
beautifully writtenwhich was lying on the deskand bore these
words: 'TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES.'

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

'I beg your pardonsir' says I'if you pleaseI'm looking for
the dog.'

'Dog?' he says. 'What dog?'

'Isn't it a dogsir?'

'Isn't what a dog?'

'That's to be taken care ofsir; that bites.'

'NoCopperfield' says hegravely'that's not a dog. That's a
boy. My instructions areCopperfieldto put this placard on your
back. I am sorry to make such a beginning with youbut I must do
it.' With that he took me downand tied the placardwhich was
neatly constructed for the purposeon my shoulders like a
knapsack; and wherever I wentafterwardsI had the consolation of
carrying it.

What I suffered from that placardnobody can imagine. Whether it
was possible for people to see me or notI always fancied that
somebody was reading it. It was no relief to turn round and find
nobody; for wherever my back wasthere 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 treeor a wallor the househe roared out from his
lodge door in a stupendous voice'Halloyou sir! You
Copperfield! Show that badge conspicuousor I'll report you!'
The playground was a bare gravelled yardopen to all the back of
the house and the offices; and I knew that the servants read it
and the butcher read itand the baker read it; that everybodyin
a wordwho came backwards and forwards to the houseof a morning
when I was ordered to walk thereread that I was to be taken care
offor I bitI recollect that I positively began to have a dread
of myselfas a kind of wild boy who did bite.

There was an old door in this playgroundon 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 backI could not read a boy's namewithout inquiring in
what tone and with what emphasis HE would read'Take care of him.
He bites.' There was one boy - a certain J. Steerforth - who cut
his name very deep and very oftenwhoI conceivedwould read it
in a rather strong voiceand afterwards pull my hair. There was
another boyone Tommy Traddleswho I dreaded would make game of
itand pretend to be dreadfully frightened of me. There was a
thirdGeorge Demplewho I fancied would sing it. I have looked
a little shrinking creatureat that dooruntil the owners of all
the names - there were five-and-forty of them in the school then
Mr. Mell said - seemed to send me to Coventry by general
acclamationand to cry outeach 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 aton my way
toand when I was inmy own bed. I remember dreaming night after
nightof being with my mother as she used to beor of going to a
party at Mr. Peggotty'sor of travelling outside the stage-coach
or of dining again with my unfortunate friend the waiterand in
all these circumstances making people scream and stareby the
unhappy disclosure that I had nothing on but my little night-shirt
and that placard.

In the monotony of my lifeand in my constant apprehension of the
re-opening of the schoolit was such an insupportable affliction!
I had long tasks every day to do with Mr. Mell; but I did them
there being no Mr. and Miss Murdstone hereand got through them
without disgrace. Beforeand after themI walked about supervised
as I have mentionedby the man with the wooden leg.
How vividly I call to mind the damp about the housethe green
cracked flagstones in the courtan old leaky water-buttand the
discoloured trunks of some of the grim treeswhich seemed to have
dripped more in the rain than other treesand to have blown less
in the sun! At one we dinedMr. Mell and Iat the upper end of
a long bare dining-roomfull of deal tablesand smelling of fat.
Thenwe had more tasks until teawhich Mr. Mell drank out of a
blue teacupand I out of a tin pot. All day longand until seven
or eight in the eveningMr. Mellat his own detached desk in the
schoolroomworked hard with peninkrulerbooksand writingpaper
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 fluteand
blew at ituntil I almost thought he would gradually blow his
whole being into the large hole at the topand ooze away at the
keys.

I picture my small self in the dimly-lighted roomssitting with my
head upon my handlistening to the doleful performance of Mr.
Melland conning tomorrow's lessons. I picture myself with my
books shut upstill listening to the doleful performance of Mr.
Melland listening through it to what used to be at homeand to
the blowing of the wind on Yarmouth flatsand feeling very sad and
solitary. I picture myself going up to bedamong the unused
roomsand sitting on my bed-side crying for a comfortable word
from Peggotty. I picture myself coming downstairs in the morning
and looking through a long ghastly gash of a staircase window at
the school-bell hanging on the top of an out-house with a
weathercock above it; and dreading the time when it shall ring J.
Steerforth and the rest to work: which is only secondin my
foreboding apprehensionsto the time when the man with the wooden
leg shall unlock the rusty gate to give admission to the awful Mr.
Creakle. I cannot think I was a very dangerous character in any of


these aspectsbut in all of them I carried the same warning on my
back.

Mr. Mell never said much to mebut he was never harsh to me. I
suppose we were company to each otherwithout talking. I forgot
to mention that he would talk to himself sometimesand grinand
clench his fistand grind his teethand pull his hair in an
unaccountable manner. But he had these peculiarities: and at first
they frightened methough I soon got used to them.

CHAPTER 6
I ENLARGE MY CIRCLE OF ACQUAINTANCE

I HAD led this life about a monthwhen the man with the wooden leg
began to stump about with a mop and a bucket of waterfrom which
I inferred that preparations were making to receive Mr. Creakle and
the boys. I was not mistaken; for the mop came into the schoolroom
before longand turned out Mr. Mell and mewho lived where we
couldand got on how we couldfor some daysduring which we were
always in the way of two or three young womenwho had rarely shown
themselves beforeand 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 eveningafter teaI heard that he was come.
Before bedtimeI was fetched by the man with the wooden leg to
appear before him.

Mr. Creakle's part of the house was a good deal more comfortable
than oursand he had a snug bit of garden that looked pleasant
after the dusty playgroundwhich was such a desert in miniature
that I thought no one but a camelor a dromedarycould have felt
at home in it. It seemed to me a bold thing even to take notice
that the passage looked comfortableas I went on my way
tremblingto Mr. Creakle's presence: which so abashed mewhen I
was ushered into itthat I hardly saw Mrs. Creakle or Miss Creakle
(who were both therein the parlour)or anything but Mr. Creakle
a stout gentleman with a bunch of watch-chain and sealsin an
arm-chairwith a tumbler 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 itturned me about
againwith my face to Mr. Creakleand posted himself at Mr.
Creakle's side. Mr. Creakle's face was fieryand his eyes were
smalland deep in his head; he had thick veins in his foreheada
little noseand a large chin. He was bald on the top of his head;
and had some thin wet-looking hair that was just turning grey
brushed across each templeso that the two sides interlaced on his
forehead. But the circumstance about him which impressed me most
wasthat he had no voicebut spoke in a whisper. The exertion
this cost himor the consciousness of talking in that feeble way
made his angry face so much more angryand his thick veins so much
thickerwhen he spokethat I am not surprisedon 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 timeand who were
boththin and quiet) were not disappointed.


'Come heresir!' said Mr. Creaklebeckoning to me.


'Come here!' said the man with the wooden legrepeating the
gesture.


'I have the happiness of knowing your father-in-law' whispered Mr.
Creakletaking me by the ear; 'and a worthy man he isand a man
of a strong character. He knows meand I know him. Do YOU know
me? Hey?' said Mr. Creaklepinching my ear with ferocious
playfulness.


'Not yetsir' I saidflinching with the pain.


'Not yet? Hey?' repeated Mr. Creakle. 'But you will soon. Hey?'


'You will soon. Hey?' repeated the man with the wooden leg. I
afterwards found that he generally actedwith his strong voiceas
Mr. Creakle's interpreter to the boys.


I was very much frightenedand saidI hoped soif he pleased.
I feltall this whileas if my ear were blazing; he pinched it so
hard.


'I'll tell you what I am' whispered Mr. Creakleletting it go at
lastwith 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 thingI do it' said Mr. Creakle; 'and when
I say I will have a thing doneI will have it done.'


'- Will have a thing doneI 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 I 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. Creaklestriking
his hand upon the tableand looking at Mrs. Creakle'for he knows
me. Now you have begun to know me toomy young friendand you
may go. Take him away.'


I was very glad to be ordered awayfor Mrs. and Miss Creakle were
both wiping their eyesand I felt as uncomfortable for them as I
did for myself. But I had a petition on my mind which concerned me
so nearlythat I couldn't help sayingthough I wondered at my own
courage:


'If you pleasesir -'


Mr. Creakle whispered'Hah! What's this?' and bent his eyes upon



meas if he would have burnt me up with them.

'If you pleasesir' I faltered'if I might be allowed (I am very
sorry indeedsirfor what I did) to take this writing offbefore
the boys come back -'

Whether Mr. Creakle was in earnestor whether he only did it to
frighten meI don't knowbut he made a burst out of his chair
before which I precipitately retreatedwithout waiting for the
escort Of the man with the wooden legand never once stopped until
I reached my own bedroomwherefinding I was not pursuedI went
to bedas it was timeand lay quakingfor 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
limpdelicate-looking gentlemanI thoughtwith a good deal of
noseand a way of carrying his head on one sideas 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 righthand
corner of the gateover 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 muchthat he saved me from the
embarrassment of either disclosure or concealmentby presenting me
to every other boy who came backgreat or smallimmediately on
his arrivalin this form of introduction'Look here! Here's a
game!' Happilytoothe greater part of the boys came back
low-spiritedand were not so boisterous at my expense as I had
expected. Some of them certainly did dance about me like wild
Indiansand the greater part could not resist the temptation of
pretending that I was a dogand patting and soothing melest I
should biteand saying'Lie downsir!' and calling me Towzer.
This was naturally confusingamong so many strangersand cost me
some tearsbut on the whole it was much better than I had
anticipated.

I was not considered as being formally received into the school
howeveruntil J. Steerforth arrived. Before this boywho was
reputed to be a great scholarand was very good-lookingand at
least half-a-dozen years my seniorI was carried as before a
magistrate. He inquiredunder a shed in the playgroundinto the
particulars of my punishmentand 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 gotCopperfield?' he saidwalking 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
leastyou can if you like. You needn't if you don't like.'

I hastened to comply with his friendly suggestionand opening
Peggotty's purseturned it upside down into his hand.


'Do you want to spend anything now?' he asked me.

'No thank you' I replied.

'You canif you likeyou know' said Steerforth. 'Say the word.'

'Nothank yousir' I repeated.

'Perhaps you'd like to spend a couple of shillings or soin a
bottle of currant wine by and byup in the bedroom?' said
Steerforth. 'You belong to my bedroomI find.'

It certainly had not occurred to me beforebut I saidYesI
should like that.

'Very good' said Steerforth. 'You'll be glad to spend another
shilling or soin almond cakesI dare say?'

I saidYesI should like thattoo.

'And another shilling or so in biscuitsand another in fruiteh?'
said Steerforth. 'I sayyoung Copperfieldyou're going it!'

I smiled because he smiledbut I was a little troubled in my 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 likeand I'll smuggle the prog in.' With these words
he put the money in his pocketand kindly told me not to make
myself uneasy; he would take care it should be all right.
He was as good as his wordif that were all right which I had a
secret misgiving was nearly all wrong - for I feared it was a waste
of my mother's two half-crowns - though I had preserved the piece
of paper they were wrapped in: which was a precious saving. When
we went upstairs to bedhe produced the whole seven
shillings'worthand laid it out on my bed in the moonlight
saying:

'There you areyoung Copperfieldand a royal spread you've got.'

I couldn't think of doing the honours of the feastat my time of
lifewhile he was by; my hand shook at the very thought of it. I
begged him to do me the favour of presiding; and my request being
seconded by the other boys who were in that roomhe acceded to it
and sat upon my pillowhanding round the viands - with perfect
fairnessI must say - and dispensing the currant wine in a little
glass without a footwhich was his own property. As to meI sat
on his left handand the rest were grouped about uson the
nearest beds and on the floor.

How well I recollect our sitting theretalking in whispers; or
their talkingand my respectfully listeningI ought rather to
say; the moonlight falling a little way into the roomthrough the
windowpainting a pale window on the floorand the greater part
of us in shadowexcept when Steerforth dipped a match into a
phosphorus-boxwhen he wanted to look for anything on the board
and shed a blue glare over us that was gone directly! A certain
mysterious feelingconsequent on the darknessthe secrecy of the
reveland the whisper in which everything was saidsteals over me
againand I listen to all they tell me with a vague feeling of
solemnity and awewhich 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 belonging 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 himright and leftevery day of
his lifecharging in among the boys like a trooperand slashing
awayunmercifully. That he knew nothing himselfbut the art of
slashingbeing more ignorant (J. Steerforth said) than the lowest
boy in the school; that he had beena good many years agoa small
hop-dealer in the Boroughand had taken to the schooling business
after being bankrupt in hopsand making away with Mrs. Creakle's
money. With a good deal more of that sortwhich I wondered how
they knew.

I heard that the man with the wooden legwhose name was Tungay
was an obstinate barbarian who had formerly assisted in the hop
businessbut had come into the scholastic line with Mr. Creakle
in consequenceas was supposed among the boysof his having
broken his leg in Mr. Creakle's serviceand having done a deal of
dishonest work for himand knowing his secrets. I heard that with
the single exception of Mr. CreakleTungay considered the whole
establishmentmasters and boysas his natural enemiesand that
the only delight of his life was to be sour and malicious. I heard
that Mr. Creakle had a sonwho had not been Tungay's friendand
whoassisting in the schoolhad once held some remonstrance with
his father on an occasion when its discipline was very cruelly
exercisedand was supposedbesidesto have protested against his
father's usage of his mother. I heard that Mr. Creakle had turned
him out of doorsin consequence; and that Mrs. and Miss Creakle
had been in a sad wayever since.

But the greatest wonder that I heard of Mr. Creakle wasthere
being one boy in the school on whom he never ventured to lay a
handand that boy being J. Steerforth. Steerforth himself
confirmed this when it was statedand 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 ithe dipped a
match into his phosphorus-box on purpose to shed a glare over his
replyand 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 mantelpiece. 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 tableMr. Sharp was always expected to say
he preferred cold; which was again corroborated by J. Steerforth
the only parlour-boarder. I heard that Mr. Sharp's wig didn't fit
him; and that he needn't be so 'bounceable' - somebody else said
'bumptious' - about itbecause his own red hair was very plainly
to be seen behind.

I heard that one boywho was a coal-merchant's soncame as a
set-off against the coal-billand was calledon that account
'Exchange or Barter' - a name selected from the arithmetic book as
expressing this arrangement. I heard that the table beer was a
robbery of parentsand 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 sureas I sat in the darkthinking of
his nice voiceand his fine faceand his easy mannerand his
curling hairI thought it very likely. I heard that Mr. Mell was
not a bad sort of fellowbut hadn't a sixpence to bless himself
with; and that there was no doubt that old Mrs. Mellhis mother
was as poor as job. I thought of my breakfast thenand what had


sounded like 'My Charley!' but I wasI am glad to rememberas
mute as a mouse about it.


The hearing of all thisand a good deal moreoutlasted the
banquet some time. The greater part of the guests had gone to bed
as soon as the eating and drinking were over; and wewho had
remained whispering and listening half-undressedat last betook
ourselves to bedtoo.


'Good nightyoung 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 sisterhave you?' said Steerforthyawning.


'No' I answered.


'That's a pity' said Steerforth. 'If you had had oneI should
think she would have been a prettytimidlittlebright-eyed sort
of girl. I should have liked to know her. Good nightyoung
Copperfield.'


'Good nightsir' I replied.


I thought of him very much after I went to bedand raised myself
I recollectto look at him where he lay in the moonlightwith his
handsome face turned upand his head reclining easily on his arm.
He was a person of great power in my eyes; that wasof coursethe
reason of my mind running on him. No veiled future dimly glanced
upon him in the moonbeams. There was no shadowy picture of his
footstepsin the garden that I dreamed of walking in all night.


CHAPTER 7
MY 'FIRST HALF' AT SALEM HOUSE


School began in earnest next day. A profound impression was made
upon meI rememberby the roar of voices in the schoolroom
suddenly becoming hushed as death when Mr. Creakle entered after
breakfastand stood in the doorway looking round upon us like a
giant in a story-book surveying his captives.


Tungay stood at Mr. Creakle's elbow. He had no occasionI
thoughtto cry out 'Silence!' so ferociouslyfor the boys were
all struck speechless and motionless.


Mr. Creakle was seen to speakand Tungay was heardto this
effect.


'Nowboysthis is a new half. Take care what you're aboutin
this new half. Come fresh up to the lessonsI advise youfor 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 workevery boy!'


When this dreadful exordium was overand Tungay had stumped out
againMr. Creakle came to where I satand told me that if I were
famous for bitinghe was famous for bitingtoo. He then showed
me the caneand asked me what I thought of THATfor a tooth? Was
it a sharp toothhey? Was it a double toothhey? Had it a deep
pronghey? Did it bitehey? 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 distinction
which only I received. On the contrarya large majority of the
boys (especially the smaller ones) were visited with similar
instances of noticeas Mr. Creakle made the round of the
schoolroom. Half the establishment was writhing and cryingbefore
the day's work began; and how much of it had writhed and cried
before the day's work was overI am really afraid to recollect
lest I should seem to exaggerate.

I should think there never can have been a man who enjoyed his
profession more than Mr. Creakle did. He had a delight in cutting
at the boyswhich was like the satisfaction of a craving appetite.
I am confident that he couldn't resist a chubby boyespecially;
that there was a fascination in such a subjectwhich made him
restless in his minduntil he had scored and marked him for the
day. I was chubby myselfand ought to know. I am sure when I
think of the fellow nowmy blood rises against him with the
disinterested indignation I should feel if I could have known all
about him without having ever been in his power; but it rises
hotlybecause I know him to have been an incapable brutewho had
no more right to be possessed of the great trust he heldthan to
be Lord High Admiralor Commander-in-Chief - in either of which
capacities it is probable that he would have done infinitely less
mischief.

Miserable little propitiators of a remorseless Idolhow abject we
were to him! What a launch in life I think it nowon looking
backto be so mean and servile to a man of such parts and
pretensions!

Here I sit at the desk againwatching his eye - humbly watching
his eyeas he rules a ciphering-book for another victim whose
hands have just been flattened by that identical rulerand who is
trying to wipe the sting out with a pocket-handkerchief. I have
plenty to do. I don't watch his eye in idlenessbut because I am
morbidly attracted to itin a dread desire to know what he will do
nextand whether it will be my turn to sufferor somebody else's.
A lane of small boys beyond mewith the same interest in his eye
watch it too. I think he knows itthough he pretends he don't.
He makes dreadful mouths as he rules the ciphering-book; and now he
throws his eye sideways down our laneand we all droop over our
books and tremble. A moment afterwards we are again eyeing him.
An unhappy culpritfound guilty of imperfect exerciseapproaches
at his command. The culprit falters excusesand professes a
determination to do better tomorrow. Mr. Creakle cuts a joke
before he beats himand we laugh at it- miserable little dogs
we laughwith our visages as white as ashesand our hearts
sinking into our boots.

Here I sit at the desk againon a drowsy summer afternoon. A buzz
and hum go up around meas if the boys were so many bluebottles.
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.
Creakleblinking at him like a young owl; when sleep overpowers me
for a minutehe still looms through my slumberruling those
ciphering-booksuntil he softly comes behind me and wakes me to
plainer perception of himwith a red ridge across my back.

Here I am in the playgroundwith my eye still fascinated by him


though I can't see him. The window at a little distance from which
I know he is having his dinnerstands for himand I eye that
instead. If he shows his face near itmine assumes an imploring
and submissive expression. If he looks out through the glassthe
boldest boy (Steerforth excepted) stops in the middle of a shout or
yelland becomes contemplative. One dayTraddles (the most
unfortunate boy in the world) breaks that window accidentallywith
a ball. I shudder at this moment with the tremendous sensation of
seeing it doneand 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 sausagesor roly-poly puddingshe was the
merriest and most miserable of all the boys. He was always being
caned - I think he was caned every day that half-yearexcept one
holiday Monday when he was only ruler'd on both hands - and was
always going to write to his uncle about itand never did. After
laying his head on the desk for a little whilehe would cheer up
somehowbegin to laugh againand draw skeletons all over his
slatebefore his eyes were dry. I used at first to wonder what
comfort Traddles found in drawing skeletons; and for some time
looked upon him as a sort of hermitwho reminded himself by those
symbols of mortality that caning couldn't last for ever. But I
believe he only did it because they were easyand didn't want any
features.

He was very honourableTraddles wasand held it as a solemn duty
in the boys to stand by one another. He suffered for this on
several occasions; and particularly oncewhen Steerforth laughed
in churchand the Beadle thought it was Traddlesand took him
out. I see him nowgoing away in custodydespised by the
congregation. He never said who was the real offenderthough he
smarted for it next dayand was imprisoned so many hours that he
came forth with a whole churchyard-full of skeletons swarming all
over his Latin Dictionary. But he had his reward. Steerforth said
there was nothing of the sneak in Traddlesand we all felt that to
be the highest praise. For my partI could have gone through a
good deal (though I was much less brave than Traddlesand nothing
like so old) to have won such a recompense.

To see Steerforth walk to church before usarm-in-arm with Miss
Creaklewas one of the great sights of my life. I didn't think
Miss Creakle equal to little Em'ly in point of beautyand I didn't
love her (I didn't dare); but I thought her a young lady of
extraordinary attractionsand in point of gentility not to be
surpassed. When Steerforthin white trouserscarried her parasol
for herI 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 meand proved a very useful
friend; since nobody dared to annoy one whom he honoured with his
countenance. He couldn't - or at all events he didn't - defend me
from Mr. Creaklewho was very severe with me; but whenever I had
been treated worse than usualhe always told me that I wanted a
little of his pluckand that he wouldn't have stood it himself;
which I felt he intended for encouragementand considered to be
very kind of him. There was one advantageand only one that I
know ofin Mr. Creakle's severity. He found my placard in his way
when he came up or down behind the form on which I satand wanted
to make a cut at me in passing; for this reason it was soon taken
offand I saw it no more.


An accidental circumstance cemented the intimacy between Steerforth
and mein a manner that inspired me with great pride and
satisfactionthough it sometimes led to inconvenience. It
happened on one occasionwhen he was doing me the honour of
talking to me in the playgroundthat I hazarded the observation
that something or somebody - I forget what now - was like something
or somebody in Peregrine Pickle. He said nothing at the time; but
when I was going to bed at nightasked me if I had got that book?

I told him noand explained how it was that I had read itand 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 memoryand I believed I
recollected them very well.

'Then I tell you whatyoung Copperfield' said Steerforth'you
shall tell 'em to me. I can't get to sleep very early at night
and I generally wake rather early in the morning. We'll go over
'em one after another. We'll make some regular Arabian Nights of
it.'

I felt extremely flattered by this arrangementand we commenced
carrying it into execution that very evening. What ravages I
committed on my favourite authors in the course of my
interpretation of themI am not in a condition to sayand should
be very unwilling to know; but I had a profound faith in themand
I hadto the best of my beliefa simpleearnest manner of
narrating what I did narrate; and these qualities went a long way.

The drawback wasthat I was often sleepy at nightor out of
spirits and indisposed to resume the story; and then it was rather
hard workand it must be done; for to disappoint or to displease
Steerforth was of course out of the question. In the morningtoo
when I felt wearyand should have enjoyed another hour's repose
very muchit was a tiresome thing to be rousedlike the Sultana
Scheherazadeand forced into a long story before the getting-up
bell rang; but Steerforth was resolute; and as he explained to me
in returnmy sums and exercisesand anything in my tasks that was
too hard for meI was no loser by the transaction. Let me do
myself justicehowever. I was moved by no interested or selfish
motivenor 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 triflesnowwith an aching heart.

Steerforth was consideratetoo; and showed his considerationin
one particular instancein an unflinching manner that was a little
tantalizingI suspectto poor Traddles and the rest. Peggotty's
promised letter - what a comfortable letter it was! - arrived
before 'the half' was many weeks old; and with it a cake in a
perfect nest of orangesand two bottles of cowslip wine. This
treasureas in duty boundI laid at the feet of Steerforthand
begged him to dispense.

'NowI'll tell you whatyoung Copperfield' said he: 'the wine
shall be kept to wet your whistle when you are story-telling.'

I blushed at the ideaand begged himin my modestynot to think
of it. But he said he had observed I was sometimes hoarse - a
little roopy was his exact expression - and it should beevery
dropdevoted to the purpose he had mentioned. Accordinglyit was
locked up in his boxand drawn off by himself in a phialand
administered to me through a piece of quill in the corkwhen I was


supposed to be in want of a restorative. Sometimesto make it a
more sovereign specifiche was so kind as to squeeze orange juice
into itor to stir it up with gingeror dissolve a peppermint
drop in it; and although I cannot assert that the flavour was
improved by these experimentsor that it was exactly the compound
one would have chosen for a stomachicthe last thing at night and
the first thing in the morningI drank it gratefully and was very
sensible of his attention.

We seemto meto have been months over Peregrineand months more
over the other stories. The institution never flagged for want of
a storyI am certain; and the wine lasted out almost as well as
the matter. Poor Traddles - I never think of that boy but with a
strange disposition to laughand with tears in my eyes - was a
sort of chorusin general; and affected to be convulsed with mirth
at the comic partsand to be overcome with fear when there was any
passage of an alarming character in the narrative. This rather put
me outvery often. It was a great jest of hisI recollectto
pretend that he couldn't keep his teeth from chatteringwhenever
mention was made of an Alguazill in connexion with the adventures
of Gil Blas; and I remember that when Gil Blas met the captain of
the robbers in Madridthis unlucky joker counterfeited such an
ague of terrorthat he was overheard by Mr. Creaklewho was
prowling about the passageand handsomely flogged for disorderly
conduct in the bedroom.
Whatever I had within me that was romantic and dreamywas
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 roomand the
consciousness that this accomplishment of mine was bruited about
among the boysand attracted a good deal of notice to me though I
was the youngest therestimulated me to exertion. In a school
carried on by sheer crueltywhether it is presided over by a dunce
or notthere is not likely to be much learnt. I believe our boys
weregenerallyas 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 advantagethan any one can do anything to
advantage in a life of constant misfortunetormentand worry.
But my little vanityand Steerforth's helpurged me on somehow;
and without saving me from muchif anythingin the way of
punishmentmade mefor the time I was therean exception to the
general bodyinsomuch that I did steadily pick up some crumbs of
knowledge.

In this I was much assisted by Mr. Mellwho had a liking for me
that I am grateful to remember. It always gave me pain to observe
that Steerforth treated him with systematic disparagementand
seldom lost an occasion of wounding his feelingsor inducing
others to do so. This troubled me the more for a long time
because I had soon told Steerforthfrom whom I could no more keep
such a secretthan I could keep a cake or any other tangible
possessionabout the two old women Mr. Mell had taken me to see;
and I was always afraid that Steerforth would let it outand twit
him with it.

We little thoughtany one of usI dare saywhen I ate my
breakfast that first morningand went to sleep under the shadow of
the peacock's feathers to the sound of the flutewhat consequences
would come of the introduction into those alms-houses of my
insignificant person. But the visit had its unforeseen
consequences; and of a serious sorttooin their way.

One day when Mr. Creakle kept the house from indispositionwhich
naturally diffused a lively joy through the schoolthere 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 thriceand took notes of the principal offenders' names
no great impression was made by itas they were pretty sure of
getting into trouble tomorrowdo what they wouldand thought it
wiseno doubtto enjoy themselves today.

It wasproperlya half-holiday; being Saturday. But as the noise
in the playground would have disturbed Mr. Creakleand the weather
was not favourable for going out walkingwe were ordered into
school in the afternoonand 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. Mellwho
always did the drudgerywhatever it waskept school by himself.
If I could associate the idea of a bull or a bear with anyone so
mild as Mr. MellI should think of himin connexion with that
afternoon when the uproar was at its heightas of one of those
animalsbaited by a thousand dogs. I recall him bending his
aching headsupported on his bony handover the book on his desk
and wretchedly endeavouring 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 placesplaying at
puss in the corner with other boys; there were laughing boys
singing boystalking boysdancing boyshowling boys; boys
shuffled with their feetboys whirled about himgrinningmaking
facesmimicking him behind his back and before his eyes; mimicking
his povertyhis bootshis coathis mothereverything belonging
to him that they should have had consideration for.

'Silence!' cried Mr. Mellsuddenly rising upand striking his
desk with the book. 'What does this mean! It's impossible to bear
it. It's maddening. How can you do it to meboys?'

It was my book that he struck his desk with; and as I stood beside
himfollowing his eye as it glanced round the roomI saw the boys
all stopsome suddenly surprisedsome half afraidand some sorry
perhaps.

Steerforth's place was at the bottom of the schoolat the opposite
end of the long room. He was lounging with his back against the
walland his hands in his pocketsand looked at Mr. Mell with his
mouth shut up as if he were whistlingwhen Mr. Mell looked at him.

'SilenceMr. Steerforth!' said Mr. Mell.

'Silence yourself' said Steerforthturning red. 'Whom are you
talking to?'

'Sit down' said Mr. Mell.

'Sit down yourself' said Steerforth'and mind your business.'

There was a titterand some applause; but Mr. Mell was so white
that silence immediately succeeded; and one boywho had darted out
behind him to imitate his mother againchanged his mindand
pretended to want a pen mended.

'If you thinkSteerforth' said Mr. Mell'that I am not
acquainted with the power you can establish over any mind here' he
laid his handwithout considering what he did (as I supposed)
upon my head - 'or that I have not observed youwithin a few
minutesurging your juniors on to every sort of outrage against
meyou are mistaken.'


'I don't give myself the trouble of thinking at all about you'
said Steerforthcoolly; 'so I'm not mistakenas it happens.'

'And when you make use of your position of favouritism heresir'
pursued Mr. Mellwith his lip trembling very much'to insult a
gentleman -'

'A what? - where is he?' said Steerforth.

Here somebody cried out'ShameJ. Steerforth! Too bad!' It was
Traddles; whom Mr. Mell instantly discomfited by bidding him hold
his tongue.

-'To insult one who is not fortunate in lifesirand who never
gave you the least offenceand the many reasons for not insulting
whom you are old enough and wise enough to understand' said Mr.
Mellwith his lips trembling more and more'you commit a mean and
base action. You can sit down or stand up as you pleasesir.
Copperfieldgo on.'
'Young Copperfield' said Steerforthcoming forward up the room
'stop a bit. I tell you whatMr. Mellonce for all. When you
take the liberty of calling me mean or baseor anything of that
sortyou are an impudent beggar. You are always a beggaryou
know; but when you do thatyou are an impudent beggar.'

I am not clear whether he was going to strike Mr. Mellor Mr. Mell
was going to strike himor there was any such intention on either
side. I saw a rigidity come upon the whole school as if they had
been turned into stoneand found Mr. Creakle in the midst of us
with Tungay at his sideand Mrs. and Miss Creakle looking in at
the door as if they were frightened. Mr. Mellwith his elbows on
his desk and his face in his handssatfor some momentsquite
still.

'Mr. Mell' said Mr. Creakleshaking him by the arm; and his
whisper was so audible nowthat Tungay felt it unnecessary to
repeat his words; 'you have not forgotten yourselfI hope?'

'Nosirno' returned the Mastershowing his faceand shaking
his headand rubbing his hands in great agitation. 'Nosir. No.
I have remembered myselfI - noMr. CreakleI have not forgotten
myselfI - I have remembered myselfsir. I - I - could wish you
had remembered me a little soonerMr. Creakle. It - it - would
have been more kindsirmore justsir. It would have saved me
somethingsir.'

Mr. Creaklelooking hard at Mr. Mellput his hand on Tungay's
shoulderand got his feet upon the form close byand sat upon the
desk. After still looking hard at Mr. Mell from his throneas he
shook his headand rubbed his handsand remained in the same
state of agitationMr. Creakle turned to Steerforthand said:

'Nowsiras he don't condescend to tell mewhat is this?'

Steerforth evaded the question for a little while; looking in scorn
and anger on his opponentand remaining silent. I could not help
thinking even in that intervalI rememberwhat a noble fellow he
was in appearanceand how homely and plain Mr. Mell looked opposed
to him.

'What did he mean by talking about favouritesthen?' said
Steerforth at length.


'Favourites?' repeated Mr. Creaklewith the veins in his forehead
swelling quickly. 'Who talked about favourites?'

'He did' said Steerforth.

'And praywhat did you mean by thatsir?' demanded Mr. Creakle
turning angrily on his assistant.

'I meantMr. Creakle' he returned in a low voice'as I said;
that no pupil had a right to avail himself of his position of
favouritism to degrade me.'

'To degrade YOU?' said Mr. Creakle. 'My stars! But give me leave
to ask youMr. What's-your-name'; and here Mr. Creakle folded his
armscane and allupon his chestand made such a knot of his
brows that his little eyes were hardly visible below them;
'whetherwhen you talk about favouritesyou showed proper respect
to me? To mesir' said Mr. Creakledarting his head at him
suddenlyand drawing it back again'the principal of this
establishmentand your employer.'

'It was not judicioussirI am willing to admit' said Mr. Mell.
'I should not have done soif I had been cool.'

Here Steerforth struck in.

'Then he said I was meanand then he said I was baseand then I
called him a beggar. If I had been coolperhaps I shouldn't have
called him a beggar. But I didand I am ready to take the
consequences of it.'

Without consideringperhapswhether there were any consequences
to be takenI felt quite in a glow at this gallant speech. It
made an impression on the boys toofor there was a low stir among
themthough no one spoke a word.

'I am surprisedSteerforth - although your candour does you
honour' said Mr. Creakle'does you honourcertainly - I am
surprisedSteerforthI must saythat you should attach such an
epithet to any person employed and paid in Salem Housesir.'

Steerforth gave a short laugh.

'That's not an answersir' said Mr. Creakle'to my remark. I
expect more than that from youSteerforth.'

If Mr. Mell looked homelyin my eyesbefore the handsome boyit
would be quite impossible to say how homely Mr. Creakle looked.
'Let him deny it' said Steerforth.

'Deny that he is a beggarSteerforth?' cried Mr. Creakle. 'Why
where does he go a-begging?'

'If he is not a beggar himselfhis near relation's one' said
Steerforth. 'It's all the same.'

He glanced at meand Mr. Mell's hand gently patted me upon the
shoulder. I looked up with a flush upon my face and remorse in my
heartbut Mr. Mell's eyes were fixed on Steerforth. He continued
to pat me kindly on the shoulderbut he looked at him.

'Since you expect meMr. Creakleto justify myself' said
Steerforth'and to say what I mean- what I have to say isthat


his mother lives on charity in an alms-house.'

Mr. Mell still looked at himand still patted me kindly on the
shoulderand said to himselfin a whisperif I heard right:
'YesI thought so.'

Mr. Creakle turned to his assistantwith a severe frown and
laboured politeness:

'Nowyou hear what this gentleman saysMr. Mell. Have the
goodnessif you pleaseto set him right before the assembled
school.'

'He is rightsirwithout correction' returned Mr. Mellin the
midst of a dead silence; 'what he has said is true.'

'Be so good then as declare publiclywill you' said Mr. Creakle
putting his head on one sideand rolling his eyes round the
school'whether it ever came to my knowledge until this moment?'

'I believe not directly' he returned.

'Whyyou know not' said Mr. Creakle. 'Don't youman?'

'I apprehend you never supposed my worldly circumstances to be very
good' replied the assistant. 'You know what my position isand
always has beenhere.'

'I apprehendif you come to that' said Mr. Creaklewith his
veins swelling again bigger than ever'that you've been in a wrong
position altogetherand mistook this for a charity school. Mr.
Mellwe'll partif you please. The sooner the better.'

'There is no time' answered Mr. Mellrising'like the present.'

'Sirto you!' said Mr. Creakle.

'I take my leave of youMr. Creakleand all of you' said Mr.
Mellglancing round the roomand again patting me gently on the
shoulders. 'James Steerforththe best wish I can leave you is
that you may come to be ashamed of what you have done today. At
present I would prefer to see you anything rather than a friendto
meor to anyone 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 deskand leaving the key in it for
his successorhe went out of the schoolwith his property under
his arm. Mr. Creakle then made a speechthrough Tungayin which
he thanked Steerforth for asserting (though perhaps too warmly) the
independence and respectability of Salem House; and which he wound
up by shaking hands with Steerforthwhile we gave three cheers I
did not quite know what forbut I supposed for Steerforthand
so joined in them ardentlythough I felt miserable. Mr. Creakle
then caned Tommy Traddles for being discovered in tearsinstead of
cheerson account of Mr. Mell's departure; and went back to his
sofaor his bedor wherever he had come from.

We were left to ourselves nowand looked very blankI recollect
on one another. For myselfI felt so much self-reproach and
contrition for my part in what had happenedthat nothing would
have enabled me to keep back my tears but the fear that Steerforth
who often looked at meI sawmight think it unfriendly - orI
should rather sayconsidering our relative agesand the feeling
with which I regarded himundutiful - if I showed the emotion


which distressed me. He was very angry with Traddlesand said he
was glad he had caught it.

Poor Traddleswho had passed the stage of lying with his head upon
the deskand was relieving himself as usual with a burst of
skeletonssaid he didn't care. Mr. Mell was ill-used.

'Who has ill-used himyou girl?' said Steerforth.

'Whyyou have' returned Traddles.

'What have I done?' said Steerforth.

'What have you done?' retorted Traddles. 'Hurt his feelingsand
lost him his situation.'

'His feelings?' repeated Steerforth disdainfully. 'His feelings
will soon get the better of itI'll be bound. His feelings are
not like yoursMiss Traddles. As to his situation - which was a
precious onewasn't it? - do you suppose I am not going to write
homeand take care that he gets some money? Polly?'

We thought this intention very noble in Steerforthwhose mother
was a widowand richand would do almost anythingit was said
that he asked her. We were all extremely glad to see Traddles so
put downand exalted Steerforth to the skies: especially when he
told usas he condescended to dothat what he had done had been
done expressly for usand for our cause; and that he had conferred
a great boon upon us by unselfishly doing it.
But I must say that when I was going on with a story in the dark
that nightMr. Mell's 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 bedI fancied it playing so sorrowfully
somewherethat I was quite wretched.

I soon forgot him in the contemplation of Steerforthwhoin an
easy amateur wayand 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 dutiesdined in the parlour one dayto be
introduced to Steerforth. Steerforth approved of him highlyand
told us he was a Brick. Without exactly understanding what learned
distinction was meant by thisI respected him greatly for itand
had no doubt whatever of his superior knowledge: though he never
took the pains with me - not that I was anybody - that Mr. Mell had
taken.

There was only one other event in this half-yearout of the daily
school-lifethat made an impression upon me which still survives.
It survives for many reasons.

One afternoonwhen we were all harassed into a state of dire
confusionand Mr. Creakle was laying about him dreadfullyTungay
came inand called out in his usual strong way: 'Visitors for
Copperfield!'

A few words were interchanged between him and Mr. Creakleaswho
the visitors wereand what room they were to be shown into; and
then Iwho hadaccording to customstood up on the announcement
being madeand felt quite faint with astonishmentwas told to go
by the back stairs and get a clean frill onbefore I repaired to
the dining-room. These orders I obeyedin such a flutter and
hurry of my young spirits as I had never known before; and when I
got to the parlour doorand the thought came into my head that it


might be my mother - I had only thought of Mr. or Miss Murdstone
until then - I drew back my hand from the lockand stopped to have
a sob before I went in.

At first I saw nobody; but feeling a pressure against the doorI
looked round itand thereto my amazementwere Mr. Peggotty and
Hamducking at me with their hatsand squeezing one another
against the wall. I could not help laughing; but it was much more
in the pleasure of seeing themthan at the appearance they made.
We shook hands in a very cordial way; and I laughed and laughed
until I pulled out my pocket-handkerchief and wiped my eyes.

Mr. Peggotty (who never shut his mouth onceI rememberduring the
visit) showed great concern when he saw me do thisand nudged Ham
to say something.

'Cheer upMas'r Davy bor'!' said Hamin his simpering way. 'Why
how you have growed!'

'Am I grown?' I saiddrying my eyes. I was not crying at anything
in particular that I know of; but somehow it made me cryto see
old friends.

'GrowedMas'r Davy bor'? Ain't he growed!' said Ham.

'Ain't he growed!' said Mr. Peggotty.

They made me laugh again by laughing at each otherand then we all
three laughed until I was in danger of crying again.

'Do you know how mama isMr. Peggotty?' I said. 'And how my dear
dearold Peggotty is?'

'Oncommon' said Mr. Peggotty.

'And little Em'lyand Mrs. Gummidge?'

'On - common' said Mr. Peggotty.

There was a silence. Mr. Peggottyto relieve ittook two
prodigious lobstersand an enormous craband a large canvas bag
of shrimpsout of his pocketsand piled them up in Ham's arms.

'You see' said Mr. Peggotty'knowing as you was partial to a
little relish with your wittles when you was along with uswe took
the liberty. The old Mawther biled 'emshe did. Mrs. Gummidge
biled 'em. Yes' said Mr. Peggottyslowlywho I thought appeared
to stick to the subject on account of having no other subject
ready'Mrs. GummidgeI do assure youshe biled 'em.'

I expressed my thanks; and Mr. Peggottyafter looking at Hamwho
stood smiling sheepishly over the shellfishwithout making any
attempt to help himsaid:

'We comeyou seethe wind and tide making in our favourin one
of our Yarmouth lugs to Gravesen'. My sister she wrote to me the
name of this here placeand 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 dootyhumbly wishing him well and reporting of the
fam'ly as they was oncommon toe-be-sure. Little Em'lyyou see
she'll write to my sister when I go backas I see you and as you
was similarly oncommonand so we make it quite a merrygo-
rounder.'


I was obliged to consider a little before I understood what Mr.
Peggotty meant by this figureexpressive of a complete circle of
intelligence. I then thanked him heartily; and saidwith a
consciousness of reddeningthat I supposed little Em'ly was
altered toosince we used to pick up shells and pebbles on the
beach?


'She's getting to be a womanthat's wot she's getting to be' said
Mr. Peggotty. 'Ask HIM.'
He meant Hamwho beamed with delight and assent over the bag of
shrimps.


'Her pretty face!' said Mr. Peggottywith his own shining like a
light.


'Her learning!' said Ham.


'Her writing!' said Mr. Peggotty. 'Why it's as black as jet! And
so large it isyou might see it anywheres.'


It was perfectly delightful to behold with what enthusiasm Mr.
Peggotty became inspired when he thought of his little favourite.
He stands before me againhis bluff hairy face irradiating with a
joyful love and pridefor which I can find no description. His
honest eyes fire upand sparkleas if their depths were stirred
by something bright. His broad chest heaves with pleasure. His
strong loose hands clench themselvesin his earnestness; and he
emphasizes what he says with a right arm that showsin my pigmy
viewlike a sledge-hammer.


Ham was quite as earnest as he. I dare say they would have said
much more about herif they had not been abashed by the unexpected
coming in of Steerforthwhoseeing me in a corner speaking with
two strangersstopped in a song he was singingand said: 'I
didn't know you were hereyoung 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 Steerforthor in the desire to explain to him how I came to
have such a friend as Mr. Peggottythat I called to him as he was
going away. But I saidmodestly - Good Heavenhow it all comes
back to me this long time afterwards! -


'Don't goSteerforthif you please. These are two Yarmouth
boatmen - very kindgood people - who are relations of my nurse
and have come from Gravesend to see me.'


'Ayeaye?' said Steerforthreturning. 'I am glad to see them.
How are you both?'


There was an ease in his manner - a gay and light manner it was
but not swaggering - which I still believe to have borne a kind of
enchantment with it. I still believe himin virtue of this
carriagehis animal spiritshis delightful voicehis handsome
face and figureandfor aught I knowof 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
yieldand which not many persons could withstand. I could not but
see how pleased they were with himand how they seemed to open
their hearts to him in a moment.


'You must let them know at homeif you pleaseMr. Peggotty' I
said'when that letter is sentthat Mr. Steerforth is very kind
to meand that I don't know what I should ever do here without



him.'

'Nonsense!' said Steerforthlaughing. 'You mustn't tell them
anything of the sort.'

'And if Mr. Steerforth ever comes into Norfolk or SuffolkMr.
Peggotty' I said'while I am thereyou may depend upon it I
shall bring him to Yarmouthif he will let meto see your house.
You never saw such a good houseSteerforth. It's made out of a
boat!'

'Made out of a boatis it?' said Steerforth. 'It's the right sort
of a house for such a thorough-built boatman.'

'So 'tissirso 'tissir' said Hamgrinning. 'You're right
young gen'l'm'n! Mas'r Davy bor'gen'l'm'n's right. A thoroughbuilt
boatman! Horhor! That's what he istoo!'

Mr. Peggotty was no less pleased than his nephewthough his
modesty forbade him to claim a personal compliment so vociferously.

'Wellsir' he saidbowing and chucklingand tucking in the ends
of his neckerchief at his breast: 'I thankeesirI thankee! I do
my endeavours in my line of lifesir.'

'The best of men can do no moreMr. Peggotty' said Steerforth.
He had got his name already.

'I'll pound itit's wot you do yourselfsir' said Mr. Peggotty
shaking his head'and wot you do well - right well! I thankee
sir. I'm obleeged to yousirfor your welcoming manner of me.
I'm roughsirbut I'm ready - least waysI hope I'm readyyou
unnerstand. My house ain't much for to seesirbut it's hearty
at your service if ever you should come along with Mas'r Davy to
see it. I'm a reg'lar DodmanI am' said Mr. Peggottyby which
he meant snailand this was in allusion to his being slow to go
for he had attempted to go after every sentenceand had somehow or
other come back again; 'but I wish you both welland I wish you
happy!'

Ham echoed this sentimentand we parted with them in the heartiest
manner. I was almost tempted that evening to tell Steerforth about
pretty little Em'lybut I was too timid of mentioning her name
and too much afraid of his laughing at me. I remember that I
thought a good dealand in an uneasy sort of wayabout Mr.
Peggotty having said that she was getting on to be a woman; but I
decided that was nonsense.

We transported the shellfishor the 'relish' as Mr. Peggotty had
modestly called itup into our room unobservedand 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 - quite prostrate he was - in
consequence of Crab; and after being drugged with black draughts
and blue pillsto 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 summer and
the changing season; of the frosty mornings when we were rung out
of bedand the coldcold smell of the dark nights when we were
rung into bed again; of the evening schoolroom dimly lighted and


indifferently warmedand the morning schoolroom which was nothing
but a great shivering-machine; of the alternation of boiled beef
with roast beefand boiled mutton with roast mutton; of clods of
bread-and-butterdog's-eared lesson-bookscracked slates
tear-blotted copy-bookscaningsruleringshair-cuttingsrainy
Sundayssuet-puddingsand a dirty atmosphere of inksurrounding
all.

I well remember thoughhow the distant idea of the holidaysafter
seeming for an immense time to be a stationary speckbegan to come
towards usand to grow and grow. How from counting monthswe
came to weeksand 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 forand was certainly to go homehad dim
forebodings that I might break my leg first. How the breaking-up
day changed its place fastat lastfrom the week after next to
next weekthis weekthe day after tomorrowtomorrowtoday
tonight - when I was inside the Yarmouth mailand going home.

I had many a broken sleep inside the Yarmouth mailand many an
incoherent dream of all these things. But when I awoke at
intervalsthe ground outside the window was not the playground of
Salem Houseand the sound in my ears was not the sound of Mr.
Creakle giving it to Traddlesbut the sound of the coachman
touching up the horses.

CHAPTER 8
MY HOLIDAYS. ESPECIALLY ONE HAPPY AFTERNOON

When we arrived before day at the inn where the mail stoppedwhich
was not the inn where my friend the waiter livedI was shown up to
a nice little bedroomwith DOLPHIN painted on the door. Very cold
I wasI knownotwithstanding the hot tea they had given me before
a large fire downstairs; and very glad I was to turn into the
Dolphin's bedpull the Dolphin's blankets round my headand go to
sleep.

Mr. Barkis the carrier was to call for me in the morning at nine
o'clock. I got up at eighta little giddy from the shortness of
my night's restand was ready for him before the appointed time.
He received me exactly as if not five minutes had elapsed since we
were last togetherand I had only been into the hotel to get
change for sixpenceor something of that sort.

As soon as I and my box were in the cartand the carrier seated
the lazy horse walked away with us all at his accustomed pace.

'You look very wellMr. Barkis' I saidthinking he would like to
know it.

Mr. Barkis rubbed his cheek with his cuffand then looked at his
cuff as if he expected to find some of the bloom upon it; but made
no other acknowledgement of the compliment.

'I gave your messageMr. Barkis' I said: 'I wrote to Peggotty.'

'Ah!' said Mr. Barkis.

Mr. Barkis seemed gruffand answered drily.

'Wasn't it rightMr. Barkis?' I askedafter a little hesitation.


'Whyno' said Mr. Barkis.

'Not the message?'

'The message was right enoughperhaps' said Mr. Barkis; 'but it
come to an end there.'

Not understanding what he meantI repeated inquisitively: 'Came to
an endMr. Barkis?'

'Nothing come of it' he explainedlooking at me sideways. 'No
answer.'

'There was an answer expectedwas thereMr. Barkis?' said I
opening my eyes. For this was a new light to me.

'When a man says he's willin'' said Mr. Barkisturning his glance
slowly on me again'it's as much as to saythat man's a-waitin'
for a answer.'

'WellMr. Barkis?'

'Well' said Mr. Barkiscarrying his eyes back to his horse's
ears; 'that man's been a-waitin' for a answer ever since.'

'Have you told her soMr. Barkis?'

'No - no' growled Mr. Barkisreflecting about it. 'I ain't got
no call to go and tell her so. I never said six words to her
myselfI ain't a-goin' to tell her so.'

'Would you like me to do itMr. Barkis?' said Idoubtfully.
'You might tell herif you would' said Mr. Barkiswith another
slow look at me'that Barkis was a-waitin' for a answer. Says you

-what name is it?'
'Her name?'

'Ah!' said Mr. Barkiswith a nod of his head.

'Peggotty.'

'Chrisen name? Or nat'ral name?' said Mr. Barkis.

'Ohit'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
circumstanceand sat pondering and inwardly whistling for some
time.

'Well!' he resumed at length. 'Says youPeggotty! Barkis is
waitin' for a answer.Says sheperhapsAnswer to what?Says
youTo what I told you.What is that?says she. "Barkis is
willin' says you.'

This extremely artful suggestion Mr. Barkis accompanied with a
nudge of his elbow that gave me quite a stitch in my side. After
that, he slouched over his horse in his usual manner; and made no
other reference to the subject except, half an hour afterwards,
taking a piece of chalk from his pocket, and writing up, inside the
tilt of the cart, 'Clara Peggotty' - 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, reminded 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 - 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 bleak 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 appeared, 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 parlour,
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 filled my heart brim-full; 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, suckling 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 near the little creature that was
nestling there, and put its hand to my lips.

I wish I had died. I wish I had died then, with that feeling 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 carrier being
much before his usual time. It seemed, too, that Mr. and Miss
Murdstone had gone out upon a visit in the neighbourhood, 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 attendance 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 Peggotty 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 own old little knife and fork that wouldn't
cut.

While we were at table, I thought it a favourable 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.'

'Then, why don't you tell him so, you ridiculous thing?' said my
mother.

'Tell him so,' retorted Peggotty, looking out of her apron. '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.'

Her 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 superadded 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 your 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 a 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,
than I shall go to my Davy, and ask him to take me in.'

'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 acknowledgement of my
hospitality. After that, she covered her head up with her apron
again and had another laugh about Mr. Barkis. After that, she took
the baby out of its 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 round 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 according to my old custom, broken now a long time, and sat
with my arms embracing her waist, and my little red cheek on her
shoulder, and once more felt her beautiful hair drooping over me like
an angel's wing as I used to think, I recollect - 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 nothing 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 darning, 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 of 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, 'what's become of Davy's
great-aunt?'
'Lor, Peggotty!' observed my mother, rousing herself from a
reverie, 'what nonsense you talk!'

'Well, but I really do wonder, ma'am,' said Peggotty.

'What can have put such a person in your head?' inquired my mother.
'Is there nobody else in the world to come there?'


'I don't know how it is,' said Peggotty, 'unless it's on account of
being stupid, but my head never can pick and choose its 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. - I wonder,
if she was to die, whether she'd leave Davy anything?'

'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! You know she does, Peggotty - you know it
well.'

Peggotty muttered something to the effect of 'Bother the 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 colour 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 - a - a -'

'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 says 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 wished
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 - 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 - and do you mean to insinuate
that there is not a 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 insinuating. 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 believe 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 - you
understand, and so I am sure does Davy, that I am not alluding to
anybody present - 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.
He is better able to judge of it than I am; for I very well know
that I am a weak, light, girlish creature, and that he is a firm,
grave, serious man. And he takes,' said my mother, with the tears
which were engendered in her affectionate nature, 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 - she took it out of her pocket:
I don't know whether she had kept it there ever since - and then we
talked about Salem House, which brought me round again to
Steerforth, who was my great subject. 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
upstairs with my candle directly, before they came in. It appeared
to my childish fancy, as 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
parlour.

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 that 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 today, ma'am.'

'Oh!' said Miss Murdstone. 'Then here's one 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.

'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 her cherry brandy. I was
solemnly interdicted by her, on her recovery, 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 - it was truly dear to me, for our mother's sake - 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:

'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 colour of mine. But
they are wonderfully alike.'

'What are you talking about, Clara?' said Miss Murdstone.

'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 dear 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 favourite with Miss Murdstone. In short, I
was not a favourite 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 consciousness 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 talking together
and my mother seemed cheerful, an anxious cloud would steal over
her face from the moment of my entrance. If Mr. Murdstone were in
his best humour, I checked him. If Miss Murdstone were in her
worst, I intensified it. I had perception enough to know that my
mother was the victim always; that she was afraid to speak to me or
to be kind to me, lest she should give them some offence by her
manner of doing so, and receive a lecture afterwards; that she was
not only ceaselessly afraid of her own offending, but of my


offending, 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 parlour. The
tormenting humour 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 am 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 - I am certain you'll excuse me, my dear Jane - that you
understand Davy?'

'I should be somewhat ashamed of myself, Clara,' returned 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, 'your 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 everybody knows it
is. I profit so much by it myself, in many ways - at least I ought
to - that no one can be more convinced of it than myself; and
therefore I speak with great 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 - not very decently

-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 far 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 replied. '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, I remarked,' 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
develop itself beneath my eyes without an effort at improvement.
You must endeavour, sir, to change it. We must endeavour 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 towards
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.

'One thing more,' he said. 'I observe that you have an attachment
to low and common company. You are not to associate 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 since
you, Clara,' addressing 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 Murdstone.

'I only say,' he resumed, addressing me, 'that I disapprove of your
preferring such company as Mistress Peggotty, 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 - better perhaps than he thought, as far as my poor
mother was concerned - and I obeyed him to the letter. I retreated
to my own room no more; I took refuge with Peggotty no more; but
sat wearily in the parlour day after day, looking 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 lest she should light on
some look of dislike or scrutiny that would find new cause for
complaint in mine! What intolerable dulness to sit listening to
the ticking of the clock; and watching Miss Murdstone's little
shiny steel beads as 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 of 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 parlour, and Mr. and Miss Murdstone 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 were a knife and fork too many, and that mine; an appetite
too many, and that mine; a plate and chair too many, and those
mine; a somebody too many, and that I!

What evenings, when the candles came, and I was expected to employ
myself, but, not daring to read an entertaining book, pored over
some hard-headed, harder-hearted treatise on arithmetic; when the
tables of weights and measures set themselves to tunes, as 'Rule
Britannia', or 'Away with Melancholy'; when they wouldn't stand
still to be learnt, but would go threading my grandmother's needle
through my unfortunate head, in 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; 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 warning 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, nor 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 afterwards, in my sleep at school - a
silent presence near my bed - looking at me with the same intent
face - holding up her baby in her arms.

CHAPTER 9
I HAVE A MEMORABLE BIRTHDAY

I PASS over all that happened at school, until the anniversary of
my birthday came round in March. Except that 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 before 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
swallowed 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
feel my rimy hair fall clammy on my cheek; I look along the dim
perspective of the schoolroom, with a sputtering candle here and
there to light up the foggy morning, 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 parlour.'

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 parlour; and there I found Mr. Creakle,
sitting at his breakfast with the cane and a newspaper 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 without
looking at me, and stopped up a sigh with a very large piece of
buttered toast.

'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 vacation,' 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 day, 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 of
our house shut up and hushed. I thought of the little baby, who,
Mrs. Creakle said, had been pining away for 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. I 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 face. I considered, after some hours were gone,
if my tears were really hard to flow now, as they seemed to be,
what, in connexion with my loss, it would affect me most to think
of when I drew near home - 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 felt distinguished, 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 Farmer, and was principally used
by country-people travelling short intermediate 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 contribution 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 of 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 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-parlour 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 industrious 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 - tat-tat,
RAT - tat-tat, RAT - tat-tat, without 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 gaily,
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, considering
about it. 'I am rather so.'

'You are such a comfortable man, you see,' said Minnie. '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?'

'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
fashions which he said had 'just come up', and to certain other
fashions which he said had 'just gone out'.

'And by that sort of thing we very often lose a little mint of
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. Everything is like life, in my opinion,
if you look at it in that point of view.'

I 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 parlour, 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 the 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 - tat-tat, RAT - tat-tat, RAT - 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 - tat-tat, RAT - tat-tat, RAT - 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 touch; 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 coloured a little, and the other two girls smiled at one


another.

'What! you were at it by candle-light last night, when I was at the
club, then? Were you?' said 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 - and you.'

'Oh! I thought you were going to leave me out altogether,' said
Mr. Omer, laughing till he coughed.

'- 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 into 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 wait 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 stuck
a needle threaded with black thread neatly in the bosom 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 very 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 half chaise-cart, half
pianoforte-van, painted of a sombre colour, 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 cheerful. 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
corner; scared by their love-making and hilarity, though it was far
from boisterous, and almost wondering that no judgement 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 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 had to
think what would move me to tears when I came back - 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 pretty was above the ground, she said, she would
never desert her.

Mr. Murdstone took no heed of me when I went into the parlour 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 you 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 exhibiting 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 appearing 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 Peggotty,
except that, in passing up or down stairs, I always found her close
to the room where my mother and her baby 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 - I think it was a day or
two before, but I am conscious of confusion in my mind about that
heavy time, with nothing to mark its progress - 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 to lie embodied the solemn stillness that was in
the house; and that when she would have turned the cover gently
back, I cried: 'Oh no! oh no!' and held her hand.

If the funeral had been yesterday, I could not recollect it better.
The very air of the best parlour, when I went in at the door, the
bright condition of the fire, the shining of the wine in the
decanters, the patterns of the glasses and plates, the faint sweet
smell of cake, the odour 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 something 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 I 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 neighbour 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 colour - of a sadder
colour. Now there is a solemn hush, which we have brought from
home with what is resting in the mould; and while we stand
bareheaded, I hear the voice of the clergyman, sounding remote in
the open air, and yet distinct and plain, saying: 'I am the
Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord!' Then I hear sobs; and,
standing apart among the lookers-on, I see that good and faithful
servant, whom of all the people upon earth I love the best, and
unto whom my 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 - I mind nothing but my grief

-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, puts 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 event. 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 that she
had to tell concerning what had happened.

'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 day. She used to like to sit alone before
her baby came, and then she cried; but afterwards she used to sing
to it - 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.

'The last time that I saw her like her own old self, was the night
when you came home, my dear. The day you went away, she said to
me, I never shall see my pretty darling again. Something tells me
sothat tells the truthI know."

'She tried to hold up after that; and many a timewhen they told
her she was thoughtless and light-heartedmade believe to be so;
but it was all a bygone then. She never told her husband what she
had told me - she was afraid of saying it to anybody else - till
one nighta little more than a week before it happenedwhen she
said to him: "My dearI think I am dying."

'"It's off my mind nowPeggotty she told me, when I laid her in
her bed that night. He will believe it more and morepoor
fellowevery day for a few days to come; and then it will be past.
I am very tired. If this is sleepsit by me while I sleep: 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 to
them two downstairs - for she loved them; she couldn't bear not to
love anyone who was about her - but when they went away from her
bed-sideshe always turned to meas if there was rest where
Peggotty wasand never fell asleep in any other way.

'On the last nightin the eveningshe kissed meand said: "If my
baby should die tooPeggottyplease 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 motherwhen she
lay hereblessed him not oncebut a thousand times."'

Another silence followed thisand another gentle beating on my
hand.


'It was pretty far in the night' said Peggotty'when she asked me
for some drink; and when she had taken itgave me such a patient
smilethe dear! - so beautiful!

'Daybreak had comeand the sun was risingwhen she said to me
how kind and considerate Mr. Copperfield had always been to her
and how he had borne with herand told herwhen she doubted
herselfthat a loving heart was better and stronger than wisdom
and that he was a happy man in hers. "Peggottymy 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 youfor
your face is going far offand 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 - when she was glad to lay her poor head on
her stupid cross old Peggotty's arm - 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 motherthe idea of her as she had been of late had
vanished from me. I remembered herfrom that instantonly as the
young mother of my earliest impressionswho had been used to wind
her bright curls round and round her fingerand to dance with me
at twilight in the parlour. What Peggotty had told me nowwas so
far from bringing me back to the later periodthat it rooted the
earlier image in my mind. It may be curiousbut it is true. In
her death she winged her way back to her calm untroubled youthand
cancelled all the rest.

The mother who lay in the gravewas the mother of my infancy; the
little creature in her armswas myselfas I had once beenhushed
for ever on her bosom.

CHAPTER 10
I BECOME NEGLECTEDAND AM PROVIDED FOR

The first act of business Miss Murdstone performed when the day of
the solemnity was overand light was freely admitted into the
housewas to give Peggotty a month's warning. Much as Peggotty
would have disliked such a serviceI believe she would have
retained itfor my sakein preference to the best upon earth.
She told me we must partand told me why; and we condoled with one
anotherin all sincerity.

As to me or my futurenot a word was saidor a step taken. Happy
they would have beenI dare sayif they could have dismissed me
at a month's warning too. I mustered courage onceto ask Miss
Murdstone when I was going back to school; and she answered dryly
she believed I was not going back at all. I was told nothing more.
I was very anxious to know what was going to be done with meand
so was Peggotty; but neither she nor I could pick up any
information on the subject.

There was one change in my conditionwhichwhile it relieved me
of a great deal of present uneasinessmight have made meif I had
been capable of considering it closelyyet more uncomfortable
about the future. It was this. The constraint that had been put
upon mewas quite abandoned. I was so far from being required to
keep my dull post in the parlourthat on several occasionswhen
I took my seat thereMiss Murdstone frowned to me to go away. I


was so far from being warned off from Peggotty's societythat
provided I was not in Mr. Murdstone'sI was never sought out or
inquired for. At first I was in daily dread of his taking my
education in hand againor of Miss Murdstone's devoting herself to
it; but I soon began to think that such fears were groundlessand
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 deathand in a kind
of stunned state as to all tributary things. I can recollect
indeedto have speculatedat odd timeson the possibility of my
not being taught any moreor cared for any more; and growing up to
be a shabbymoody manlounging an idle life awayabout the
village; as well as on the feasibility of my getting rid of this
picture by going away somewherelike the hero in a storyto seek
my fortune: but these were transient visionsdaydreams I sat
looking at sometimesas if they were faintly painted or written on
the wall of my roomand whichas they melted awayleft the wall
blank again.

'Peggotty' I said in a thoughtful whisperone eveningwhen I was
warming my hands at the kitchen fire'Mr. Murdstone likes me less
than he used to. He never liked me muchPeggotty; but he would
rather not even see me nowif he can help it.'

'Perhaps it's his sorrow' said Peggottystroking my hair.

'I am surePeggottyI am sorry too. If I believed it was his
sorrowI should not think of it at all. But it's not that; oh
noit's not that.'

'How do you know it's not that?' said Peggottyafter a silence.

'Ohhis sorrow is another and quite a different thing. He is
sorry at this momentsitting by the fireside with Miss Murdstone;
but if I was to go inPeggottyhe would be something besides.'

'What would he be?' said Peggotty.

'Angry' I answeredwith an involuntary imitation of his dark
frown. 'If he was only sorryhe wouldn't look at me as he does.
I am only sorryand it makes me feel kinder.'

Peggotty said nothing for a little while; and I warmed my handsas
silent as she.

'Davy' she said at length.

'YesPeggotty?'
'I have triedmy dearall ways I could think of - all the ways
there areand all the ways there ain'tin short - to get a
suitable service herein Blunderstone; but there's no such a
thingmy love.'

'And what do you mean to doPeggotty' says Iwistfully. 'Do you
mean to go and seek your fortune?'

'I expect I shall be forced to go to Yarmouth' replied Peggotty
'and live there.'

'You might have gone farther off' I saidbrightening a little
'and been as bad as lost. I shall see you sometimesmy dear old
Peggottythere. You won't be quite at the other end of the world
will you?'


'Contrary waysplease God!' cried Peggottywith great animation.
'As long as you are heremy petI shall come over every week of
my life to see you. One dayevery week of my life!'

I felt a great weight taken off my mind by this promise: but even
this was not allfor Peggotty went on to say:

'I'm a-goingDavyyou seeto my brother'sfirstfor another
fortnight's visit - just till I have had time to look about meand
get to be something like myself again. NowI have been thinking
that perhapsas they don't want you here at presentyou might be
let to go along with me.'

If anythingshort of being in a different relation to every one
about mePeggotty exceptedcould have given me a sense of
pleasure at that timeit would have been this project 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 morningwhen the bells were ringingthe stones dropping in
the waterand the shadowy ships breaking through the mist; of
roaming up and down with little Em'lytelling her my troublesand
finding charms against them in the shells and pebbles on the beach;
made a calm in my heart. It was ruffled next momentto be sure
by a doubt of Miss Murdstone's giving her consent; but even that
was set at rest soonfor she came out to take an evening grope in
the store-closet while we were yet in conversationand Peggotty
with a boldness that amazed mebroached the topic on the spot.

'The boy will be idle there' said Miss Murdstonelooking into a
pickle-jar'and idleness is the root of all evil. Butto be
surehe would be idle here - or anywherein my opinion.'

Peggotty had an angry answer readyI could see; but she swallowed
it for my sakeand remained silent.

'Humph!' said Miss Murdstonestill keeping her eye on the pickles;
'it is of more importance than anything else - it is of paramount
importance - that my brother should not be disturbed or made
uncomfortable. I suppose I had better say yes.'

I thanked herwithout making any demonstration of joylest it
should induce her to withdraw her assent. Nor could I help
thinking this a prudent coursesince she looked at me out of the
pickle-jarwith as great an access of sourness as if her black
eyes had absorbed its contents. Howeverthe permission was given
and was never retracted; for when the month was outPeggotty 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 beforebut on this occasion he
came into the house. And he gave me a look as he shouldered the
largest box and went outwhich I thought had meaning in itif
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 yearsand where the two strong attachments of her
life - for my mother and myself - had been formed. She had been
walking in the churchyardtoovery early; and she got into the
cartand sat in it with her handkerchief at her eyes.

So long as she remained in this conditionMr. Barkis gave no sign
of life whatever. He sat in his usual place and attitude like a


great stuffed figure. But when she began to look about herand to
speak to mehe nodded his head and grinned several times. I have
not the least notion at whomor what he meant by it.

'It's a beautiful dayMr. Barkis!' I saidas an act of
politeness.

'It ain't bad' said Mr. Barkiswho generally qualified his
speechand rarely committed himself.

'Peggotty is quite comfortable nowMr. Barkis' I remarkedfor
his satisfaction.

'Is shethough?' said Mr. Barkis.

After reflecting about itwith a sagacious airMr. Barkis eyed
herand said:

'ARE you pretty comfortable?'

Peggotty laughedand answered in the affirmative.

'But really and trulyyou know. Are you?' growled Mr. Barkis
sliding nearer to her on the seatand 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 herand
gave her another nudge; so that at last we were all crowded
together in the left-hand corner of the cartand I was so squeezed
that I could hardly bear it.

Peggotty calling his attention to my sufferingsMr. Barkis gave me
a little more room at onceand 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 neatagreeable
and pointed mannerwithout the inconvenience of inventing
conversation. He manifestly chuckled over it for some time. By
and by he turned to Peggotty againand repeating'Are you pretty
comfortable though?' bore down upon us as beforeuntil the breath
was nearly edged out of my body. By and by he made another descent
upon us with the same inquiryand the same result. At lengthI
got up whenever I saw him comingand 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-houseexpressly on our
accountand entertain us with broiled mutton and beer. Even when
Peggotty was in the act of drinkinghe was seized with one of
those approachesand almost choked her. But as we drew nearer to
the end of our journeyhe had more to do and less time for
gallantry; and when we got on Yarmouth pavementwe were all too
much shaken and joltedI apprehendto 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 mannerand shook hands with Mr.
Barkiswhowith his hat on the very back of his headand a
shame-faced leer upon his countenanceand pervading his very legs
presented but a vacant appearanceI thought. They each took one
of Peggotty's trunksand we were going awaywhen Mr. Barkis
solemnly made a sign to me with his forefinger to come under an
archway.

'I say' growled Mr. Barkis'it was all right.'


I looked up into his faceand answeredwith an attempt to be very
profound: 'Oh!'

'It didn't come to a end there' said Mr. Barkisnodding
confidentially. 'It was all right.'

Again I answered'Oh!'

'You know who was willin'' said my friend. 'It was Barkisand
Barkis only.'

I nodded assent.

'It's all right' said Mr. Barkisshaking hands; 'I'm a friend of
your'n. You made it all rightfirst. It's all right.'

In his attempts to be particularly lucidMr. Barkis was so
extremely mysteriousthat I might have stood looking in his face
for an hourand most assuredly should have got as much information
out of it as out of the face of a clock that had stoppedbut for
Peggotty's calling me away. As we were going alongshe 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
dearwhat should you think if I was to think of being married?'

'Why - I suppose you would like me as much thenPeggottyas you
do now?' I returnedafter a little consideration.

Greatly to the astonishment of the passengers in the streetas
well as of her relations going on beforethe good soul was obliged
to stop and embrace me on the spotwith many protestations of her
unalterable love.

'Tell me what should you saydarling?' she asked againwhen this
was overand we were walking on.

'If you were thinking of being married - to Mr. BarkisPeggotty?'

'Yes' said Peggotty.

'I should think it would be a very good thing. For then you know
Peggottyyou would always have the horse and cart to bring you
over to see meand could come for nothingand be sure of coming.'

'The sense of the dear!' cried Peggotty. 'What I have been
thinking ofthis month back! Yesmy precious; and I think I
should be more independent altogetheryou see; let alone my
working with a better heart in my own housethan I could in
anybody else's now. I don't know what I might be fit fornowas
a servant to a stranger. And I shall be always near my pretty's
resting-place' said Peggottymusing'and be able to see it when
I like; and when I lie down to restI may be laid not far off from
my darling girl!'

We neither of us said anything for a little while.

'But I wouldn't so much as give it another thought' said Peggotty
cheerily 'if my Davy was anyways against it - not if I had been
asked in church thirty times three times overand was wearing out
the ring in my pocket.'

'Look at mePeggotty' I replied; 'and see if I am not really
gladand don't truly wish it!' As indeed I didwith all my


heart.

'Wellmy life' said Peggottygiving me a squeeze'I have
thought of it night and dayevery way I canand I hope the right
way; but I'll think of it againand speak to my brother about it
and in the meantime we'll keep it to ourselvesDavyyou and me.
Barkis is a good plain creature' said Peggotty'and if I tried to
do my duty by himI think it would be my fault if I wasn't - if I
wasn't pretty comfortable' said Peggottylaughing heartily.
This quotation from Mr. Barkis was so appropriateand tickled us
both so muchthat we laughed again and againand were quite in a
pleasant humour when we came within view of Mr. Peggotty's cottage.

It looked just the sameexcept that it mayperhapshave 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 samedown
to the seaweed in the blue mug in my bedroom. I went into the
out-house to look about me; and the very same lobsterscrabsand
crawfish possessed by the same desire to pinch the world in
generalappeared to be in the same state of conglomeration in the

same old corner.

But there was no little Em'ly to be seenso I asked Mr. Peggotty
where she was.

'She's at schoolsir' said Mr. Peggottywiping the heat
consequent on the porterage of Peggotty's box from his forehead;
'she'll be home' looking at the Dutch clock'in from twenty
minutes to half-an-hour's time. We all on us feel the loss of her
bless ye!'

Mrs. Gummidge moaned.

'Cheer upMawther!' cried Mr. Peggotty.

'I feel it more than anybody else' said Mrs. Gummidge; 'I'm a lone
lorn creetur'and she used to be a'most the only thing that didn't
go contrary with me.'

Mrs. Gummidgewhimpering and shaking her headapplied herself to
blowing the fire. Mr. Peggottylooking round upon us while she
was so engagedsaid in a low voicewhich 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.

Nowthe whole place wasor it should have beenquite 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 comeand presently found myself strolling along the path to
meet her.

A figure appeared in the distance before longand I soon knew it
to be Em'lywho was a little creature still in staturethough she
was grown. But when she drew nearerand I saw her blue eyes
looking bluerand her dimpled face looking brighterand her whole
self prettier and gayera curious feeling came over me that made
me pretend not to know herand pass by as if I were looking at
something a long way off. I have done such a thing since in later
lifeor I am mistaken.

Little Em'ly didn't care a bit. She saw me well enough; but


instead of turning round and calling after meran away laughing.
This obliged me to run after herand she ran so fast that we were
very near the cottage before I caught her.

'Ohit's youis it?' said little Em'ly.

'Whyyou knew who it wasEm'ly' said I.

'And didn't YOU know who it was?' said Em'ly. I was going to kiss
herbut she covered her cherry lips with her handsand said she
wasn't a baby nowand ran awaylaughing more than everinto the
house.

She seemed to delight in teasing mewhich was a change in her I
wondered at very much. The tea table was readyand our little
locker was put out in its old placebut instead of coming to sit
by meshe went and bestowed her company upon that grumbling Mrs.
Gummidge: and on Mr. Peggotty's inquiring whyrumpled her hair all
over her face to hide itand could do nothing but laugh.

'A little pussit is!' said Mr. Peggottypatting her with his
great hand.

'So sh' is! so sh' is!' cried Ham. 'Mas'r Davy bor'so sh' is!'
and he sat and chuckled at her for some timein a state of mingled
admiration and delightthat made his face a burning red.

Little Em'ly was spoiled by them allin fact; and by no one more
than Mr. Peggotty himselfwhom she could have coaxed into
anythingby only going and laying her cheek against his rough
whisker. That was my opinionat leastwhen I saw her do it; and
I held Mr. Peggotty to be thoroughly in the right. But she was so
affectionate and sweet-naturedand had such a pleasant manner of
being both sly and shy at oncethat she captivated me more than
ever.

She was tender-heartedtoo; for whenas we sat round the fire
after teaan allusion was made by Mr. Peggotty over his pipe to
the loss I had sustainedthe tears stood in her eyesand she
looked at me so kindly across the tablethat I felt quite thankful
to her.

'Ah!' said Mr. Peggottytaking up her curlsand running them over
his hand like water'here's another orphanyou seesir. And
here' said Mr. Peggottygiving Ham a backhanded knock in the
chest'is another of 'emthough he don't look much like it.'

'If I had you for my guardianMr. Peggotty' said Ishaking my
head'I don't think I should FEEL much like it.'

'Well saidMas'r Davy bor'!' cried Hamin an ecstasy. 'Hoorah!
Well said! Nor more you wouldn't! Hor! Hor!' - Here he returned
Mr. Peggotty's back-handerand little Em'ly got up and kissed Mr.
Peggotty. 'And how's your friendsir?' said Mr. Peggotty to me.

'Steerforth?' said I.

'That's the name!' cried Mr. Peggottyturning to Ham. 'I knowed
it was something in our way.'

'You said it was Rudderford' observed Hamlaughing.

'Well!' retorted Mr. Peggotty. 'And ye steer with a rudderdon't
ye? It ain't fur off. How is hesir?'


'He was very well indeed when I came awayMr. Peggotty.'

'There's a friend!' said Mr. Peggottystretching out his pipe.
'There's a friendif you talk of friends! WhyLord love my heart
aliveif it ain't a treat to look at him!'

'He is very handsomeis he not?' said Imy heart warming with
this praise.

'Handsome!' cried Mr. Peggotty. 'He stands up to you like - like
a - 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
lionand you can't think how frank he isMr. Peggotty.'

'And I do supposenow' said Mr. Peggottylooking at me through
the smoke of his pipe'that in the way of book-larning he'd take
the wind out of a'most anything.'

'Yes' said Idelighted; 'he knows everything. He is
astonishingly clever.'

'There's a friend!' murmured Mr. Peggottywith 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 draughtsand beat
you easily.'

Mr. Peggotty gave his head another tossas much as to say: 'Of
course he will.'

'He is such a speaker' I pursued'that he can win anybody over;
and I don't know what you'd say if you were to hear him singMr.
Peggotty.'

Mr. Peggotty gave his head another tossas much as to say: 'I have
no doubt of it.'

'Thenhe's such a generousfinenoble fellow' said Iquite
carried away by my favourite 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 onvery fast indeedwhen my eyes rested on little
Em'ly's facewhich was bent forward over the tablelistening with
the deepest attentionher breath heldher blue eyes sparkling
like jewelsand the colour mantling in her cheeks. She looked so
extraordinarily earnest and prettythat I stopped in a sort of
wonder; and they all observed her at the same timefor as I
stoppedthey 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 herand hung down her
headand her face was covered with blushes. Glancing up presently
through her stray curlsand seeing that we were all looking at her
still (I am sure Ifor onecould have looked at her for hours)
she ran awayand kept away till it was nearly bedtime.


I lay down in the old little bed in the stern of the boatand the
wind came moaning on across the flat as it had done before. But I
could not help fancyingnowthat it moaned of those who were
gone; and instead of thinking that the sea might rise in the night
and float the boat awayI thought of the sea that had risensince
I last heard those soundsand drowned my happy home. I recollect
as the wind and water began to sound fainter in my earsputting a
short clause into my prayerspetitioning that I might grow up to
marry little Em'lyand so dropping lovingly asleep.

The days passed pretty much as they had passed beforeexcept - it
was a great exception- that little Em'ly and I seldom wandered on
the beach now. She had tasks to learnand needle-work to do; and
was absent during a great part of each day. But I felt that we
should not have had those old wanderingseven if it had been
otherwise. Wild and full of childish whims as Em'ly wasshe was
more of a little woman than I had supposed. She seemed to have got
a great distance away from mein little more than a year. She
liked mebut she laughed at meand tormented me; and when I went
to meet herstole home another wayand was laughing at the door
when I came backdisappointed. The best times were when she sat
quietly at work in the doorwayand I sat on the wooden step at her
feetreading to her. It seems to meat this hourthat 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 skysuch watersuch glorified ships sailing away into golden
air.

On the very first evening after our arrivalMr. Barkis appeared in
an exceedingly vacant and awkward conditionand with a bundle of
oranges tied up in a handkerchief. As he made no allusion of any
kind to this propertyhe was supposed to have left it behind him
by accident when he went away; until Hamrunning after him to
restore itcame back with the information that it was intended for
Peggotty. After that occasion he appeared every evening at exactly
the same hourand always with a little bundleto which he never
alludedand which he regularly put behind the door and left there.
These offerings of affection were of a most various and eccentric
description. Among them I remember a double set of pigs' trotters
a huge pin-cushionhalf a bushel or so of applesa pair of jet
earringssome Spanish onionsa box of dominoesa canary bird and
cageand a leg of pickled pork.

Mr. Barkis's wooingas I remember itwas altogether of a peculiar
kind. He very seldom said anything; but would sit by the fire in
much the same attitude as he sat in his cartand stare heavily at
Peggottywho was opposite. One nightbeingas I suppose
inspired by lovehe made a dart at the bit of wax-candle she kept
for her threadand put it in his waistcoat-pocket and carried it
off. After thathis great delight was to produce it when it was
wantedsticking to the lining of his pocketin a partially melted
stateand pocket it again when it was done with. He seemed to
enjoy himself very muchand not to feel at all called upon to
talk. Even when he took Peggotty out for a walk on the flatshe
had no uneasiness on that headI believe; contenting himself with
now and then asking her if she was pretty comfortable; and I
remember that sometimesafter he was gonePeggotty would throw
her apron over her faceand laugh for half-an-hour. Indeedwe
were all more or less amusedexcept that miserable Mrs. Gummidge
whose courtship would appear to have been of an exactly parallel
natureshe was so continually reminded by these transactions of
the old one.


At lengthwhen the term of my visit was nearly expiredit was
given out that Peggotty and Mr. Barkis were going to make a day's
holiday togetherand that little Em'ly and I were to accompany
them. I had but a broken sleep the night beforein 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 breakfastMr.
Barkis appeared in the distancedriving a chaise-cart towards the
object of his affections.

Peggotty was dressed as usualin her neat and quiet mourning; but
Mr. Barkis bloomed in a new blue coatof which the tailor had
given him such good measurethat the cuffs would have rendered
gloves unnecessary in the coldest weatherwhile the collar was so
high that it pushed his hair up on end on the top of his head. His
bright buttonstoowere of the largest size. Rendered complete
by drab pantaloons and a buff waistcoatI thought Mr. Barkis a
phenomenon of respectability.

When we were all in a bustle outside the doorI found that Mr.
Peggotty was prepared with an old shoewhich was to be thrown
after us for luckand which he offered to Mrs. Gummidge for that
purpose.

'No. It had better be done by somebody elseDan'l' said Mrs.
Gummidge. 'I'm a lone lorn creetur' myselfand everythink that
reminds me of creetur's that ain't lone and lorngoes contrary
with me.'

'Comeold gal!' cried Mr. Peggotty. 'Take and heave it.'

'NoDan'l' returned Mrs. Gummidgewhimpering and shaking her
head. 'If I felt lessI could do more. You don't feel like me
Dan'l; thinks don't go contrary with younor you with them; you
had better do it yourself.'

But here Peggottywho had been going about from one to another in
a hurried waykissing everybodycalled out from the cartin
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; andI am sorry to relatecast a damp upon the festive
character of our departureby immediately bursting into tearsand
sinking subdued into the arms of Hamwith the declaration that she
knowed she was a burdenand had better be carried to the House at
once. Which I really thought was a sensible ideathat Ham might
have acted on.

Away we wenthoweveron our holiday excursion; and the first
thing we did was to stop at a churchwhere Mr. Barkis tied the
horse to some railsand went in with Peggottyleaving little
Em'ly and me alone in the chaise. I took that occasion to put my
arm round Em'ly's waistand propose that as I was going away so
very soon nowwe should determine to be very affectionate to one
anotherand very happyall day. Little Em'ly consentingand
allowing me to kiss herI became desperate; informing herI
recollectthat I never could love anotherand that I was prepared
to shed the blood of anybody 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 Ithe 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 namein the pleasure of looking at her.

Mr. Barkis and Peggotty were a good while in the churchbut came


out at lastand then we drove away into the country. As we were
going alongMr. Barkis turned to meand saidwith a wink- by
the byI should hardly have thoughtbeforethat he could wink:

'What name was it as I wrote up in the cart?'

'Clara Peggotty' I answered.

'What name would it be as I should write up nowif there was a
tilt here?'

'Clara Peggottyagain?' I suggested.

'Clara Peggotty BARKIS!' he returnedand burst into a roar of
laughter that shook the chaise.

In a wordthey were marriedand had gone into the church for no
other purpose. Peggotty was resolved that it should be quietly
done; and the clerk had given her awayand there had been no
witnesses of the ceremony. She was a little confused when Mr.
Barkis made this abrupt announcement of their unionand could not
hug me enough in token of her unimpaired affection; but she soon
became herself againand said she was very glad it was over.

We drove to a little inn in a by-roadwhere we were expectedand
where we had a very comfortable dinnerand passed the day with
great satisfaction. If Peggotty had been married every day for the
last ten yearsshe could hardly have been more at her ease about
it; it made no sort of difference in her: she was just the same as
everand went out for a stroll with little Em'ly and me before
teawhile Mr. Barkis philosophically smoked his pipeand enjoyed
himselfI supposewith the contemplation of his happiness. If
soit sharpened his appetite; for I distinctly call to mind that
although he had eaten a good deal of pork and greens at dinnerand
had finished off with a fowl or twohe was obliged to have cold
boiled bacon for teaand disposed of a large quantity without any
emotion.

I have often thoughtsincewhat an oddinnocentout-of-the-way
kind of wedding it must have been! We got into the chaise again
soon after darkand drove cosily backlooking up at the stars
and talking about them. I was their chief exponentand opened Mr.
Barkis's mind to an amazing extent. I told him all I knewbut he
would have believed anything I might have taken it into my head to
impart to him; for he had a profound veneration for my abilities
and informed his wife in my hearingon that very occasionthat I
was 'a young Roeshus' - by which I think he meant prodigy.

When we had exhausted the subject of the starsor rather when I
had exhausted the mental faculties of Mr. Barkislittle Em'ly and
I made a cloak of an old wrapperand sat under it for the rest of
the journey. Ahhow I loved her! What happiness (I thought) if
we were marriedand were going away anywhere to live among the
trees and in the fieldsnever growing oldernever growing wiser
children everrambling hand in hand through sunshine and among
flowery meadowslaying down our heads on moss at nightin a sweet
sleep of purity and peaceand buried by the birds when we were
dead! Some such picturewith no real world in itbright with the
light of our innocenceand vague as the stars afar offwas 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.


Wellwe came to the old boat again in good time at night; and
there Mr. and Mrs. Barkis bade us good-byeand drove away snugly
to their own home. I felt thenfor the first timethat I had
lost Peggotty. I should have gone to bed with a sore heart indeed
under any other roof but that which sheltered 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 hospitable faces to drive
it away. Little Em'ly came and sat beside me on the locker for the
only time in all that visit; and it was altogether a wonderful
close to a wonderful day.

It was a night tide; and soon after we went to bedMr. Peggotty
and Ham went out to fish. I felt very brave at being left alone in
the solitary housethe protector of Em'ly and Mrs. Gummidgeand
only wished that a lion or a serpentor any ill-disposed monster
would make an attack upon usthat I might destroy himand cover
myself with glory. But as nothing of the sort happened to be
walking about on Yarmouth flats that nightI provided the best
substitute I could by dreaming of dragons until morning.

With morning came Peggotty; who called to meas usualunder 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 homeand a
beautiful little home it was. Of all the moveables in itI must
have been impressed by a certain old bureau of some dark wood in
the parlour (the tile-floored kitchen was the general
sitting-room)with a retreating top which openedlet downand
became a deskwithin which was a large quarto edition of Foxe's
Book of Martyrs. This precious volumeof which I do not recollect
one wordI immediately discovered and immediately applied myself
to; and I never visited the house afterwardsbut I kneeled on a
chairopened the casket where this gem was enshrinedspread my
arms over the deskand fell to devouring the book afresh. I was
chiefly edifiedI am afraidby the pictureswhich were numerous
and represented all kinds of dismal horrors; but the Martyrs and
Peggotty's house have been inseparable in my mind ever sinceand
are now.

I took leave of Mr. Peggottyand Hamand Mrs. Gummidgeand
little Em'lythat day; and passed the night at Peggotty'sin a
little room in the roof (with the Crocodile Book on a shelf by the
bed's head) which was to be always minePeggotty saidand should
always be kept for me in exactly the same state.

'Young or oldDavy dearas 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 dayas I used to
keep your old little roommy darling; and if you was to go to
Chinayou might think of it as being kept just the sameall the
time you were away.'

I felt the truth and constancy of my dear old nursewith all my
heartand thanked her as well as I could. That was not very well
for she spoke to me thuswith her arms round my neckin the
morningand I was going home in the morningand I went home in
the morningwith herself and Mr. Barkis in the cart. They left me
at the gatenot easily or lightly; and it was a strange sight to
me to see the cart go ontaking Peggotty awayand leaving me
under the old elm-trees looking at the housein which there was no
face to look on mine with love or liking any more.

And now I fell into a state of neglectwhich I cannot look back
upon without compassion. I fell at once into a solitary condition


-apart from all friendly noticeapart from the society of all
other boys of my own ageapart from all companionship but my own
spiritless thoughts- which seems to cast its gloom upon this
paper as I write.
What would I have givento have been sent to the hardest school
that ever was kept! - to have been taught somethinganyhow
anywhere! No such hope dawned upon me. They disliked me; and they
sullenlysternlysteadilyoverlooked 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 triedas I believeto put away the notion that I had
any claim upon him - and succeeded.

I was not actively ill-used. I was not beatenor starved; but the
wrong that was done to me had no intervals of relentingand was
done in a systematicpassionless manner. Day after dayweek
after weekmonth after monthI was coldly neglected. I wonder
sometimeswhen I think of itwhat they would have done if I had
been taken with an illness; whether I should have lain down in my
lonely roomand languished through it in my usual solitary wayor
whether anybody would have helped me out.

When Mr. and Miss Murdstone were at homeI took my meals with
them; in their absenceI ate and drank by myself. At all times I
lounged about the house and neighbourhood quite disregardedexcept
that they were jealous of my making any friends: thinkingperhaps
that if I didI might complain to someone. For this reason
though Mr. Chillip often asked me to go and see him (he was a
widowerhavingsome years before thatlost a little small
light-haired wifewhom I can just remember connecting in my own
thoughts with a pale tortoise-shell cat)it was but seldom that I
enjoyed the happiness of passing an afternoon in his closet of a
surgery; reading some book that was new to mewith the smell of
the whole Pharmacopoeia coming up my noseor pounding something in
a mortar under his mild directions.

For the same reasonadded no doubt to the old dislike of herI
was seldom allowed to visit Peggotty. Faithful to her promiseshe
either came to see meor met me somewhere nearonce every week
and never empty-handed; but many and bitter were the
disappointments I hadin being refused permission to pay a visit
to her at her house. Some few timeshoweverat long intervals
I was allowed to go there; and then I found out that Mr. Barkis was
something of a miseror as Peggotty dutifully expressed itwas '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
cofferhis riches hid themselves with such a tenacious modesty
that the smallest instalments could only be tempted out by
artifice; so that Peggotty had to prepare a long and elaborate
schemea very Gunpowder Plotfor every Saturday's expenses.

All this time I was so conscious of the waste of any promise I had
givenand of my being utterly neglectedthat I should have been
perfectly miserableI have no doubtbut for the old books. They
were my only comfort; and I was as 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 lifewhich I can never lose the
remembrance ofwhile I remember anything: and the recollection of
which has oftenwithout my invocationcome before me like a
ghostand haunted happier times.

I had been outone dayloitering somewherein the listless


meditative manner that my way of life engenderedwhenturning the
corner of a lane near our houseI came upon Mr. Murdstone walking
with a gentleman. I was confusedand was going by themwhen the
gentleman cried:

'What! Brooks!'

'NosirDavid Copperfield' I said.

'Don't tell me. You are Brooks' said the gentleman. 'You are
Brooks of Sheffield. That's your name.'

At these wordsI observed the gentleman more attentively. His
laugh coming to my remembrance tooI knew him to be Mr. Quinion
whom I had gone over to Lowestoft with Mr. Murdstone to seebefore

-it is no matter - I need not recall when.
'And how do you get onand where are you being educatedBrooks?'
said Mr. Quinion.

He had put his hand upon my shoulderand turned me aboutto walk
with them. I did not know what to replyand 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 olddouble look was on me for a moment; and then his eyes
darkened with a frownas it turnedin its aversionelsewhere.

'Humph!' said Mr. Quinionlooking at us bothI thought. 'Fine
weather!'

Silence ensuedand I was considering how I could best disengage my
shoulder from his handand go awaywhen he said:

'I suppose you are a pretty sharp fellow still? EhBrooks?'

'Aye! He is sharp enough' said Mr. Murdstoneimpatiently. 'You
had better let him go. He will not thank you for troubling him.'

On this hintMr. Quinion released meand I made the best of my
way home. Looking back as I turned into the front gardenI saw
Mr. Murdstone leaning against the wicket of the churchyardand Mr.
Quinion talking to him. They were both looking after meand I
felt that they were speaking of me.

Mr. Quinion lay at our house that night. After breakfastthe next
morningI had put my chair awayand was going out of the room
when Mr. Murdstone called me back. He then gravely repaired to
another tablewhere his sister sat herself at her desk. Mr.
Quinionwith his hands in his pocketsstood 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.'

-'As you do' added his sister.
'Jane Murdstoneleave it to meif you please. I sayDavidto
the young this is a world for actionand not for moping and
droning in. It is especially so for a young boy of your
dispositionwhich 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 worldand to bend it and break it.'


'For stubbornness won't do here' said his sister 'What it wants
isto be crushed. And crushed it must be. Shall betoo!'


He gave her a lookhalf in remonstrancehalf in approvaland
went on:


'I suppose you knowDavidthat I am not rich. At any rateyou
know it now. You have received some considerable education
already. Education is costly; and even if it were notand I could
afford itI am of opinion that it would not be at all advantageous
to you to be kept at school. What is before youis a fight with
the world; and the sooner you begin itthe better.'


I think it occurred to me that I had already begun itin my poor
way: but it occurs to me nowwhether or no.


'You have heard the "counting-house" mentioned sometimes' said Mr.
Murdstone.


'The counting-housesir?' I repeated.
'Of Murdstone and Grinbyin the wine trade' he replied.


I suppose I looked uncertainfor he went on hastily:


'You have heard the "counting-house" mentionedor the businessor
the cellarsor the wharfor something about it.'


'I think I have heard the business mentionedsir' I said
remembering what I vaguely knew of his and his sister's resources.
'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
window.


'Mr. Quinion suggests that it gives employment to some other boys
and that he sees no reason why it shouldn'ton the same terms
give employment to you.'


'He having' Mr. Quinion observed in a low voiceand half turning
round'no other prospectMurdstone.'


Mr. Murdstonewith an impatienteven an angry gestureresumed
without noticing what he had said:


'Those terms arethat you will earn enough for yourself to provide
for your eating and drinkingand 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 youtoo' said Mr.
Murdstone; 'as you will not be ableyet awhileto get them for
yourself. So you are now going to LondonDavidwith Mr. Quinion
to begin the world on your own account.'


'In shortyou are provided for' observed his sister; 'and will
please to do your duty.'



Though I quite understood that the purpose of this announcement was
to get rid of meI have no distinct remembrance whether it pleased
or frightened me. My impression isthat I was in a state of
confusion about itandoscillating between the two points
touched neither. Nor had I much time for the clearing of my
thoughtsas Mr. Quinion was to go upon the morrow.

Behold meon the morrowin a much-worn little white hatwith a
black crape round it for my mothera black jacketand a pair of
hardstiff corduroy trousers - which Miss Murdstone considered the
best armour for the legs in that fight with the world which was now
to come off. behold me so attiredand with my little worldly all
before me in a small trunksittinga lone lorn child (as Mrs.
Gummidge might have said)in the post-chaise that was carrying Mr.
Quinion to the London coach at Yarmouth! Seehow 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
upwards from my old playground no moreand the sky is empty!

CHAPTER 11
I BEGIN LIFE ON MY OWN ACCOUNTAND DON'T LIKE IT

I know enough of the world nowto have almost lost the capacity of
being much surprised by anything; but it is matter of some surprise
to meeven nowthat I can have been so easily thrown away at such
an age. A child of excellent abilitiesand with strong powers of
observationquickeagerdelicateand soon hurt bodily or
mentallyit seems wonderful to me that nobody should have made any
sign in my behalf. But none was made; and I becameat ten years
olda little labouring 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 streetcurving down
hill to the riverwith some stairs at the endwhere people took
boat. It was a crazy old house with a wharf of its ownabutting
on the water when the tide was inand on the mud when the tide was
outand literally overrun with rats. Its panelled rooms
discoloured with the dirt and smoke of a hundred yearsI dare say;
its decaying floors and staircase; the squeaking and scuffling of
the old grey rats down in the cellars; and the dirt and rottenness
of the place; are thingsnot of many years agoin my mindbut of
the present instant. They are all before mejust as they were in
the evil hour when I went among them for the first timewith my
trembling hand in Mr. Quinion's.

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 wentbut
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 consequences of this trafficand that certain men and
boys were employed to examine them against the lightand reject
those that were flawedand to rinse and wash them. When the empty
bottles ran shortthere were labels to be pasted on full onesor
corks to be fitted to themor seals to be put upon the corksor
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 uscounting me. My working place was
established in a corner of the warehousewhere Mr. Quinion could
see mewhen he chose to stand up on the bottom rail of his stool
in the counting-houseand look at me through a window above the
desk. Hitheron the first morning of my so auspiciously beginning
life on my own accountthe oldest of the regular boys was summoned
to show me my business. His name was Mick Walkerand he wore a
ragged apron and a paper cap. He informed me that his father was
a bargemanand walkedin a black velvet head-dressin the Lord
Mayor's Show. He also informed me that our principal associate
would be another boy whom he introduced by the - to me extraordinary
name of Mealy Potatoes. I discoveredhoweverthat
this youth had not been christened by that namebut that it had
been bestowed upon him in the warehouseon account of his
complexionwhich was pale or mealy. Mealy's father was a
watermanwho had the additional distinction of being a fireman
and was engaged as such at one of the large theatres; where some
young relation of Mealy's - I think his little sister - did Imps in
the Pantomimes.

No words can express the secret agony of my soul as I sunk into
this companionship; compared these henceforth everyday associates
with those of my happier childhood - not to say with Steerforth
Traddlesand the rest of those boys; and felt my hopes of growing
up to be a learned and distinguished mancrushed in my bosom. The
deep remembrance of the sense I hadof 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 learnedand
thoughtand delighted inand raised my fancy and my emulation up
bywould pass away from melittle by littlenever to be brought
back any more; cannot be written. As often as Mick Walker went
away in the course of that forenoonI mingled my tears with the
water in which I was washing the bottles; and sobbed as if there
were a flaw in my own breastand it were in danger of bursting.

The counting-house clock was at half past twelveand there was
general preparation for going to dinnerwhen Mr. Quinion tapped at
the counting-house windowand beckoned to me to go in. I went in
and found there a stoutishmiddle-aged personin a brown surtout
and black tights and shoeswith no more hair upon his head (which
was a large oneand very shining) than there is upon an eggand
with a very extensive facewhich he turned full upon me. His
clothes were shabbybut he had an imposing shirt-collar on. He
carried a jaunty sort of a stickwith a large pair of rusty
tassels to it; and a quizzing-glass hung outside his coat- for
ornamentI afterwards foundas he very seldom looked through it
and couldn't see anything when he did.

'This' said Mr. Quinionin allusion to myself'is he.'

'This' said the strangerwith a certain condescending roll in his
voiceand a certain indescribable air of doing something genteel
which impressed me very much'is Master Copperfield. I hope I see
you wellsir?'

I said I was very welland hoped he was. I was sufficiently ill
at easeHeaven knows; but it was not in my nature to complain much
at that time of my lifeso I said I was very welland hoped he
was.

'I am' said the stranger'thank Heavenquite well. I have
received a letter from Mr. Murdstonein which he mentions that he
would desire me to receive into an apartment in the rear of my
housewhich is at present unoccupied - and isin shortto be let


as a - in short' said the strangerwith a smile and in a burst of
confidence'as a bedroom - the young beginner whom I have now the
pleasure to -' and the stranger waved his handand 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 commissionwhen he can get any. He has
been written to by Mr. Murdstoneon the subject of your lodgings
and he will receive you as a lodger.'


'My address' said Mr. Micawber'is Windsor TerraceCity Road.
I - in short' said Mr. Micawberwith the same genteel airand in
another burst of confidence - 'I live there.'


I made him a bow.


'Under the impression' said Mr. Micawber'that your
peregrinations in this metropolis have not as yet been extensive
and that you might have some difficulty in penetrating the arcana
of the Modern Babylon in the direction of the City Road- in
short' said Mr. Micawberin another burst of confidence'that
you might lose yourself - I shall be happy to call this evening
and install you in the knowledge of the nearest way.'


I thanked him with all my heartfor it was friendly in him 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 hatand went out with his cane under his arm:
very uprightand humming a tune when he was clear of the
counting-house.


Mr. Quinion then formally engaged me to be as useful as I could in
the warehouse of Murdstone and Grinbyat a salaryI thinkof six
shillings a week. I am not clear whether it was six or seven. I
am inclined to believefrom my uncertainty on this headthat it
was six at first and seven afterwards. He paid me a week down
(from his own pocketI believe)and I gave Mealy sixpence out of
it to get my trunk carried to Windsor Terrace that night: it being
too heavy for my strengthsmall as it was. I paid sixpence more
for my dinnerwhich was a meat pie and a turn at a neighbouring
pump; and passed the hour which was allowed for that mealin
walking about the streets.


At the appointed time in the eveningMr. Micawber reappeared. I
washed my hands and faceto do the greater honour to his
gentilityand we walked to our houseas I suppose I must now call
ittogether; Mr. Micawber impressing the name of streetsand the
shapes of corner houses upon meas we went alongthat I might
find my way backeasilyin the morning.


Arrived at this house in Windsor Terrace (which I noticed was
shabby like himselfbut alsolike himselfmade all the show it
could)he presented me to Mrs. Micawbera thin and faded lady



not at all youngwho was sitting in the parlour (the first floor
was altogether unfurnishedand the blinds were kept down to delude
the neighbours)with a baby at her breast. This baby was one of
twins; and I may remark here that I hardly everin all my
experience of the familysaw both the twins detached from Mrs.
Micawber at the same time. One of them was always taking
refreshment.

There were two other children; Master Micawberaged about four
and Miss Micawberaged about three. Theseand a
dark-complexioned young womanwith a habit of snortingwho was
servant to the familyand informed mebefore half an hour had
expiredthat she was 'a Orfling'and came from St. Luke's
workhousein the neighbourhoodcompleted the establishment. My
room was at the top of the houseat the back: a close chamber;
stencilled all over with an ornament which my young imagination
represented as a blue muffin; and very scantily furnished.

'I never thought' said Mrs. Micawberwhen she came uptwin and
allto show me the apartmentand sat down to take breath'before
I was marriedwhen I lived with papa and mamathat I should ever
find it necessary to take a lodger. But Mr. Micawber being in
difficultiesall considerations of private feeling must give way.'

I said: 'Yesma'am.'

'Mr. Micawber's difficulties are almost overwhelming just at
present' said Mrs. Micawber; 'and whether it is possible to bring
him through themI don't know. When I lived at home with papa and
mamaI really should have hardly understood what the word meant
in the sense in which I now employ itbut experientia does itas
papa used to say.'

I cannot satisfy myself whether she told me that Mr. Micawber had
been an officer in the Marinesor whether I have imagined it. I
only know that I believe to this hour that he WAS in the Marines
once upon a timewithout knowing why. He was a sort of town
traveller for a number of miscellaneous housesnow; but made
little or nothing of itI 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
stoneneither 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 ageor 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 withbut
this was the strain in which she beganand she went on accordingly
all the time I knew her.

Poor Mrs. Micawber! She said she had tried to exert herselfand
soI have no doubtshe had. The centre of the street door was
perfectly covered with a great brass-plateon which was engraved
'Mrs. Micawber's Boarding Establishment for Young Ladies': but I
never found that any young lady had ever been to school there; or
that any young lady ever cameor proposed to come; or that the
least preparation was ever made to receive any young lady. The
only visitors I ever sawor heard ofwere creditors. THEY used
to come at all hoursand some of them were quite ferocious. One
dirty-faced manI think he was a boot-makerused to edge himself
into the passage as early as seven o'clock in the morningand call


up the stairs to Mr. Micawber - 'Come! You ain't out yetyou
know. Pay uswill you? Don't hideyou know; that's mean. I
wouldn't be mean if I was you. Pay uswill you? You just pay us
d'ye hear? Come!' Receiving no answer to these tauntshe would
mount in his wrath to the words 'swindlers' and 'robbers'; and
these being ineffectual toowould sometimes go to the extremity of
crossing the streetand roaring up at the windows of the second
floorwhere he knew Mr. Micawber was. At these timesMr.
Micawber would be transported with grief and mortificationeven 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
afterwardshe would polish up his shoes with extraordinary pains
and go outhumming 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'clockand
to eat lamb chopsbreadedand drink warm ale (paid for with two
tea-spoons that had gone to the pawnbroker's) at four. On one
occasionwhen an execution had just been put incoming home
through some chance as early as six o'clockI saw her lying (of
course with a twin) under the grate in a swoonwith her hair all
torn about her face; but I never knew her more cheerful than she
wasthat very same nightover a veal cutlet before the kitchen
firetelling me stories about her papa and mamaand the company
they used to keep.

In this houseand with this familyI passed my leisure time. My
own exclusive breakfast of a penny loaf and a pennyworth of milk
I provided myself. I kept another small loafand a modicum of
cheeseon a particular shelf of a particular cupboardto make my
supper on when I came back at night. This made a hole in the six
or seven shillingsI know well; and I was out at the warehouse all
dayand had to support myself on that money all the week. From
Monday morning until Saturday nightI had no adviceno counsel
no encouragementno consolationno assistanceno supportof any
kindfrom anyonethat I can call to mindas I hope to go to
heaven!

I was so young and childishand so little qualified - how could I
be otherwise? - to undertake the whole charge of my own existence
that oftenin going to Murdstone and Grinby'sof a morningI
could not resist the stale pastry put out for sale at half-price at
the pastrycooks' doorsand spent in that the money I should have
kept for my dinner. ThenI went without my dinneror bought a
roll or a slice of pudding. I remember two pudding shopsbetween
which I was dividedaccording to my finances. One was in a court
close to St. Martin's Church - at the back of the church- which
is now removed altogether. The pudding at that shop was made of
currantsand was rather a special puddingbut was dear
twopennyworth not being larger than a pennyworth of more ordinary
pudding. A good shop for the latter was in the Strand - somewhere
in that part which has been rebuilt since. It was a stout pale
puddingheavy and flabbyand with great flat raisins in itstuck
in whole at wide distances apart. It came up hot at about my time
every dayand many a day did I dine off it. When I dined
regularly and handsomelyI had a saveloy and a penny loafor a
fourpenny plate of red beef from a cook's shop; or a plate of bread
and cheese and a glass of beerfrom a miserable old public-house
opposite our place of businesscalled the Lionor the Lion and
something else that I have forgotten. OnceI remember carrying my
own bread (which I had brought from home in the morning) under my
armwrapped in a piece of paperlike a bookand going to a
famous alamode beef-house near Drury Laneand ordering a 'small
plate' of that delicacy to eat with it. What the waiter thought of
such a strange little apparition coming in all aloneI don't know;


but I can see him nowstaring at me as I ate my dinnerand
bringing up the other waiter to look. I gave him a halfpenny for
himselfand I wish he hadn't taken it.


We had half-an-hourI thinkfor tea. When I had money enoughI
used to get half-a-pint of ready-made coffee and a slice of bread
and butter. When I had noneI used to look at a venison shop in
Fleet Street; or I have strolledat such a timeas far as Covent
Garden Marketand stared at the pineapples. I was fond of
wandering about the Adelphibecause it was a mysterious place
with those dark arches. I see myself emerging one evening from
some of these archeson a little public-house close to the river
with an open space before itwhere some coal-heavers were dancing;
to look at whom I sat down upon a bench. I wonder what they
thought of me!


I was such a childand so littlethat frequently when I went into
the bar of a strange public-house for a glass of ale or porterto
moisten what I had had for dinnerthey 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 - your very best - ale a glass?' For it was a
special occasion. I don't know what. It may have been my
birthday.


'Twopence-halfpenny' says the landlord'is the price of the
Genuine Stunning ale.'


'Then' says Iproducing the money'just draw me a glass of the
Genuine Stunningif you pleasewith a good head to it.'


The landlord looked at me in return over the barfrom head to
footwith a strange smile on his face; and instead of drawing the
beerlooked round the screen and said something to his wife. She
came out from behind itwith her work in her handand joined him
in surveying me. Here we standall threebefore me now. The
landlord in his shirt-sleevesleaning against the bar
window-frame; his wife looking over the little half-door; and Iin
some confusionlooking up at them from outside the partition.
They asked me a good many questions; aswhat my name washow old
I waswhere I livedhow I was employedand how I came there. To
all of whichthat I might commit nobodyI inventedI am afraid
appropriate answers. They served me with the alethough I suspect
it was not the Genuine Stunning; and the landlord's wifeopening
the little half-door of the barand bending downgave me my money
backand gave me a kiss that was half admiring and half
compassionatebut all womanly and goodI am sure.


I know I do not exaggerateunconsciously and unintentionallythe
scantiness of my resources or the difficulties of my life. I know
that if a shilling were given me by Mr. Quinion at any timeI
spent it in a dinner or a tea. I know that I workedfrom morning
until nightwith common men and boysa shabby child. I know that
I lounged about the streetsinsufficiently and unsatisfactorily
fed. I know thatbut for the mercy of GodI might easily have
beenfor any care that was taken of mea little robber or a
little vagabond.


Yet I held some station at Murdstone and Grinby's too. Besides
that Mr. Quinion did what a careless man so occupiedand dealing
with a thing so anomalouscouldto treat me as one upon a
different footing from the restI never saidto man or boyhow
it was that I came to be thereor gave the least indication of
being sorry that I was there. That I suffered in secretand that



I suffered exquisitelyno one ever knew but I. How much I
sufferedit isas I have said alreadyutterly beyond my power to
tell. But I kept my own counseland I did my work. I knew from
the firstthatif I could not do my work as well as any of the
restI 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 themmy 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 Gregorywho was
foreman of the packersand another named Tippwho was the carman
and wore a red jacketused to address me sometimes as 'David': but
I think it was mostly when we were very confidentialand when I
had made some efforts to entertain themover our workwith some
results of the old readings; which were fast perishing out of my
remembrance. Mealy Potatoes uprose onceand 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 abandonedas suchaltogether. I am solemnly convinced that
I never for one hour was reconciled to itor was otherwise than
miserably unhappy; but I bore it; and even to Peggottypartly for
the love of her and partly for shamenever in any letter (though
many passed between us) revealed the truth.

Mr. Micawber's difficulties were an addition to the distressed
state of my mind. In my forlorn state I became quite attached to
the familyand used to walk aboutbusy with Mrs. Micawber's
calculations of ways and meansand heavy with the weight of Mr.
Micawber's debts. On a Saturday nightwhich was my grand treat

-partly because it was a great thing to walk home with six or
seven shillings in my pocketlooking into the shops and thinking
what such a sum would buyand partly because I went home early-
Mrs. Micawber would make the most heart-rending confidences to me;
also on a Sunday morningwhen I mixed the portion of tea or coffee
I had bought over-nightin a little shaving-potand sat 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
conversationsand 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 tearsand a declaration 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 favourite expression. And Mrs. Micawber was just the
same.
A curious equality of friendshiporiginatingI supposein our
respective circumstancessprung 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 bakerand 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
youand therefore do not hesitate to say that Mr. Micawber's
difficulties are coming to a crisis.'

It made me very miserable to hear itand I looked at Mrs.
Micawber's red eyes with the utmost sympathy.

'With the exception of the heel of a Dutch cheese - which is not
adapted to the wants of a young family' - 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 unconsciously. What I mean to express
isthat there is nothing to eat in the house.'

'Dear me!' I saidin great concern.

I had two or three shillings of my week's money in my pocket - from
which I presume that it must have been on a Wednesday night when we
held this conversation - and I hastily produced themand with
heartfelt emotion begged Mrs. Micawber to accept of them as a loan.
But that ladykissing meand making me put them back in my
pocketreplied that she couldn't think of it.

'Nomy dear Master Copperfield' said she'far be it from my
thoughts! But you have a discretion beyond your yearsand can
render me another kind of serviceif you will; and a service I
will thankfully accept of.'

I begged Mrs. Micawber to name it.

'I have parted with the plate myself' said Mrs. Micawber. 'Six
teatwo saltand a pair of sugarsI have at different times
borrowed money onin secretwith my own hands. But the twins are
a great tie; and to mewith my recollectionsof papa and mama
these transactions are very painful. There are still a few trifles
that we could part with. Mr. Micawber's feelings would never allow
him to dispose of them; and Clickett' - this was the girl from the
workhouse - 'being of a vulgar mindwould take painful liberties
if so much confidence was reposed in her. Master Copperfieldif
I might ask you -'

I understood Mrs. Micawber nowand 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 morningbefore I went to Murdstone and Grinby's.

Mr. Micawber had a few books on a little chiffonierwhich he
called the library; and those went first. I carried themone
after anotherto a bookstall in the City Road - one part of which
near our housewas almost all bookstalls and bird shops then - and
sold them for whatever they would bring. The keeper of this
bookstallwho lived in a little house behind itused to get tipsy
every nightand to be violently scolded by his wife every morning.
More than oncewhen I went there earlyI had audience of him in
a turn-up bedsteadwith 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 hewith a shaking hand
endeavouring to find the needful shillings in one or other of the
pockets of his clotheswhich lay upon the floorwhile his wife
with a baby in her arms and her shoes down at heelnever left off
rating him. Sometimes he had lost his moneyand then he would ask
me to call again; but his wife had always got some - had taken his
I dare saywhile he was drunk - and secretly completed the bargain
on the stairsas we went down together.
At the pawnbroker's shoptooI began to be very well known. The
principal gentleman who officiated behind the countertook a good
deal of notice of me; and often got meI recollectto decline a
Latin noun or adjectiveor to conjugate a Latin verbin his ear
while he transacted my business. After all these occasions Mrs.
Micawber made a little treatwhich was generally a supper; and
there was a peculiar relish in these meals which I well remember.

At last Mr. Micawber's difficulties came to a crisisand he was


arrested early one morningand carried over to the King's Bench
Prison in the Borough. He told meas he went out of the house
that the God of day had now gone down upon him - and I really
thought his heart was broken and mine too. But I heard
afterwardsthat he was seen to play a lively game at skittles
before noon.

On the first Sunday after he was taken thereI was to go and see
himand have dinner with him. I was to ask my way to such a
placeand just short of that place I should see such another
placeand just short of that I should see a yardwhich I was to
crossand keep straight on until I saw a turnkey. All this I did;
and when at last I did see a turnkey (poor little fellow that I
was!)and thought howwhen Roderick Random was in a debtors'
prisonthere 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 gateand we went up to
his room (top story but one)and cried very much. He solemnly
conjured meI rememberto take warning by his fate; and to
observe that if a man had twenty pounds a-year for his incomeand
spent nineteen pounds nineteen shillings and sixpencehe would be
happybut that 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 amountand put
away his pocket-handkerchiefand cheered up.

We sat before a little firewith two bricks put within the rusted
grateone on each sideto prevent its burning too many coals;
until another debtorwho shared the room with Mr. Micawbercame
in from the bakehouse with the loin of mutton which was our
joint-stock repast. Then I was sent up to 'Captain Hopkins' in the
room overheadwith Mr. Micawber's complimentsand I was his young
friendand would Captain Hopkins lend me a knife and fork.

Captain Hopkins lent me the knife and forkwith his compliments to
Mr. Micawber. There was a very dirty lady in his little roomand
two wan girlshis daughterswith shock heads of hair. I thought
it was better to borrow Captain Hopkins's knife and forkthan
Captain Hopkins's comb. The Captain himself was in the last
extremity of shabbinesswith large whiskersand an oldold brown
great-coat with no other coat below it. I saw his bed rolled up in
a corner; and what plates and dishes and pots he hadon a shelf;
and I divined (God knows how) that though the two girls with the
shock heads of hair were Captain Hopkins's childrenthe 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 knowledgeas surely as
the knife and fork were in my hand.

There was something gipsy-like and agreeable in the dinnerafter
all. I took back Captain Hopkins's knife and fork early in the
afternoonand went home to comfort Mrs. Micawber with an account
of my visit. She fainted when she saw me returnand 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 benefitor who sold itexcept that I did not. Sold it
washoweverand carried away in a van; except the beda few
chairsand the kitchen table. With these possessions we encamped
as it werein the two parlours of the emptied house in Windsor
Terrace; Mrs. Micawberthe childrenthe Orflingand 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 prisonwhere Mr. Micawber had now
secured a room to himself. So I took the key of the house to the
landlordwho was very glad to get it; and the beds were sent over
to the King's Benchexcept minefor which a little room was hired
outside the walls in the neighbourhood of that Institutionvery
much to my satisfactionsince the Micawbers and I had become too
used to one anotherin our troublesto part. The Orfling was
likewise accommodated with an inexpensive lodging in the same
neighbourhood. Mine was a quiet back-garret with a sloping roof
commanding a pleasant prospect of a timberyard; and when I took
possession of itwith the reflection that Mr. Micawber's troubles
had come to a crisis at lastI thought it quite a paradise.

All this time I was working at Murdstone and Grinby's in the same
common wayand with the same common companionsand with the same
sense of unmerited degradation as at first. But I neverhappily
for me no doubtmade a single acquaintanceor spoke to any of the
many boys whom I saw daily in going to the warehousein coming
from itand in prowling about the streets at meal-times. I led
the same secretly unhappy life; but I led it in the same lonely
self-reliant manner. The only changes I am conscious of are
firstlythat I had grown more shabbyand secondlythat I was now
relieved of much of the weight of Mr. and Mrs. Micawber's cares;
for some relatives or friends had engaged to help them at their
present passand they lived more comfortably in the prison than
they had lived for a long while out of it. I used to breakfast
with them nowin virtue of some arrangementof which I have
forgotten the details. I forgettooat what hour the gates were
opened in the morningadmitting of my going in; but I know that I
was often up at six o'clockand that my favourite lounging-place
in the interval was old London Bridgewhere I was wont to sit in
one of the stone recesseswatching the people going byor to look
over the balustrades at the sun shining in the waterand lighting
up the golden flame on the top of the Monument. The Orfling met me
here sometimesto 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 evening I used to go back to the
prisonand walk up and down the parade with Mr. Micawber; or play
casino with Mrs. Micawberand hear reminiscences of her papa and
mama. Whether Mr. Murdstone knew where I wasI am unable to say.
I never told them at Murdstone and Grinby's.

Mr. Micawber's affairsalthough past their crisiswere very much
involved by reason of a certain 'Deed'of which I used to hear a
great dealand which I supposenowto have been some former
composition with his creditorsthough I was so far from being
clear about it thenthat I am conscious of having confounded it
with those demoniacal parchments which are held to haveonce upon
a timeobtained to a great extent in Germany. At last this
document appeared to be got out of the waysomehow; at all events
it ceased to be the rock-ahead 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 Actwhich would
set him freeshe expectedin about six weeks.

'And then' said Mr. Micawberwho was present'I have no doubt I
shallplease Heavenbegin to be beforehand with the worldand to
live in a perfectly new mannerif - in shortif anything turns
up.'

By way of going in for anything that might be on the cardsI call
to mind that Mr. Micawberabout this timecomposed a petition to
the House of Commonspraying for an alteration in the law of
imprisonment for debt. I set down this remembrance herebecause


it is an instance to myself of the manner in which I fitted my old
books to my altered lifeand made stories for myselfout of the
streetsand out of men and women; and how some main points in the
character I shall unconsciously developI supposein writing my
lifewere gradually forming all this while.


There was a club in the prisonin which Mr. Micawberas a
gentlemanwas a great authority. Mr. Micawber had stated his idea
of this petition to the cluband the club had strongly approved of
the same. Wherefore Mr. Micawber (who was a thoroughly
good-natured manand as active a creature about everything but his
own affairs as ever existedand never so happy as when he was busy
about something that could never be of any profit to him) set to
work at the petitioninvented itengrossed it on an immense sheet
of paperspread it out on a tableand appointed a time for all
the cluband all within the walls if they choseto come up to his
room and sign it.


When I heard of this approaching ceremonyI was so anxious to see
them all come inone after anotherthough I knew the greater part
of them alreadyand they methat I got an hour's leave of absence
from Murdstone and Grinby'sand established 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 itsupported Mr.
Micawber in front of the petitionwhile my old friend Captain
Hopkins (who had washed himselfto do honour to so solemn an
occasion) stationed himself close to itto read it to all who were
unacquainted with its contents. The door was then thrown openand
the general population began to come inin a long file: several
waiting outsidewhile one enteredaffixed his signatureand went
out. To everybody in successionCaptain Hopkins said: 'Have you
read it?' - 'No.' - 'Would you like to hear it read?' If he
weakly showed the least disposition to hear itCaptain Hopkinsin
a loud sonorous voicegave him every word of it. The Captain
would have read it twenty thousand timesif twenty thousand people
would have heard himone by one. I remember a certain luscious
roll he gave to such phrases as 'The people's representatives in
Parliament assembled' 'Your petitioners therefore humbly approach
your honourable house' 'His gracious Majesty's unfortunate
subjects' as if the words were something real in his mouthand
delicious to taste; Mr. Micawbermeanwhilelistening with a
little of an author's vanityand contemplating (not severely) the
spikes on the opposite wall.


As I walked to and fro daily between Southwark and Blackfriarsand
lounged about at meal-times in obscure streetsthe stones of which
mayfor anything I knowbe worn at this moment by my childish
feetI wonder how many of these people were wanting in the crowd
that used to come filing before me in review againto the echo of
Captain Hopkins's voice! When my thoughts go backnowto that
slow agony of my youthI wonder how much of the histories I
invented for such people hangs like a mist of fancy over
well-remembered facts! When I tread the old groundI do not
wonder that I seem to see and pitygoing on before mean innocent
romantic boymaking his imaginative world out of such strange
experiences and sordid things!


CHAPTER 12
LIKING LIFE ON MY OWN ACCOUNT NO BETTER


I FORM A GREAT RESOLUTION


In due timeMr. Micawber's petition was ripe for hearing; and that
gentleman was ordered to be discharged under the Actto 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 malicebut that when money was owing to him he
liked to be paid. He said he thought it was human nature.

M r Micawber returned to the King's Bench when his case was over
as some fees were to be settledand some formalities observed
before he could be actually released. The club received him with
transportand held an harmonic meeting that evening in his honour;
while Mrs. Micawber and I had a lamb's fry in privatesurrounded
by the sleeping family.

'On such an occasion I will give youMaster Copperfield' said
Mrs. Micawber'in a little more flip' for we had been having some
already'the memory of my papa and mama.'

'Are they deadma'am?' I inquiredafter drinking the toast in a
wine-glass.

'My mama departed this life' said Mrs. Micawber'before Mr.
Micawber's difficulties commencedor at least before they became
pressing. My papa lived to bail Mr. Micawber several timesand
then expiredregretted by a numerous circle.'

Mrs. Micawber shook her headand dropped a pious tear upon the
twin who happened to be in hand.

As I could hardly hope for a more favourable opportunity of putting
a question in which I had a near interestI said to Mrs. Micawber:

'May I askma'amwhat you and Mr. Micawber intend to donow that
Mr. Micawber is out of his difficultiesand at liberty? Have you
settled yet?'

'My family' said Mrs. Micawberwho always said those two words
with an airthough I never could discover who came under the
denomination'my family are of opinion that Mr. Micawber should
quit Londonand exert his talents in the country. Mr. Micawber is
a man of great talentMaster Copperfield.'

I said I was sure of that.

'Of great talent' repeated Mrs. Micawber. 'My family are of
opinionthatwith a little interestsomething might be done for
a man of his ability in the Custom House. The influence of my
family being localit is their wish that Mr. Micawber should go
down to Plymouth. They think it indispensable that he should be
upon the spot.'

'That he may be ready?' I suggested.

'Exactly' returned Mrs. Micawber. 'That he may be ready - in case
of anything turning up.'

'And do you go tooma'am?'

The events of the dayin combination with the twinsif not with
the fliphad made Mrs. Micawber hystericaland she shed tears as
she replied:

'I never will desert Mr. Micawber. Mr. Micawber may have concealed
his difficulties from me in the first instancebut his sanguine


temper may have led him to expect that he would overcome them. The
pearl necklace and bracelets which I inherited from mamahave been
disposed of for less than half their value; and the set of coral
which was the wedding gift of my papahas been actually thrown
away for nothing. But I never will desert Mr. Micawber. No!'
cried Mrs. Micawbermore affected than before'I never will do
it! It's of no use asking me!'

I felt quite uncomfortable - as if Mrs. Micawber supposed I had
asked her to do anything of the sort! - 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 onlooking at
the wall; 'but I never will desert Mr. Micawber!'

Mrs. Micawber having now raised her voice into a perfect screamI
was so frightened that I ran off to the club-roomand disturbed
Mr. Micawber in the act of presiding at a long tableand leading
the chorus of

Gee upDobbin
Gee hoDobbin
Gee upDobbin
Gee upand gee ho - o - o!


with the tidings that Mrs. Micawber was in an alarming stateupon
which he immediately burst into tearsand came away with me with
his waistcoat full of the heads and tails of shrimpsof which he
had been partaking.

'Emmamy angel!' cried Mr. Micawberrunning into the room; 'what
is the matter?'

'I never will desert youMicawber!' she exclaimed.

'My life!' said Mr. Micawbertaking 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 - ver - will - desert Mr. Micawber!'

Mr. Micawber was so deeply affected by this proof of her devotion
(as to meI was dissolved in tears)that he hung over her in a
passionate mannerimploring her to look upand to be calm. But
the more he asked Mrs. Micawber to look upthe more she fixed her
eyes on nothing; and the more he asked her to compose herselfthe
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 favour of taking a chair on the staircasewhile he got
her into bed. I would have taken my leave for the nightbut he
would not hear of my doing that until the strangers' bell should
ring. So I sat at the staircase windowuntil he came out with
another chair and joined me.

'How is Mrs. Micawber nowsir?' I said.

'Very low' said Mr. Micawbershaking his head; 'reaction. Ah
this has been a dreadful day! We stand alone now - everything is
gone from us!'

Mr. Micawber pressed my handand groanedand afterwards shed


tears. I was greatly touchedand disappointed toofor I had
expected that we should be quite gay on this happy and
long-looked-for occasion. But Mr. and Mrs. Micawber were so used
to their old difficultiesI thinkthat they felt quite
shipwrecked when they came to consider that they were released from
them. All their elasticity was departedand I never saw them half
so wretched as on this night; insomuch that when the bell rangand
Mr. Micawber walked with me to the lodgeand parted from me there
with a blessingI felt quite afraid to leave him by himselfhe
was so profoundly miserable.

But through all the confusion and lowness of spirits in which we
had beenso unexpectedly to meinvolvedI plainly discerned that
Mr. and Mrs. Micawber and their family were going away from London
and that a parting between us was near at hand. It was in my walk
home that nightand in the sleepless hours which followed when I
lay in bedthat the thought first occurred to me - though I don't
know how it came into my head - which afterwards shaped itself into
a settled resolution.

I had grown to be so accustomed to the Micawbersand had been so
intimate with them in their distressesand was so utterly
friendless without themthat the prospect of being thrown upon
some new shift for a lodgingand going once more among unknown
peoplewas like being that moment turned adrift into my present
lifewith such a knowledge of it ready made as experience had
given me. All the sensitive feelings it wounded so cruellyall
the shame and misery it kept alive within my breastbecame more
poignant as I thought of this; and I determined that the life was
unendurable.

That there was no hope of escape from itunless the escape was my
own actI 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 meconsigned to Mr. Quinionand in
each there was a scrap of paper to the effect that J. M. trusted D.

C. was applying himself to businessand devoting himself wholly to
his duties - not the least hint of my ever being anything else than
the common drudge into which I was fast settling down.
The very next day showed mewhile my mind was in the first
agitation of what it had conceivedthat Mrs. Micawber had not
spoken of their going away without warrant. They took a lodging in
the house where I livedfor a week; at the expiration of which
time they were to start for Plymouth. Mr. Micawber himself came
down to the counting-housein the afternoonto tell Mr. Quinion
that he must relinquish me on the day of his departureand to give
me a high characterwhich I am sure I deserved. And Mr. Quinion
calling in Tipp the carmanwho was a married manand had a room
to letquartered me prospectively on him - by our mutual consent
as he had every reason to think; for I said nothingthough my
resolution was now taken.

I passed my evenings with Mr. and Mrs. Micawberduring 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
Sundaythey invited me to dinner; and we had a loin of pork and
apple sauceand a pudding. I had bought a spotted wooden horse
over-night as a parting gift to little Wilkins Micawber - that was
the boy - and a doll for little Emma. I had also bestowed a
shilling on the Orflingwho was about to be disbanded.

We had a very pleasant daythough we were all in a tender state
about our approaching separation.


'I shall neverMaster Copperfield' said Mrs. Micawber'revert to
the period when Mr. Micawber was in difficultieswithout 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 meof late'has a heart to feel for the
distresses of his fellow-creatures when they are behind a cloud
and a head to planand a hand to - in shorta general ability to
dispose of such available property as could be made away with.'

I expressed my sense of this commendationand 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 lifeand - and of some experiencein
shortin difficultiesgenerally speaking. At presentand until
something turns up (which I amI may sayhourly expecting)I
have nothing to bestow but advice. Still my advice is so far worth
takingthat - in shortthat I have never taken it myselfand am
the' - here Mr. Micawberwho had been beaming and smilingall
over his head and faceup to the present momentchecked himself
and frowned - 'the miserable wretch you behold.'

'My dear Micawber!' urged his wife.

'I say' returned Mr. Micawberquite forgetting himselfand
smiling again'the miserable wretch you behold. My advice is
never do tomorrow what you can do today. Procrastination 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
allwe ne'er shall - in shortmake the acquaintanceprobablyof
anybody else possessingat his time of lifethe same legs for
gaitersand able to read the same description of printwithout
spectacles. But he applied that maxim to our marriagemy dear;
and that was so far prematurely entered intoin consequencethat
I never recovered the expense.' Mr. Micawber looked aside at Mrs.
Micawberand added: 'Not that I am sorry for it. Quite the
contrarymy love.' After whichhe was grave for a minute or so.

'My other piece of adviceCopperfield' said Mr. Micawber'you
know. Annual income twenty poundsannual expenditure nineteen
nineteen and sixresult happiness. Annual income twenty pounds
annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and sixresult misery. The
blossom is blightedthe leaf is witheredthe god of day goes down
upon the dreary sceneand - and in short you are for ever floored.
As I am!'

To make his example the more impressiveMr. Micawber drank a glass
of punch with an air of great enjoyment and satisfactionand
whistled the College Hornpipe.

I did not fail to assure him that I would store these precepts in
my mindthough indeed I had no need to do soforat the time
they affected me visibly. Next morning I met the whole family at
the coach officeand saw themwith a desolate hearttake their
places outsideat the back.


'Master Copperfield' said Mrs. Micawber'God bless you! I never
can forget all thatyou knowand I never would if I could.'

'Copperfield' said Mr. Micawber'farewell! Every happiness and
prosperity! Ifin the progress of revolving yearsI 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 confident)I shall be extremely happy if it
should be in my power to improve your prospects.'

I thinkas Mrs. Micawber sat at the back of the coachwith the
childrenand I stood in the road looking wistfully at thema mist
cleared from her eyesand she saw what a little creature I really
was. I think sobecause she beckoned to me to climb upwith
quite a new and motherly expression in her faceand put her arm
round my neckand gave me just such a kiss as she might have given
to her own boy. I had barely time to get down again before the
coach startedand 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
roadand then shook hands and said good-bye; she going backI
supposeto St. Luke's workhouseas 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. - To goby some means or otherdown
into the countryto the only relation I had in the worldand tell
my story to my auntMiss Betsey.
I have already observed that I don't know how this desperate idea
came into my brain. Butonce thereit 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 itbut my mind was thoroughly made
up that it must be carried into execution.

Againand againand a hundred times againsince the night when
the thought had first occurred to me and banished sleepI had gone
over that old story of my poor mother's about my birthwhich 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 storyand
walked out of ita dread and awful personage; but there was one
little trait in her behaviour which I liked to dwell onand which
gave me some faint shadow of encouragement. I could not forget how
my mother had thought that she felt her touch her pretty hair with
no ungentle hand; and though it might have been altogether my
mother's fancyand might have had no foundation whatever in fact
I made a little pictureout of itof my terrible aunt relenting
towards the girlish beauty that I recollected so well and loved so
muchwhich softened the whole narrative. It is very possible that
it had been in my mind a long timeand had gradually engendered my
determination.

As I did not even know where Miss Betsey livedI wrote a long
letter to Peggottyand asked herincidentallyif she remembered;
pretending that I had heard of such a lady living at a certain
place I named at randomand had a curiosity to know if it were the
same. In the course of that letterI 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 itI should be very much obliged
to herand would tell her afterwards what I had wanted it for.

Peggotty's answer soon arrivedand wasas usualfull 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 Doverbut whether at
Dover itselfat HytheSandgateor Folkestoneshe could not say.
One of our menhoweverinforming me on my asking him about these
placesthat they were all close togetherI deemed this enough for
my objectand resolved to set out at the end of that week.

Being a very honest little creatureand unwilling to disgrace the
memory I was going to leave behind me at Murdstone and Grinby'sI
considered myself bound to remain until Saturday night; andas 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 hourto
receive my stipend. For this express reasonI had borrowed the
half-guineathat I might not be without a fund for my
travelling-expenses. Accordinglywhen the Saturday night came
and we were all waiting in the warehouse to be paidand Tipp the
carmanwho always took precedencewent in first to draw his
moneyI shook Mick Walker by the hand; asked himwhen it came to
his turn to be paidto say to Mr. Quinion that I had gone to move
my box to Tipp's; andbidding a last good night to Mealy Potatoes
ran away.

My box was at my old lodgingover the waterand I had written a
direction for it on the back of one of our address cards that we
nailed on the casks: 'Master Davidto be left till called forat
the Coach OfficeDover.' This I had in my pocket ready to put on
the boxafter I should have got it out of the house; and as I went
towards my lodgingI looked about me for someone who would help me
to carry it to the booking-office.

There was a long-legged young man with a very little empty
donkey-cartstanding near the Obeliskin the Blackfriars Road
whose eye I caught as I was going byand whoaddressing me as
'Sixpenn'orth of bad ha'pence' hoped 'I should know him agin to
swear to' - in allusionI have no doubtto my staring at him. I
stopped to assure him that I had not done so in bad mannersbut
uncertain whether he 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 minewhich was down that street thereand which I
wanted him to take to the Dover coach office for sixpence.

'Done with you for a tanner!' said the long-legged young manand
directly got upon his cartwhich was nothing but a large wooden
tray on wheelsand rattled away at such a ratethat it was as
much as I could do to keep pace with the donkey.

There was a defiant manner about this young manand particularly
about the way in which he chewed straw as he spoke to methat I
did not much like; as the bargain was madehoweverI took him
upstairs to the room I was leavingand we brought the box down
and put it on his cart. NowI was unwilling to put the
direction-card on therelest any of my landlord's family should
fathom what I was doingand detain me; so I said to the young man
that I would be glad if he would stop for a minutewhen he came to
the dead-wall of the King's Bench prison. The words were no sooner
out of my mouththan he rattled away as if hemy boxthe cart
and the donkeywere all equally mad; and I was quite out of breath
with running and calling after himwhen I caught him at the place


appointed.

Being much flushed and excitedI 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 dealhad just tied the card on
very much to my satisfactionwhen I felt myself violently chucked
under the chin by the long-legged young manand saw my half-guinea
fly out of my mouth into his hand.

'Wot!' said the young manseizing me by my jacket collarwith a
frightful grin. 'This is a pollis caseis it? You're a-going to
boltare you? Come to the pollisyou young warmincome to the
pollis!'

'You give me my money backif you please' said Ivery 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 moneywill you' I criedbursting into tears.

The young man still replied: 'Come to the pollis!' and was dragging
me against the donkey in a violent manneras if there were any
affinity between that animal and a magistratewhen he changed his
mindjumped into the cartsat upon my boxandexclaiming that
he would drive to the pollis straightrattled away harder than
ever.

I ran after him as fast as I couldbut I had no breath to call out
withand should not have dared to call outnowif I had. I
narrowly escaped being run overtwenty times at leastin half a
mile. Now I lost himnow I saw himnow I lost himnow I was cut
at with a whipnow shouted atnow down in the mudnow up again
now running into somebody's armsnow running headlong at a post.
At lengthconfused by fright and heatand 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;
andpanting and cryingbut never stoppingfaced about for
Greenwichwhich I had understood was on the Dover Road: taking
very little more out of the worldtowards the retreat of my aunt
Miss Betseythan I had brought into iton the night when my
arrival gave her so much umbrage.

CHAPTER 13
THE SEQUEL OF MY RESOLUTION

For anything I knowI may have had some wild idea of running all
the way to Doverwhen I gave up the pursuit of the young man with
the donkey-cartand started for Greenwich. My scattered senses
were soon collected as to that pointif I had; for I came to a
stop in the Kent Roadat a terrace with a piece of water before
itand a great foolish image in the middleblowing a dry shell.
Here I sat down on a doorstepquite spent and exhausted with the
efforts I had already madeand 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 tenas I sat
resting. But it was a summer nightfortunatelyand fine weather.
When I had recovered my breathand had got rid of a stifling
sensation in my throatI rose up and went on. In the midst of my


distressI had no notion of going back. I doubt if I should have
had anythough 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 myselfas a scrap of newspaper intelligence
my being found dead in a day or twounder some hedge; and I
trudged on miserablythough as fast as I coulduntil I happened
to pass a little shopwhere it was written up that ladies' and
gentlemen's wardrobes were boughtand that the best price was
given for ragsbonesand kitchen-stuff. The master of this shop
was sitting at the door in his shirt-sleevessmoking; and as there
were a great many coats and pairs of trousers dangling from the low
ceilingand only two feeble candles burning inside to show what
they wereI fancied that he looked like a man of a revengeful
dispositionwho had hung all his enemiesand was enjoying
himself.

My late experiences with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber suggested to me that
here might be a means of keeping off the wolf for a little while.
I went up the next by-streettook off my waistcoatrolled it
neatly under my armand came back to the shop door.

'If you pleasesir' I said'I am to sell this for a fair price.'

Mr. Dolloby - Dolloby was the name over the shop doorat least took
the waistcoatstood his pipe on its headagainst the
door-postwent into the shopfollowed by mesnuffed the two
candles with his fingersspread the waistcoat on the counterand
looked at it thereheld it up against the lightand looked at it
thereand ultimately said:

'What do you call a pricenowfor this here little weskit?'

'Oh! you know bestsir' I returned modestly.

'I can't be buyer and seller too' said Mr. Dolloby. 'Put a price
on this here little weskit.'

'Would eighteenpence be?'- I hintedafter some hesitation.

Mr. Dolloby rolled it up againand gave it me back. 'I should rob
my family' he said'if I was to offer ninepence for it.'

This was a disagreeable way of putting the business; because it
imposed upon mea perfect strangerthe unpleasantness of asking
Mr. Dolloby to rob his family on my account. My circumstances
being so very pressinghoweverI said I would take ninepence for
itif he pleased. Mr. Dollobynot without some grumblinggave
ninepence. I wished him good nightand walked out of the shop the
richer by that sumand the poorer by a waistcoat. But when I
buttoned my jacketthat was not much.
IndeedI foresaw pretty clearly that my jacket would go nextand
that I should have to make the best of my way to Dover in a shirt
and a pair of trousersand might deem myself 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 meand of the young man with the donkey-cart having used me
cruellyI 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 nightwhich I was going
to carry into execution. This wasto lie behind the wall at the


back of my old schoolin a corner where there used to be a
haystack. I imagined it would be a kind of company to have the
boysand the bedroom where I used to tell the storiesso near me:
although the boys would know nothing of my being thereand the
bedroom would yield me no shelter.

I had had a hard day's workand was pretty well jaded when I came
climbing outat lastupon the level of Blackheath. It cost me
some trouble to find out Salem House; but I found itand I found
a haystack in the cornerand I lay down by it; having first walked
round the walland looked up at the windowsand seen that all was
dark and silent within. Never shall I forget the lonely sensation
of first lying downwithout a roof above my head!

Sleep came upon me as it came on many other outcastsagainst whom
house-doors were lockedand house-dogs barkedthat night - and I
dreamed of lying on my old school-bedtalking to the boys in my
room; and found myself sitting uprightwith Steerforth's name upon
my lipslooking wildly at the stars that were glistening and
glimmering above me. When I remembered where I was at that
untimely houra feeling stole upon me that made me get upafraid
of I don't know whatand walk about. But the fainter glimmering
of the starsand the pale light in the sky where the day was
comingreassured me: and my eyes being very heavyI lay down
again and slept - though with a knowledge in my sleep that it was
cold - until the warm beams of the sunand the ringing of the
getting-up bell at Salem Houseawoke me. If I could have hoped
that Steerforth was thereI would have lurked about until he came
out alone; but I knew he must have left long since. Traddles still
remainedperhapsbut it was very doubtful; and I had not
sufficient confidence in his discretion or good luckhowever
strong my reliance was on his good natureto wish to trust him
with my situation. So I crept away from the wall as Mr. Creakle's
boys were getting upand struck into the long dusty track which I
had first known to be the Dover Road when I was one of themand
when I little expected that any eyes would ever see me the wayfarer
I was nowupon it.

What a different Sunday morning from the old Sunday morning at
Yarmouth! In due time I heard the church-bells ringingas I
plodded on; and I met people who were going to church; and I passed
a church or two where the congregation were insideand the sound
of singing came out into the sunshinewhile the beadle sat and
cooled himself in the shade of the porchor stood beneath the
yew-treewith his hand to his foreheadglowering at me going by.
But the peace and rest of the old Sunday morning were on
everythingexcept me. That was the difference. I felt quite
wicked in my dirt and dustwith my tangled hair. But for the
quiet picture I had conjured upof my mother in her youth and
beautyweeping by the fireand my aunt relenting to herI hardly
think I should have had the courage to go on until next day. But
it always went before meand I followed.

I gotthat Sundaythrough three-and-twenty miles on the straight
roadthough not very easilyfor I was new to that kind of toil.
I see myselfas evening closes incoming over the bridge at
Rochesterfootsore and tiredand eating bread that I had bought
for supper. One or two little houseswith the notice'Lodgings
for Travellers'hanging outhad tempted me; but I was afraid of
spending the few pence I hadand was even more afraid of the
vicious looks of the trampers I had met or overtaken. I sought no
shelterthereforebut the sky; and toiling into Chatham- which
in that night's aspectis a mere dream of chalkand drawbridges
and mastless ships in a muddy riverroofed like Noah's arks



creptat lastupon a sort of grass-grown battery overhanging a
lanewhere a sentry was walking to and fro. Here I lay downnear
a cannon; andhappy in the society of the sentry's footsteps
though he knew no more of my being above him than the boys at Salem
House had known of my lying by the wallslept soundly until
morning.

Very stiff and sore of foot I was in the morningand quite dazed
by the beating of drums and marching of troopswhich seemed to hem
me in on every side when I went down towards the long narrow
street. Feeling that I could go but a very little way that dayif
I were to reserve any strength for getting to my journey's endI
resolved to make the sale of my jacket its principal business.
AccordinglyI took the jacket offthat I might learn to do
without it; and carrying it under my armbegan 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 numerousand weregenerally speakingon
the look-out for customers at their shop doors. But as most of
them hadhanging up among their stockan officer's coat or two
epaulettes and allI was rendered timid by the costly nature of
their dealingsand walked about for a long time without offering
my merchandise to anyone.

This modesty of mine directed my attention to the marine-store
shopsand such shops as Mr. Dolloby'sin preference to the
regular dealers. At last I found one that I thought looked
promisingat the corner of a dirty laneending in an enclosure
full of stinging-nettlesagainst the palings of which some
second-hand sailors' clothesthat seemed to have overflowed the
shopwere fluttering among some cotsand rusty gunsand oilskin
hatsand 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 shopwhich was low and smalland which was darkened
rather than lighted by a little windowoverhung with clothesand
was descended into by some stepsI went with a palpitating heart;
which was not relieved when an ugly old manwith the lower part of
his face all covered with a stubbly grey beardrushed out of a
dirty den behind itand seized me by the hair of my head. He was
a dreadful old man to look atin a filthy flannel waistcoatand
smelling terribly of rum. His bedsteadcovered with a tumbled and
ragged piece of patchworkwas in the den he had come fromwhere
another little window showed a prospect of more stinging-nettles
and a lame donkey.

'Ohwhat do you want?' grinned this old manin a fierce
monotonous whine. 'Ohmy eyes and limbswhat do you want? Oh
my lungs and liverwhat do you want? Ohgoroogoroo!'

I was so much dismayed by these wordsand particularly by the
repetition of the last unknown onewhich was a kind of rattle in
his throatthat I could make no answer; hereupon the old man
still holding me by the hairrepeated:

'Ohwhat do you want? Ohmy eyes and limbswhat do you want?
Ohmy lungs and liverwhat do you want? Ohgoroo!' - which he
screwed out of himselfwith an energy that made his eyes start in
his head.

'I wanted to know' I saidtrembling'if you would buy a jacket.'


'Ohlet's see the jacket!' cried the old man. 'Ohmy heart on
fireshow the jacket to us! Ohmy eyes and limbsbring the
jacket out!'

With that he took his trembling handswhich were like the claws of
a great birdout of my hair; and put on a pair of spectaclesnot
at all ornamental to his inflamed eyes.

'Ohhow much for the jacket?' cried the old manafter examining
it. 'Oh - goroo! - how much for the jacket?'

'Half-a-crown' I answeredrecovering myself.

'Ohmy lungs and liver' cried the old man'no! Ohmy eyesno!
Ohmy limbsno! Eighteenpence. Goroo!'

Every time he uttered this ejaculationhis eyes seemed to be in
danger of starting out; and every sentence he spokehe delivered
in a sort of tunealways exactly the sameand more like a gust of
windwhich begins lowmounts up highand falls againthan any
other comparison I can find for it.

'Well' said Iglad to have closed the bargain'I'll take
eighteenpence.'

'Ohmy liver!' cried the old manthrowing the jacket on a shelf.
'Get out of the shop! Ohmy lungsget out of the shop! Ohmy
eyes and limbs - goroo! - don't ask for money; make it an
exchange.' I never was so frightened in my lifebefore or since;
but I told him humbly that I wanted moneyand that nothing else
was of any use to mebut that I would wait for itas he desired
outsideand had no wish to hurry him. So I went outsideand sat
down in the shade in a corner. And I sat there so many hoursthat
the shade became sunlightand the sunlight became shade againand
still I sat there waiting for the money.

There never was such another drunken madman in that line of
businessI hope. That he was well known in the neighbourhoodand
enjoyed the reputation of having sold himself to the devilI soon
understood from the visits he received from the boyswho
continually came skirmishing about the shopshouting that legend
and calling to him to bring out his gold. 'You ain't pooryou
knowCharleyas 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 mattressCharley. Rip it open and let's have
some!' Thisand many offers to lend him a knife for the purpose
exasperated him to such a degreethat the whole day was a
succession of rushes on his partand flights on the part of the
boys. Sometimes in his rage he would take me for one of themand
come at memouthing as if he were going to tear me in pieces;
thenremembering mejust in timewould dive into the shopand
lie upon his bedas I thought from the sound of his voiceyelling
in a frantic wayto his own windy tunethe 'Death of Nelson';
with an Oh! before every lineand innumerable Goroos interspersed.
As if this were not bad enough for methe boysconnecting me with
the establishmenton account of the patience and perseverance with
which I sat outsidehalf-dressedpelted meand used me very ill
all day.

He made many attempts to induce me to consent to an exchange; at
one time coming out with a fishing-rodat another with a fiddle
at another with a cocked hatat another with a flute. But I
resisted all these overturesand sat there in desperation; each
time asking himwith tears in my eyesfor 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.

'Ohmy eyes and limbs!' he then criedpeeping hideously out of
the shopafter a long pause'will you go for twopence more?'

'I can't' I said; 'I shall be starved.'

'Ohmy lungs and liverwill you go for threepence?'

'I would go for nothingif I could' I said'but I want the money
badly.'

'Ohgo-roo!' (it is really impossible to express how he twisted
this ejaculation out of himselfas he peeped round the door-post
at meshowing nothing but his crafty old head); 'will you go for
fourpence?'

I was so faint and weary that I closed with this offer; and taking
the money out of his clawnot without tremblingwent away more
hungry and thirsty than I had ever beena little before sunset.
But at an expense of threepence I soon refreshed myself completely;
andbeing in better spirits thenlimped seven miles upon my road.

My bed at night was under another haystackwhere I rested
comfortablyafter having washed my blistered feet in a streamand
dressed them as well as I was ablewith some cool leaves. When I
took the road again next morningI 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 beautifuland made up my mind to sleep among the
hops that night: imagining some cheerful companionship in the long
perspectives of poleswith the graceful leaves twining round them.

The trampers were worse than ever that dayand inspired me with a
dread that is yet quite fresh in my mind. Some of them were most
ferocious-looking ruffianswho stared at me as I went by; and
stoppedperhapsand called after me to come back and speak to
themand when I took to my heelsstoned me. I recollect one
young fellow - a tinkerI supposefrom his wallet and brazier who
had a woman with himand who faced about and stared at me
thus; and then roared to me in such a tremendous voice to come
backthat I halted and looked round.

'Come herewhen you're called' said the tinker'or I'll rip your
young body open.'

I thought it best to go back. As I drew nearer to themtrying to
propitiate the tinker by my looksI observed that the woman had a
black eye.

'Where are you going?' said the tinkergripping the bosom of my
shirt with his blackened hand.

'I am going to Dover' I said.

'Where do you come from?' asked the tinkergiving his hand another
turn in my shirtto hold me more securely.

'I come from London' I said.

'What lay are you upon?' asked the tinker. 'Are you a prig?'


'N-no' I said.

'Ain't youby G--? 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 meand 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 haveout with itafore I take it away!'

I should certainly have produced itbut that I met the woman's
lookand saw her very slightly shake her headand form 'No!' with
her lips.

'I am very poor' I saidattempting to smile'and have got no
money.'

'Whywhat do you mean?' said the tinkerlooking 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
handkerchief! Give it over here!' And he had mine off my neck in
a momentand tossed it to the woman.

The woman burst into a fit of laughteras if she thought this a
jokeand tossed it back to menodded onceas slightly as before
and made the word 'Go!' with her lips. Before I could obey
howeverthe tinker seized the handkerchief out of my hand with a
roughness that threw me away like a featherand putting it loosely
round his own neckturned upon the woman with an oathand knocked
her down. I never shall forget seeing her fall backward on the
hard roadand lie there with her bonnet tumbled offand her hair
all whitened in the dust; norwhen I looked back from a distance
seeing her sitting on the pathwaywhich was a bank by the
roadsidewiping the blood from her face with a corner of her
shawlwhile he went on ahead.

This adventure frightened me sothatafterwardswhen I saw any
of these people comingI turned back until I could find a
hiding-placewhere I remained until they had gone out of sight;
which happened so oftenthat I was very seriously delayed. But
under this difficultyas under all the other difficulties of my
journeyI seemed to be sustained and led on by my fanciful picture
of my mother in her youthbefore I came into the world. It always
kept me company. It was thereamong the hopswhen I lay down to
sleep; it was with me on my waking in the morning; it went before
me all day. I have associated itever sincewith the sunny
street of Canterburydozing as it were in the hot light; and with
the sight of its old houses and gatewaysand the statelygrey
Cathedralwith the rooks sailing round the towers. When I came
at lastupon the barewide downs near Doverit relieved the
solitary aspect of the scene with hope; and not until I reached
that first great aim of my journeyand actually set foot in the
town itselfon the sixth day of my flightdid it desert me. But
thenstrange to saywhen I stood with my ragged shoesand my
dustysunburnthalf-clothed figurein the place so long desired
it seemed to vanish like a dreamand to leave me helpless and
dispirited.

I inquired about my aunt among the boatmen firstand received
various answers. One said she lived in the South Foreland Light


and had singed her whiskers by doing so; anotherthat she was made
fast to the great buoy outside the harbourand could only be
visited at half-tide; a thirdthat she was locked up in Maidstone
jail for child-stealing; a fourththat she was seen to mount a
broom in the last high windand make direct for Calais. The
fly-driversamong whom I inquired nextwere equally jocose and
equally disrespectful; and the shopkeepersnot liking my
appearancegenerally repliedwithout hearing what I had to say
that they had got nothing for me. I felt more miserable and
destitute than I had done at any period of my running away. My
money was all goneI had nothing left to dispose of; I was hungry
thirstyand worn out; and seemed as distant from my end as if I
had remained in London.

The morning had worn away in these inquiriesand I was sitting on
the step of an empty shop at a street cornernear the
market-placedeliberating upon wandering towards those other
places which had been mentionedwhen a fly-drivercoming by with
his carriagedropped a horsecloth. Something good-natured in the
man's faceas I handed it upencouraged me to ask him if he could
tell me where Miss Trotwood lived; though I had asked the question
so oftenthat it almost died upon my lips.

'Trotwood' said he. 'Let me see. I know the nametoo. Old
lady?'

'Yes' I said'rather.'

'Pretty stiff in the back?' said hemaking himself upright.

'Yes' I said. 'I should think it very likely.'

'Carries a bag?' said he - 'bag with a good deal of room in it - is
gruffishand comes down upon yousharp?'

My heart sank within me as I acknowledged the undoubted accuracy of
this description.

'Why thenI tell 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 seaI think you'll hear of her.
My opinion is she won't stand anythingso here's a penny for you.'

I accepted the gift thankfullyand bought a loaf with it.
Dispatching this refreshment by the wayI went in the direction my
friend had indicatedand walked on a good distance without coming
to the houses he had mentioned. At length I saw some before me;
and approaching themwent into a little shop (it was what we used
to call a general shopat home)and inquired if they could have
the goodness to tell me where Miss Trotwood lived. I addressed
myself to a man behind the counterwho was weighing some rice for
a young woman; but the lattertaking the inquiry to herself
turned round quickly.

'My mistress?' she said. 'What do you want with herboy?'

'I want' I replied'to speak to herif you please.'

'To beg of heryou mean' retorted the damsel.

'No' I said'indeed.' But suddenly remembering that in truth I
came for no other purposeI held my peace in confusionand felt
my face burn.


MY aunt's handmaidas 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 herif I wanted to know where Miss Trotwood
lived. I needed no second permission; though I was by this time in
such a state of consternation and agitationthat my legs shook
under me. I followed the young womanand we soon came to a very
neat little cottage with cheerful bow-windows: in front of ita
small square gravelled court or garden full of flowerscarefully
tendedand 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 houseas if to shake off the responsibility of my
appearance; and left me standing at the garden-gatelooking
disconsolately over the top of it towards the parlour windowwhere
a muslin curtain partly undrawn in the middlea large round green
screen or fan fastened on to the windowsilla small tableand a
great chairsuggested 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 bitand 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-captoo) was so
crushed and bentthat no old battered handleless saucepan on a
dunghill need have been ashamed to vie with it. My shirt and
trousersstained with heatdewgrassand the Kentish soil on
which I had slept - and torn besides - might have frightened the
birds from my aunt's gardenas I stood at the gate. My hair had
known no comb or brush since I left London. My faceneckand
handsfrom unaccustomed exposure to the air and sunwere burnt to
a berry-brown. From head to foot I was powdered almost as white
with chalk and dustas if I had come out of a lime-kiln. In this
plightand with a strong consciousness of itI waited to
introduce myself toand make my first impression onmy formidable
aunt.

The unbroken stillness of the parlour window leading me to infer
after a whilethat she was not thereI lifted up my eyes to the
window above itwhere I saw a floridpleasant-looking gentleman
with a grey headwho shut up one eye in a grotesque mannernodded
his head at me several timesshook it at me as oftenlaughedand
went away.

I had been discomposed enough before; but I was so much the more
discomposed by this unexpected behaviourthat I was on the point
of slinking offto think how I had best proceedwhen there came
out of the house a lady with her handkerchief tied over her cap
and a pair of gardening gloves on her handswearing a gardening
pocket like a toll-man's apronand carrying a great knife. I knew
her immediately to be Miss Betseyfor she came stalking out of the
house exactly as my poor mother had so often described her stalking
up our garden at Blunderstone Rookery.

'Go away!' said Miss Betseyshaking her headand making a distant
chop in the air with her knife. 'Go along! No boys here!'

I watched herwith my heart at my lipsas she marched to a corner
of her gardenand stooped to dig up some little root there. Then
without a scrap of couragebut with a great deal of desperation
I went softly in and stood beside hertouching her with my finger.

'If you pleasema'am' I began.


She started and looked up.

'If you pleaseaunt.'

'EH?' exclaimed Miss Betseyin a tone of amazement I have never
heard approached.

'If you pleaseauntI am your nephew.'

'OhLord!' said my aunt. And sat flat down in the garden-path.

'I am David Copperfieldof Blunderstonein Suffolk - where you
cameon the night when I was bornand saw my dear mama. I have
been very unhappy since she died. I have been slightedand taught
nothingand thrown upon myselfand put to work not fit for me.
It made me run away to you. I was robbed at first setting outand
have walked all the wayand have never slept in a bed since I
began the journey.' Here my self-support gave way all at once; and
with a movement of my handsintended to show her my ragged state
and call it to witness that I had suffered somethingI broke into
a passion of cryingwhich I suppose had been pent up within me all
the week.

My auntwith every sort of expression but wonder discharged from
her countenancesat on the gravelstaring at meuntil I began to
cry; when she got up in a great hurrycollared meand took me
into the parlour. Her first proceeding there was to unlock a tall
pressbring out several bottlesand pour some of the contents of
each into my mouth. I think they must have been taken out at
randomfor I am sure I tasted aniseed wateranchovy sauceand
salad dressing. When she had administered these restorativesas
I was still quite hystericaland unable to control my sobsshe
put me on the sofawith a shawl under my headand the
handkerchief from her own head under my feetlest I should sully
the cover; and thensitting herself down behind the green fan or
screen I have already mentionedso that I could not see her face
ejaculated at intervals'Mercy on us!' letting those exclamations
off like minute guns.

After a time she rang the bell. 'Janet' said my auntwhen her
servant came in. 'Go upstairsgive my compliments 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 auntwith her hands behind herwalked
up and down the roomuntil the gentleman who had squinted at me
from the upper window came in laughing.

'Mr. Dick' said my aunt'don't be a foolbecause nobody can be
more discreet than you canwhen you choose. We all know that. So
don't be a foolwhatever you are.'

The gentleman was serious immediatelyand looked at meI 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 memorybecause you
and I know better.'

'David Copperfield?' said Mr. Dickwho did not appear to me to
remember much about it. 'David Copperfield? Oh yesto be sure.
Davidcertainly.'


'Well' said my aunt'this is his boy - his son. He would be as
like his father as it's possible to beif he was not so like his
mothertoo.'

'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 sisterBetsey Trotwood
never would have run away.' My aunt shook her head firmly
confident in the character and behaviour 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 auntsharply'how he
talks! Don't I know she wouldn't? She would have lived with her
god-motherand we should have been devoted to one another. Where
in the name of wondershould his sisterBetsey Trotwoodhave run
fromor to?'

'Nowhere' said Mr. Dick.

'Well then' returned my auntsoftened by the reply'how can you
pretend to be wool-gatheringDickwhen you are as sharp as a
surgeon's lancet? Nowhere you see young David Copperfieldand
the question I put to you iswhat shall I do with him?'

'What shall you do with him?' said Mr. Dickfeeblyscratching his
head. 'Oh! do with him?'

'Yes' said my auntwith a grave lookand her forefinger held up.
'Come! I want some very sound advice.'

'Whyif I was you' said Mr. Dickconsideringand looking
vacantly at me'I should -' The contemplation of me seemed to
inspire him with a sudden ideaand he addedbriskly'I should
wash him!'

'Janet' said my auntturning round with a quiet triumphwhich I
did not then understand'Mr. Dick sets us all right. Heat the
bath!'

Although I was deeply interested in this dialogueI could not help
observing my auntMr. Dickand Janetwhile it was in progress
and completing a survey I had already been engaged in making of the
room.

MY aunt was a tallhard-featured ladybut by no means
ill-looking. There was an inflexibility in her facein her voice
in her gait and carriageamply sufficient to account for the
effect she had made upon a gentle creature like my mother; but her
features were rather handsome than otherwisethough unbending and
austere. I particularly noticed that she had a very quickbright
eye. Her hairwhich was greywas arranged in two plain
divisionsunder what I believe would be called a mob-cap; I mean
a capmuch more common then than nowwith side-pieces fastening
under the chin. Her dress was of a lavender colourand perfectly
neat; but scantily madeas if she desired to be as little
encumbered as possible. I remember that I thought itin form
more like a riding-habit with the superfluous skirt cut offthan
anything else. She wore at her side a gentleman's gold watchif
I might judge from its size and makewith 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-wristbands.


Mr. Dickas I have already saidwas grey-headedand florid: I
should have said all about himin saying sohad not his head been
curiously bowed - not by age; it reminded me of one of Mr.
Creakle's boys' heads after a beating - and his grey eyes prominent
and largewith a strange kind of watery brightness in them that
made mein combination with his vacant mannerhis submission to
my auntand his childish delight when she praised himsuspect him
of being a little mad; thoughif he were madhow he came to be
there puzzled me extremely. He was dressed like any other ordinary
gentlemanin a loose grey morning coat and waistcoatand white
trousers; and had his watch in his foband his money in his
pockets: which he rattled as if he were very proud of it.

Janet was a pretty blooming girlof about nineteen or twentyand
a perfect picture of neatness. Though I made no further
observation of her at the momentI may mention here what I did not
discover until afterwardsnamelythat she was one of a series of
protegees whom my aunt had taken into her service expressly to
educate in a renouncement of mankindand who had generally
completed their abjuration by marrying the baker.

The room was as neat as Janet or my aunt. As I laid down my pen
a moment sinceto think of itthe air from the sea came blowing
in againmixed with the perfume of the flowers; and I saw the
old-fashioned furniture brightly rubbed and polishedmy aunt's
inviolable chair and table by the round green fan in the
bow-windowthe drugget-covered carpetthe catthe kettle-holder
the two canariesthe old chinathe punchbowl full of dried
rose-leavesthe tall press guarding all sorts of bottles and pots
andwonderfully out of keeping with the restmy dusty self upon
the sofataking note of everything.

Janet had gone away to get the bath readywhen my auntto my
great alarmbecame in one moment rigid with indignationand had
hardly voice to cry out'Janet! Donkeys!'

Upon whichJanet came running up the stairs as if the house were
in flamesdarted out on a little piece of green in frontand
warned off two saddle-donkeyslady-riddenthat had presumed to
set hoof upon it; while my auntrushing out of the houseseized
the bridle of a third animal laden with a bestriding childturned
himled him forth from those sacred precinctsand boxed the ears
of the unlucky urchin in attendance who had dared to profane that
hallowed ground.

To this hour I don't know whether my aunt had any lawful right of
way over that patch of green; but she had settled it in her own
mind that she hadand it was all the same to her. The one great
outrage of her lifedemanding to be constantly avengedwas the
passage of a donkey over that immaculate spot. In whatever
occupation she was engagedhowever interesting to her the
conversation in which she was taking parta donkey turned the
current of her ideas in a momentand she was upon him straight.
Jugs of waterand watering-potswere kept in secret places ready
to be discharged on the offending boys; sticks were laid in ambush
behind the door; sallies were made at all hours; and incessant war
prevailed. Perhaps this was an agreeable excitement to the
donkey-boys; or perhaps the more sagacious of the donkeys
understanding how the case stooddelighted with constitutional
obstinacy in coming that way. I only know that there were three
alarms before the bath was ready; and that on the occasion of the
last and most desperate of allI saw my aunt engage
single-handedwith a sandy-headed lad of fifteenand bump his


sandy head against her own gatebefore he seemed to comprehend
what was the matter. These interruptions were of the more
ridiculous to mebecause she was giving me broth out of a
table-spoon at the time (having firmly persuaded herself that I was
actually starvingand must receive nourishment at first in very
small quantities)andwhile my mouth was yet open to receive the
spoonshe would put it back into the basincry 'Janet! Donkeys!'
and go out to the assault.

The bath was a great comfort. For I began to be sensible of acute
pains in my limbs from lying out in the fieldsand was now so
tired and low that I could hardly keep myself awake for five
minutes together. When I had bathedthey (I mean my aunt and
Janet) enrobed me in a shirt and a pair of trousers belonging to
Mr. Dickand tied me up in two or three great shawls. What sort
of bundle I looked likeI don't knowbut I felt a very hot one.
Feeling also very faint and drowsyI soon lay down on the sofa
again and fell asleep.

It might have been a dreamoriginating in the fancy which had
occupied my mind so longbut I awoke with the impression that my
aunt had come and bent over meand had put my hair away from my
faceand laid my head more comfortablyand had then stood looking
at me. The words'Pretty fellow' or 'Poor fellow' seemed to be
in my earstoo; but certainly there was nothing elsewhen I
awoketo 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
fanwhich was mounted on a kind of swiveland turned any way.

We dined soon after I awokeoff a roast fowl and a pudding; I
sitting at tablenot unlike a trussed bird myselfand moving my
arms with considerable difficulty. But as my aunt had swathed me
upI made no complaint of being inconvenienced. All this time I
was deeply anxious to know what she was going to do with me; but
she took her dinner in profound silenceexcept when she
occasionally fixed her eyes on me sitting oppositeand said
'Mercy upon us!' which did not by any means relieve my anxiety.

The cloth being drawnand some sherry put upon the table (of which
I had a glass)my aunt sent up for Mr. Dick againwho joined us
and looked as wise as he could when she requested him to attend to
my storywhich she elicited from megraduallyby a course of
questions. During my recitalshe kept her eyes on Mr. Dickwho
I thought would have gone to sleep but for thatand who
whensoever he lapsed into a smilewas checked by a frown from my
aunt.

'Whatever possessed that poor unfortunate Babythat she must go
and be married again' said my auntwhen I had finished'I 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 simperedafter thinking a little'she did it
for pleasure.'

'Pleasureindeed!' replied my aunt. 'A mighty pleasure for the
poor Baby to fix her simple faith upon any dog of a fellowcertain
to ill-use her in some way or other. What did she propose to
herselfI should like to know! She had had one husband. She had


seen David Copperfield out of the worldwho was always running
after wax dolls from his cradle. She had got a baby - ohthere
were a pair of babies when she gave birth to this child sitting
herethat Friday night! - and what more did she want?'

Mr. Dick secretly shook his head at meas 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 sisterBetsey Trotwood? Not forthcoming.
Don't tell me!'

Mr. Dick seemed quite frightened.

'That little man of a doctorwith his head on one side' said my
aunt'Jellipsor whatever his name waswhat was he about? All
he could dowas to say to melike a robin redbreast - as he is "
It's a boy." A boy! Yahthe imbecility of the whole set of
'em!'

The heartiness of the ejaculation startled Mr. Dick exceedingly;
and metooif I am to tell the truth.

'And thenas if this was not enoughand she had not stood
sufficiently in the light of this child's sisterBetsey Trotwood'
said my aunt'she marries a second time - goes and marries a
Murderer - or a man with a name like it - and stands in THIS
child's light! And the natural consequence isas anybody but a
baby might have foreseenthat he prowls and wanders. He's as like
Cain before he was grown upas he can be.'

Mr. Dick looked hard at meas if to identify me in this character.

'And then there's that woman with the Pagan name' said my aunt
'that Peggottyshe goes and gets married next. Because she has
not seen enough of the evil attending such thingsshe goes and
gets married nextas the child relates. I only hope' said my
auntshaking her head'that her husband is one of those Poker
husbands who abound in the newspapersand will beat her well with
one.'

I could not bear to hear my old nurse so decriedand made the
subject of such a wish. I told my aunt that indeed she was
mistaken. That Peggotty was the bestthe truestthe most
faithfulmost devotedand most self-denying friend and servant in
the world; who had ever loved me dearlywho had ever loved my
mother dearly; who had held my mother's dying head upon her armon
whose face my mother had imprinted her last grateful kiss. And my
remembrance of them bothchoking meI broke down as I was trying
to say that her home was my homeand that all she had was mine
and that I would have gone to her for shelterbut for her humble
stationwhich made me fear that I might bring some trouble on her

-I broke downI sayas I was trying to say soand laid my face
in my hands upon the table.
'Wellwell!' said my aunt'the child is right to stand by those
who have stood by him - Janet! Donkeys!'

I thoroughly believe that but for those unfortunate donkeyswe
should have come to a good understanding; for my aunt had laid her
hand on my shoulderand the impulse was upon methus emboldened
to embrace her and beseech her protection. But the interruption
and the disorder she was thrown into by the struggle outsideput
an end to all softer ideas for the presentand kept my aunt


indignantly declaiming to Mr. Dick about her determination to
appeal for redress to the laws of her countryand to bring actions
for trespass against the whole donkey proprietorship of Dover
until tea-time.

After teawe sat at the window - on the look-outas I imagined
from my aunt's sharp expression of facefor more invaders - until
duskwhen Janet set candlesand a backgammon-boardon the table
and pulled down the blinds.

'NowMr. Dick' said my auntwith her grave lookand her
forefinger up as before'I am going to ask you another question.
Look at this child.'

'David's son?' said Mr. Dickwith an attentivepuzzled face.

'Exactly so' returned my aunt. 'What would you do with himnow?'

'Do with David's son?' said Mr. Dick.

'Ay' replied my aunt'with David's son.'

'Oh!' said Mr. Dick. 'Yes. Do with - I should put him to bed.'

'Janet!' cried my auntwith the same complacent triumph that I had
remarked before. 'Mr. Dick sets us all right. If the bed is
readywe'll take him up to it.'

Janet reporting it to be quite readyI 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
hopewas 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 kitchenof 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 therewith a little taper which my aunt
forewarned me would burn exactly five minutesI heard them lock my
door on the outside. Turning these things over in my mind I deemed
it possible that my auntwho could know nothing of memight
suspect I had a habit of running awayand took precautionson
that accountto have me in safe keeping.

The room was a pleasant oneat the top of the houseoverlooking
the seaon which the moon was shining brilliantly. After I had
said my prayersand the candle had burnt outI remember how I
still sat looking at the moonlight on the wateras if I could hope
to read my fortune in itas in a bright book; or to see my mother
with her childcoming from Heavenalong that shining pathto
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 awayyielded to the sensation of gratitude and rest which the
sight of the white-curtained bed - and how much more the lying
softly down upon itnestling in the snow-white sheets! - inspired.
I remember how I thought of all the solitary places under the night
sky where I had sleptand how I prayed that I never might be
houseless any moreand never might forget the houseless. I
remember how I seemed to floatthendown the melancholy glory of
that track upon the seaaway into the world of dreams.

CHAPTER 14
MY AUNT MAKES UP HER MIND ABOUT ME


On going down in the morningI found my aunt musing so profoundly
over the breakfast tablewith her elbow on the traythat the
contents of the urn had overflowed the teapot and were laying the
whole table-cloth under waterwhen my entrance put her meditations
to flight. I felt sure that I had been the subject of her
reflectionsand was more than ever anxious to know her intentions
towards me. Yet I dared not express my anxietylest it should
give her offence.

My eyeshowevernot 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 together but I found her
looking at me - in an odd thoughtful manneras if I were an
immense way offinstead of being on the other side of the small
round table. When she had finished her breakfastmy aunt very
deliberately leaned back in her chairknitted her browsfolded
her armsand contemplated me at her leisurewith such a fixedness
of attention that I was quite overpowered by embarrassment. Not
having as yet finished my own breakfastI attempted to hide my
confusion by proceeding with it; but my knife tumbled over my fork
my fork tripped up my knifeI chipped bits of bacon a surprising
height into the air instead of cutting them for my own eatingand
choked myself with my teawhich persisted in going the wrong way
instead of the right oneuntil I gave in altogetherand sat
blushing under my aunt's close scrutiny.

'Hallo!' said my auntafter a long time.

I looked upand met her sharp bright glance respectfully.

'I have written to him' said my aunt.

'To -?'

'To your father-in-law' said my aunt. 'I have sent him a letter
that I'll trouble him to attend toor he and I will fall outI
can tell him!'

'Does he know where I amaunt?' I inquiredalarmed.

'I have told him' said my auntwith a nod.

'Shall I - be - 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 auntshaking her head.
'I can't sayI am sure. We shall see.'

My spirits sank under these wordsand I became very downcast and
heavy of heart. My auntwithout appearing to take much heed of
meput on a coarse apron with a bibwhich she took out of the
press; washed up the teacups with her own hands; andwhen
everything was washed and set in the tray againand the cloth
folded and put on the top of the wholerang 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
roomwhich was dusted and arranged to a hair'sbreadth already.
When all these tasks were performed to her satisfactionshe took


off the gloves and apronfolded them upput them in the
particular corner of the press from which they had been taken
brought out her work-box to her own table in the open windowand
sat downwith the green fan between her and the lightto work.

'I wish you'd go upstairs' said my auntas she threaded her
needle'and give my compliments to Mr. Dickand I'll be glad to
know how he gets on with his Memorial.'

I rose with all alacrityto acquit myself of this commission.

'I suppose' said my aunteyeing me as narrowly as she had eyed
the needle in threading it'you think Mr. Dick a short nameeh?'

'I thought it was rather a short nameyesterday' I confessed.

'You are not to suppose that he hasn't got a longer nameif he
chose to use it' said my auntwith a loftier air. 'Babley - Mr.
Richard Babley - that's the gentleman's true name.'

I was going to suggestwith a modest sense of my youth and the
familiarity I had been already guilty ofthat I had better give
him the full benefit of that namewhen my aunt went on to say:

'But don't you call him by itwhatever 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 peculiarityeither; for he has been ill-used enoughby
some that bear itto have a mortal antipathy for itHeaven knows.
Mr. Dick is his name hereand everywhere elsenow - if he ever
went anywhere elsewhich he don't. So take carechildyou don't
call him anything BUT Mr. Dick.'

I promised to obeyand went upstairs with my message; thinkingas
I wentthat if Mr. Dick had been working at his Memorial longat
the same rate as I had seen him working at itthrough the open
doorwhen I came downhe was probably getting on very well
indeed. I found him still driving at it with a long penand his
head almost laid upon the paper. He was so intent upon itthat I
had ample leisure to observe the large paper kite in a cornerthe
confusion of bundles of manuscriptthe number of pensandabove
allthe quantity of ink (which he seemed to have inin
half-gallon jars by the dozen)before he observed my being
present.

'Ha! Phoebus!' said Mr. Dicklaying down his pen. 'How does the
world go? I'll tell you what' he addedin a lower tone'I
shouldn't wish it to be mentionedbut it's a -' here he beckoned
to meand put his lips close to my ear - 'it's a mad world. Mad
as Bedlamboy!' said Mr. Dicktaking snuff from a round box on
the tableand laughing heartily.

Without presuming to give my opinion on this questionI delivered
my message.

'Well' said Mr. Dickin answer'my compliments to herand I I
believe I have made a start. I think I have made a start' said
Mr. Dickpassing his hand among his grey hairand casting
anything but a confident look at his manuscript. 'You have been to
school?'

'Yessir' I answered; 'for a short time.'

'Do you recollect the date' said Mr. Dicklooking earnestly at
meand 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.


'Well' returned Mr. Dickscratching his ear with his penand
looking dubiously at me. 'So the books say; but I don't see how
that can be. Becauseif it was so long agohow could the people
about him have made that mistake of putting some of the trouble out
of his headafter it was taken offinto mine?'


I was very much surprised by the inquiry; but could give no
information on this point.


'It's very strange' said Mr. Dickwith a despondent look upon his
papersand with his hand among his hair again'that I never can
get that quite right. I never can make that perfectly clear. But
no matterno matter!' he said cheerfullyand rousing himself
'there's time enough! My compliments to Miss TrotwoodI am
getting on very well indeed.'


I was going awaywhen 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 ityou and I' said Mr. Dick. 'Do
you see this?'


He showed me that it was covered with manuscriptvery closely and
laboriously written; but so plainlythat as I looked along the
linesI thought I saw some allusion to King Charles the First's
head againin 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
circumstancesand the windand so forth; but I take my chance of
that.'


His face was so very mild and pleasantand had something so
reverend in itthough it was hale and heartythat I was not sure
but that he was having a good-humoured jest with me. So I laughed
and he laughedand we parted the best friends possible.


'Wellchild' said my auntwhen I went downstairs. 'And what of
Mr. Dickthis morning?'


I informed her that he sent his complimentsand was getting on
very well indeed.


'What do you think of him?' said my aunt.


I had some shadowy idea of endeavouring to evade the questionby
replying that I thought him a very nice gentleman; but my aunt was
not to be so put offfor she laid her work down in her lapand
saidfolding her hands upon it:


'Come! Your sister Betsey Trotwood would have told me what she
thought of anyonedirectly. Be as like your sister as you can
and speak out!'


'Is he - is Mr. Dick - I ask because I don't knowaunt - is he at



all out of his mindthen?' I stammered; for I felt I was on
dangerous ground.

'Not a morsel' said my aunt.

'Ohindeed!' I observed faintly.

'If there is anything in the world' said my auntwith great
decision and force of manner'that Mr. Dick is notit's that.'

I had nothing better to offerthan another timid'Ohindeed!'

'He has been CALLED mad' said my aunt. 'I have a selfish pleasure
in saying he has been called mador I should not have had the
benefit of his society and advice for these last ten years and
upwards - in factever since your sisterBetsey Trotwood
disappointed me.'

'So long as that?' I said.

'And nice people they werewho had the audacity to call him mad'
pursued my aunt. 'Mr. Dick is a sort of distant connexion of mine

-it doesn't matter how; I needn't enter into that. If it hadn't
been for mehis own brother would have shut him up for life.
That's all.'
I am afraid it was hypocritical in mebut seeing that my aunt felt
strongly on the subjectI tried to look as if I felt strongly too.

'A proud fool!' said my aunt. 'Because his brother was a little
eccentric - though he is not half so eccentric as a good many
people - he didn't like to have him visible about his houseand
sent him away to some private asylum-place: though he had been left
to his particular care by their deceased fatherwho thought him
almost a natural. And a wise man he must have been to think so!
Mad himselfno doubt.'

Againas my aunt looked quite convincedI endeavoured to look
quite convinced also.

'So I stepped in' said my aunt'and made him an offer. I said
Your brother's sane - 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. I am not afraid of him, I am not proud, I
am ready to take care of him, and shall not ill-treat him as some
people (besides the asylum-folks) have done.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! - But nobody knows what that man's mind is
except myself.'

My aunt smoothed her dress and shook her headas if she smoothed
defiance of the whole world out of the oneand shook it out of the
other.

'He had a favourite sister' said my aunt'a good creatureand
very kind to him. But she did what they all do - took a husband.
And HE did what they all do - made her wretched. It had such an
effect upon the mind of Mr. Dick (that's not madnessI hope!)
thatcombined with his fear of his brotherand his sense of his
unkindnessit threw him into a fever. That was before he came to
mebut the recollection of it is oppressive to him even now. Did
he say anything to you about King Charles the Firstchild?'


'Yesaunt.'

'Ah!' said my auntrubbing 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 agitationnaturallyand that's
the figureor the simileor whatever it's calledwhich he
chooses to use. And why shouldn't heif he thinks proper!'

I said: 'Certainlyaunt.'

'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 reason why I
insist upon itthat there shan't be a word about it in his
Memorial.'

'Is it a Memorial about his own history that he is writingaunt?'

'Yeschild' said my auntrubbing her nose again. 'He is
memorializing the Lord Chancelloror the Lord Somebody or other one
of those peopleat all eventswho are paid to be memorialized

-about his affairs. I suppose it will go inone of these days.
He hasn't been able to draw it up yetwithout introducing that
mode of expressing himself; but it don't signify; it keeps him
employed.'
In factI found out afterwards that Mr. Dick had been for upwards
of ten years endeavouring to keep King Charles the First out of the
Memorial; but he had been constantly getting into itand was there
now.

'I say again' said my aunt'nobody knows what that man's mind is
except myself; and he's the most amenable and friendly creature in
existence. If he likes to fly a kite sometimeswhat of that!
Franklin used to fly a kite. He was a Quakeror something of that
sortif 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 behoofand as a piece of confidence in
meI should have felt very much distinguishedand should have
augured favourably from such a mark of her good opinion. But I
could hardly help observing that she had launched into them
chiefly because the question was raised in her own mindand with
very little reference to methough she had addressed herself to me
in the absence of anybody else.

At the same timeI must say that the generosity of her
championship of poor harmless Mr. Dicknot only inspired my young
breast with some selfish hope for myselfbut warmed it unselfishly
towards her. I believe that I began to know that there was
something about my auntnotwithstanding her many eccentricities
and odd humoursto be honoured and trusted in. Though she was
just as sharp that day as on the day beforeand was in and out
about the donkeys just as oftenand was thrown into a tremendous
state of indignationwhen a young mangoing byogled Janet at a
window (which was one of the gravest misdemeanours that could be
committed against my aunt's dignity)she seemed to me to command
more of my respectif not less of my fear.

The anxiety I underwentin the interval which necessarily elapsed
before a reply could be received to her letter to Mr. Murdstone
was extreme; but I made an endeavour to suppress itand to be as
agreeable as I could in a quiet wayboth 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 dayand
which confined me to the houseexcept for an hour after darkwhen
my auntfor my health's sakeparaded me up and down on the cliff
outsidebefore going to bed. At length the reply from Mr.
Murdstone cameand my aunt informed meto my infinite terror
that he was coming to speak to her herself on the next day. On the
next daystill bundled up in my curious habilimentsI sat
counting the timeflushed and heated by the conflict of sinking
hopes and rising fears within me; and waiting to be startled by the
sight of the gloomy facewhose non-arrival startled me every
minute.

MY aunt was a little more imperious and stern than usualbut I
observed no other token of her preparing herself to receive the
visitor so much dreaded by me. She sat at work in the windowand
I sat bywith my thoughts running astray on all possible and
impossible results of Mr. Murdstone's visituntil pretty late in
the afternoon. Our dinner had been indefinitely postponed; but it
was growing so latethat my aunt had ordered it to be got ready
when she gave a sudden alarm of donkeysand to my consternation
and amazementI beheld Miss Murdstoneon a side-saddleride
deliberately over the sacred piece of greenand stop in front of
the houselooking about her.

'Go along with you!' cried my auntshaking 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 herthat I really believe she was
motionlessand unable for the moment to dart out according to
custom. I seized the opportunity to inform her who it was; and
that the gentleman now coming near the offender (for the way up was
very steepand he had dropped behind)was Mr. Murdstone himself.

'I don't care who it is!' cried my auntstill 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! Janetturn him
round. Lead him off!' and I sawfrom behind my aunta sort of
hurried battle-piecein which the donkey stood resisting
everybodywith all his four legs planted different wayswhile
Janet tried to pull him round by the bridleMr. Murdstone tried to
lead him onMiss Murdstone struck at Janet with a parasoland
several boyswho had come to see the engagementshouted
vigorously. But my auntsuddenly descrying among them the young
malefactor who was the donkey's guardianand who was one of the
most inveterate offenders against herthough hardly in his teens
rushed out to the scene of actionpounced upon himcaptured him
dragged himwith his jacket over his headand his heels grinding
the groundinto the gardenandcalling upon Janet to fetch the
constables and justicesthat he might be takentriedand
executed on the spotheld him at bay there. This part of the
businesshoweverdid not last long; for the young rascalbeing
expert at a variety of feints and dodgesof which my aunt had no
conceptionsoon went whooping awayleaving some deep impressions
of his nailed boots in the flower-bedsand taking his donkey in
triumph with him.

Miss Murdstoneduring the latter portion of the contesthad
dismountedand was now waiting with her brother at the bottom of
the stepsuntil my aunt should be at leisure to receive them. My
aunta little ruffled by the combatmarched past them into the
housewith great dignityand took no notice of their presence


until they were announced by Janet.

'Shall I go awayaunt?' I askedtrembling.

'Nosir' said my aunt. 'Certainly not!' With which she pushed
me into a corner near herand fenced Me in with a chairas if it
were a prison or a bar of justice. This position I continued to
occupy during the whole interviewand 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. 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 hostilitiesand
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 my late nephewDavid
Copperfieldof Blunderstone Rookery! - Though why RookeryI don't
know!'

'I am' said Mr. Murdstone.

'You'll excuse my sayingsir' 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 Murdstonebridling'that I consider our lamented Clara to
have beenin all essential respectsa mere child.'

'It is a comfort to you and mema'am' said my aunt'who are
getting on in lifeand are not likely to be made unhappy by our
personal attractionsthat nobody can say the same of us.'

'No doubt!' returned Miss MurdstonethoughI thoughtnot with a
very ready or gracious assent. 'And it certainly might have been
as you saya 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. 'Janet' ringing the
bell'my compliments to Mr. Dickand beg him to come down.'

Until he camemy aunt sat perfectly upright and stifffrowning at
the wall. When he camemy aunt performed the ceremony of
introduction.

'Mr. Dick. An old and intimate friend. On whose judgement' said
my auntwith emphasisas an admonition to Mr. Dickwho was
biting his forefinger and looking rather foolish'I rely.'

Mr. Dick took his finger out of his mouthon this hintand stood
among the groupwith a grave and attentive expression of face.

My aunt inclined her head to Mr. Murdstonewho went on:


'Miss Trotwood: on the receipt of your letterI considered it an
act of greater justice to myselfand perhaps of more respect to
you-'

'Thank you' said my auntstill eyeing him keenly. 'You needn't
mind me.'

'To answer it in personhowever inconvenient the journey' pursued
Mr. Murdstone'rather than by letter. This unhappy boy who has
run away from his friends and his occupation -'

'And whose appearance' interposed his sisterdirecting general
attention to me in my indefinable costume'is perfectly scandalous
and disgraceful.'

'Jane Murdstone' said her brother'have the goodness not to
interrupt me. This unhappy boyMiss Trotwoodhas been the
occasion of much domestic trouble and uneasiness; both during the
lifetime of my late dear wifeand since. He has a sullen
rebellious spirit; a violent temper; and an untowardintractable
disposition. Both my sister and myself have endeavoured to correct
his vicesbut ineffectually. And I have felt - we both have felt
I may say; my sister being fully in my confidence - that it is
right you should receive this grave and dispassionate assurance
from our lips.'

'It can hardly be necessary for me to confirm anything stated by my
brother' said Miss Murdstone; 'but I beg to observethatof all
the boys in the worldI believe this is the worst boy.'

'Strong!' said my auntshortly.

'But not at all too strong for the facts' returned Miss Murdstone.

'Ha!' said my aunt. 'Wellsir?'

'I have my own opinions' resumed Mr. Murdstonewhose face
darkened more and morethe more he and my aunt observed each
otherwhich they did very narrowly'as to the best mode of
bringing him up; they are foundedin parton my knowledge of him
and in part on my knowledge of my own means and resources. I am
responsible for them to myselfI act upon themand I say no more
about them. It is enough that I place this boy under the eye of a
friend of my ownin 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 herein ragsto appeal to
youMiss Trotwood. I wish to set before youhonourablythe
exact consequences - so far as they are within my knowledge - of
your abetting him in this appeal.'

'But about the respectable business first' said my aunt. 'If he
had been your own boyyou would have put him to itjust the same
I suppose?'

'If he had been my brother's own boy' returned Miss Murdstone
striking in'his characterI trustwould have been altogether
different.'

'Or if the poor childhis motherhad been alivehe would still
have gone into the respectable businesswould he?' said my aunt.

'I believe' said Mr. Murdstonewith an inclination of his head
'that Clara would have disputed nothing which myself and my sister


Jane Murdstone were agreed was for the best.'

Miss Murdstone confirmed this with an audible murmur.

'Humph!' said my aunt. 'Unfortunate baby!'

Mr. Dickwho had been rattling his money all this timewas
rattling it so loudly nowthat my aunt felt it necessary to check
him with a lookbefore saying:

'The poor child's annuity died with her?'

'Died with her' replied Mr. Murdstone.

'And there was no settlement of the little property - the house and
garden - the what's-its-name Rookery without any rooks in it - upon
her boy?'

'It had been left to herunconditionallyby her first husband'
Mr. Murdstone beganwhen my aunt caught him up with the greatest
irascibility and impatience.

'Good Lordmanthere'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 kindthough it stared him
point-blank in the face! Of course it was left to her
unconditionally. But when she married again - when she took that
most disastrous step of marrying youin short' said my aunt'to
be plain - did no one put in a word for the boy at that time?'

'My late wife loved her second husbandma'am' said Mr. Murdstone
'and trusted implicitly in him.'

'Your late wifesirwas a most unworldlymost unhappymost
unfortunate baby' returned my auntshaking her head at him.
'That's what she was. And nowwhat have you got to say next?'

'Merely thisMiss Trotwood' he returned. 'I am here to take
David back - to take him back unconditionallyto dispose of him as
I think properand to deal with him as I think right. I am not
here to make any promiseor give any pledge to anybody. You may
possibly have some ideaMiss Trotwoodof abetting him in his
running awayand in his complaints to you. Your mannerwhich I
must say does not seem intended to propitiateinduces me to think
it possible. Now I must caution you that if you abet him onceyou
abet him for good and all; if you step in between him and menow
you must step inMiss Trotwoodfor ever. I cannot trifleor be
trifled with. I am herefor the first and last timeto take him
away. Is he ready to go? If he is not - and you tell me he is
not; on any pretence; it is indifferent to me what - my doors are
shut against him henceforthand yoursI take it for grantedare
open to him.'

To this addressmy aunt had listened with the closest attention
sitting perfectly uprightwith her hands folded on one kneeand
looking grimly on the speaker. When he had finishedshe turned
her eyes so as to command Miss Murdstonewithout otherwise
disturbing her attitudeand said:

'Wellma'amhave YOU got anything to remark?'

'IndeedMiss Trotwood' said Miss Murdstone'all that I could say
has been so well said by my brotherand all that I know to be the
fact has been so plainly stated by himthat I have nothing to add


except my thanks for your politeness. For your very great
politenessI am sure' said Miss Murdstone; with an irony which no
more affected my auntthan 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 noand entreated her not to let me go. I said that
neither Mr. nor Miss Murdstone had ever liked meor had ever been
kind to me. That they had made my mamawho always loved me
dearlyunhappy about meand that I knew it welland that
Peggotty knew it. I said that I had been more miserable than I
thought anybody could believewho only knew how young I was. And
I begged and prayed my aunt - I forget in what terms nowbut I
remember that they affected me very much then - to befriend and
protect mefor my father's sake.

'Mr. Dick' said my aunt'what shall I do with this child?'

Mr. Dick consideredhesitatedbrightenedand rejoined'Have him
measured for a suit of clothes directly.'

'Mr. Dick' said my aunt triumphantly'give me your handfor your
common sense is invaluable.' Having shaken it with great
cordialityshe 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 isat least I can do as much for him thenas
you have done. But I don't believe a word of it.'

'Miss Trotwood' rejoined Mr. Murdstoneshrugging his shoulders
as he rose'if you were a gentleman -'

'Bah! Stuff and nonsense!' said my aunt. 'Don't talk to me!'

'How exquisitely polite!' exclaimed Miss Murdstonerising.
'Overpoweringreally!'

'Do you think I don't know' said my auntturning a deaf ear to
the sisterand continuing to address the brotherand to shake her
head at him with infinite expression'what kind of life you must
have led that poorunhappymisdirected 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 - smirking and making great eyes at
herI'll be boundas if you couldn't say boh! to a goose!'

'I never heard anything so elegant!' said Miss Murdstone.

'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 - whichI tell
you candidlyis anything but a pleasure to me? Oh yesbless 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 - tenderly
doted on him! He was to be another father to himand they were
all to live together in a garden of rosesweren't they? Ugh! Get
along with youdo!' said my aunt.

'I never heard anything like this person in my life!' exclaimed
Miss Murdstone.

'And when you had made sure of the poor little fool' said my aunt

-'God forgive me that I should call her soand she gone where YOU

won't go in a hurry - because you had not done wrong enough to her
and hersyou must begin to train hermust you? begin to break
herlike a poor caged birdand wear her deluded life awayin
teaching her to sing YOUR notes?'

'This is either insanity or intoxication' said Miss Murdstonein
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 Betseywithout taking the least notice of the interruption
continued to address herself to Mr. Murdstone as if there had been
no such thing.

'Mr. Murdstone' she saidshaking her finger at him'you were a
tyrant to the simple babyand you broke her heart. She was a
loving baby - I know that; I knew ityears before you ever saw her

-and through the best part of her weakness you gave her the wounds
she died of. There is the truth for your comforthowever you like
it. And you and your instruments may make the most of it.'
'Allow me to inquireMiss Trotwood' interposed Miss Murdstone
'whom you are pleased to callin a choice of words in which I am
not experiencedmy brother's instruments?'

'It was clear enoughas I have told youyears before YOU ever saw
her - and whyin the mysterious dispensations of Providenceyou
ever did see heris more than humanity can comprehend - 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 the timeMr. Murdstonewhen she
gave birth to her boy here' said my aunt; 'to the poor child you
sometimes tormented her through afterwardswhich is a disagreeable
remembrance and makes the sight of him odious now. Ayeaye! you
needn't wince!' said my aunt. 'I know it's true without that.'

He had stood by the doorall this whileobservant of her with a
smile upon his facethough his black eyebrows were heavily
contracted. I remarked nowthatthough the smile was on his face
stillhis colour had gone in a momentand he seemed to breathe as
if he had been running.

'Good daysir' said my aunt'and good-bye! Good day to you
tooma'am' said my auntturning suddenly upon his sister. 'Let
me see you ride a donkey over my green againand as sure as you
have a head upon your shouldersI'll knock your bonnet offand
tread upon it!'

It would require a painterand no common painter tooto depict my
aunt's face as she delivered herself of this very unexpected
sentimentand Miss Murdstone's face as she heard it. But the
manner of the speechno less than the matterwas so fierythat
Miss Murdstonewithout a word in answerdiscreetly put her arm
through her brother'sand walked haughtily out of the cottage; my
aunt remaining in the window looking after them; preparedI have
no doubtin case of the donkey's reappearanceto carry her threat
into instant execution.

No attempt at defiance being madehoweverher face gradually
relaxedand became so pleasantthat I was emboldened to kiss and
thank her; which I did with great heartinessand with both my arms
clasped round her neck. I then shook hands with Mr. Dickwho
shook hands with me a great many timesand hailed this happy close
of the proceedings with repeated bursts of laughter.


'You'll consider yourself guardianjointly with meof this child
Mr. Dick' said my aunt.

'I shall be delighted' said Mr. Dick'to be the guardian of
David's son.'

'Very good' returned my aunt'that's settled. I have been
thinkingdo you knowMr. Dickthat I might call him Trotwood?'

'Certainlycertainly. Call him Trotwoodcertainly' said Mr.
Dick. 'David's son's Trotwood.'

'Trotwood Copperfieldyou mean' returned my aunt.

'Yesto be sure. Yes. Trotwood Copperfield' said Mr. Dicka
little abashed.

My aunt took so kindly to the notionthat some ready-made clothes
which were purchased for me that afternoonwere marked 'Trotwood
Copperfield'in her own handwritingand 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 lifein a new nameand with everything new
about me. Now that the state of doubt was overI feltfor many
dayslike one in a dream. I never thought that I had a curious
couple of guardiansin my aunt and Mr. Dick. I never thought of
anything about myselfdistinctly. The two things clearest in my
mind werethat a remoteness had come upon the old Blunderstone
life - 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 momenteven in this narrativewith a reluctant
handand dropped it gladly. The remembrance of that life is
fraught with so much pain to mewith so much mental suffering and
want of hopethat I have never had the courage even to examine how
long I was doomed to lead it. Whether it lasted for a yearor
moreor lessI do not know. I only know that it wasand ceased
to be; and that I have writtenand there I leave it.

CHAPTER 15
I MAKE ANOTHER BEGINNING

Mr. Dick and I soon became the best of friendsand very often
when his day's work was donewent 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 progresshowever hard he labouredfor
King Charles the First always strayed into itsooner or laterand
then it was thrown asideand another one begun. The patience and
hope with which he bore these perpetual disappointmentsthe mild
perception he had that there was something wrong about King Charles
the Firstthe feeble efforts he made to keep him outand the
certainty with which he came inand tumbled the Memorial out of
all shapemade a deep impression on me. What Mr. Dick supposed
would come of the Memorialif it were completed; where he thought
it was to goor what he thought it was to do; he knew no more than
anybody elseI believe. Nor was it at all necessary that he
should trouble himself with such questionsfor if anything were
certain under the sunit was certain that the Memorial never would


be finished. It was quite an affecting sightI used to thinkto
see him with the kite when it was up a great height in the air.
What he had told mein his roomabout his belief in its
disseminating the statements pasted on itwhich were nothing but
old leaves of abortive Memorialsmight have been a fancy with him
sometimes; but not when he was outlooking up at the kite in the
skyand feeling it pull and tug at his hand. He never looked so
serene as he did then. I used to fancyas I sat by him of an
eveningon a green slopeand saw him watch the kite high in the
quiet airthat it lifted his mind out of its confusionand 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
lightuntil it fluttered to the groundand lay there like a dead
thinghe seemed to wake gradually out of a dream; and I remember
to have seen him take it upand look about him in a lost wayas
if they had both come down togetherso that I pitied him with all
my heart.

While I advanced in friendship and intimacy with Mr. DickI did
not go backward in the favour of his staunch friendmy aunt. She
took so kindly to methatin the course of a few weeksshe
shortened my adopted name of Trotwood into Trot; and even
encouraged me to hopethat if I went on as I had begunI might
take equal rank in her affections with my sister Betsey Trotwood.

'Trot' said my aunt one eveningwhen the backgammon-board was
placed as usual for herself and Mr. Dick'we must not forget your
education.'

This was my only subject of anxietyand I felt quite delighted by
her referring to it.

'Should you like to go to school at Canterbury?' said my aunt.

I replied that I should like it very muchas it was so near her.

'Good' said my aunt. 'Should you like to go tomorrow?'

Being already no stranger to the general rapidity of my aunt's
evolutionsI was not surprised by the suddenness of the proposal
and said: 'Yes.'

'Good' said my aunt again. 'Janethire the grey pony and chaise
tomorrow morning at ten o'clockand pack up Master Trotwood's
clothes tonight.'

I was greatly elated by these orders; but my heart smote me for my
selfishnesswhen I witnessed their effect on Mr. Dickwho was so
low-spirited at the prospect of our separationand played so ill
in consequencethat my auntafter giving him several admonitory
raps on the knuckles with her dice-boxshut up the boardand
declined to play with him any more. Buton hearing from my aunt
that I should sometimes come over on a Saturdayand that he could
sometimes come and see me on a Wednesdayhe revived; and vowed to
make another kite for those occasionsof proportions greatly
surpassing the present one. In the morning he was downhearted
againand would have sustained himself by giving me all the money
he had in his possessiongold and silver tooif my aunt had not
interposedand limited the gift to five shillingswhichat his
earnest petitionwere afterwards increased to ten. We parted at
the garden-gate in a most affectionate mannerand Mr. Dick did not
go into the house until my aunt had driven me out of sight of it.

My auntwho was perfectly indifferent to public opiniondrove the


grey pony through Dover in a masterly manner; sitting high and
stiff like a state coachmankeeping a steady eye upon him wherever
he wentand making a point of not letting him have his own way in
any respect. When we came into the country roadshe permitted him
to relax a littlehowever; and looking at me down in a valley of
cushion by her sideasked me whether I was happy?

'Very happy indeedthank youaunt' I said.

She was much gratified; and both her hands being occupiedpatted
me on the head with her whip.

'Is it a large schoolaunt?' I asked.

'WhyI don't know' said my aunt. 'We are going to Mr.
Wickfield's first.'

'Does he keep a school?' I asked.

'NoTrot' said my aunt. 'He keeps an office.'

I asked for no more information about Mr. Wickfieldas she offered
noneand we conversed on other subjects until we came to
Canterburywhereas it was market-daymy aunt had a great
opportunity of insinuating the grey pony among cartsbaskets
vegetablesand huckster's goods. The hair-breadth turns and
twists we madedrew down upon us a variety of speeches from the
people standing aboutwhich were not always complimentary; but my
aunt drove on with perfect indifferenceand 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
fartherand beams with carved heads on the ends bulging out too
so that I fancied the whole house was leaning forwardtrying 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 doorornamented with carved garlands of fruit and
flowerstwinkled 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 cornersand carvings and mouldingsand
quaint little panes of glassand quainter little windowsthough
as old as the hillswere as pure as any snow that ever fell upon
the hills.

When the pony-chaise stopped at the doorand my eyes were intent
upon the houseI 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
openedand the face came out. It was quite as cadaverous as it
had looked in the windowthough 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 - a youth of
fifteenas I take it nowbut looking much older - whose hair was
cropped as close as the closest stubble; who had hardly any
eyebrowsand no eyelashesand eyes of a red-brownso unsheltered
and unshadedthat I remember wondering how he went to sleep. He
was high-shouldered and bony; dressed in decent blackwith a white
wisp of a neckcloth; buttoned up to the throat; and had a long
lankskeleton handwhich particularly attracted my attentionas
he stood at the pony's headrubbing his chin with itand looking
up at us in the chaise.

'Is Mr. Wickfield at homeUriah Heep?' said my aunt.


'Mr. Wickfield's at homema'am' said Uriah Heep'if 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 ponywent into a long low
parlour looking towards the streetfrom the window of which I
caught a glimpseas I went inof Uriah Heep breathing into the
pony's nostrilsand immediately covering them with his handas if
he were putting some spell upon him. Opposite to the tall old
chimney-piece were two portraits: one of a gentleman with grey hair
(though not by any means an old man) and black eyebrowswho was
looking over some papers tied together with red tape; the otherof
a ladywith a very placid and sweet expression of facewho was
looking at me.

I believe I was turning about in search of Uriah's picturewhen
a door at the farther end of the room openinga gentleman entered
at sight of whom I turned to the first-mentioned portrait againto
make quite sure that it had not come out of its frame. But it was
stationary; and as the gentleman advanced into the lightI 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 momentbut you'll excuse my being busy. You know my
motive. I have but one in life.'

Miss Betsey thanked himand we went into his roomwhich was
furnished as an officewith bookspaperstin boxesand so
forth. It looked into a gardenand had an iron safe let into the
wall; so immediately over the mantelshelfthat I wonderedas I
sat downhow the sweeps got round it when they swept the chimney.

'WellMiss Trotwood' said Mr. Wickfield; for I soon found that it
was heand that he was a lawyerand steward of the estates of a
rich gentleman of the county; 'what wind blows you here? Not an
ill windI hope?'

'No' replied my aunt. 'I have not come for any law.'

'That's rightma'am' said Mr. Wickfield. 'You had better come
for anything else.'
His hair was quite white nowthough his eyebrows were still black.
He had a very agreeable faceandI thoughtwas handsome. There
was a certain richness in his complexionwhich I had been long
accustomedunder Peggotty's tuitionto connect with port wine;
and I fancied it was in his voice tooand referred his growing
corpulency to the same cause. He was very cleanly dressedin a
blue coatstriped waistcoatand nankeen trousers; and his fine
frilled shirt and cambric neckcloth looked unusually soft and
whitereminding 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 oneMiss Trotwood' said Mr. Wickfield.

'My grand-nephewthat is to say' observed my aunt.

'Wasn't aware you had a grand-nephewI give you my word' said Mr.
Wickfield.

'I have adopted him' said my auntwith a wave of her hand


importing that his knowledge and his ignorance were all one to her
'and I have brought him hereto put to a school where he may be
thoroughly well taughtand well treated. Now tell me where that
school isand what it isand all about it.'

'Before I can advise you properly' said Mr. Wickfield - 'the old
questionyou know. What's your motive in this?'

'Deuce take the man!' exclaimed my aunt. 'Always fishing for
motiveswhen they're on the surface! Whyto make the child happy
and useful.'

'It must be a mixed motiveI think' said Mr. Wickfieldshaking
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 supposeI hope
that you are the only plain dealer in the world?'

'Aybut I have only one motive in lifeMiss Trotwood' he
rejoinedsmiling. 'Other people have dozensscoreshundreds.
I have only one. There's the difference. Howeverthat's beside
the question. The best school? Whatever the motiveyou want the
best?'

My aunt nodded assent.

'At the best we have' said Mr. Wickfieldconsidering'your
nephew couldn't board just now.'

'But he could board somewhere elseI suppose?' suggested my aunt.

Mr. Wickfield thought I could. After a little discussionhe
proposed to take my aunt to the schoolthat she might see it and
judge for herself; alsoto take herwith the same objectto two
or three houses where he thought I could be boarded. My aunt
embracing the proposalwe were all three going out togetherwhen
he stopped and said:

'Our little friend here might have some motiveperhapsfor
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 behindif they pleased; and
returned into Mr. Wickfield's officewhere I sat down againin
the chair I had first occupiedto await their return.

It so happened that this chair was opposite a narrow passagewhich
ended in the little circular room where I had seen Uriah Heep's
pale face looking out of the window. Uriahhaving taken the pony
to a neighbouring stablewas at work at a desk in this roomwhich
had a brass frame on the top to hang paper uponand on which the
writing he was making a copy of was then hanging. Though his face
was towards meI thoughtfor some timethe writing being between
usthat he could not see me; but looking that way more
attentivelyit made me uncomfortable to observe thatevery now
and thenhis sleepless eyes would come below the writinglike two
red sunsand stealthily stare at me for I dare say a whole minute
at a timeduring which his pen wentor pretended to goas
cleverly as ever. I made several attempts to get out of their way

-such as standing on a chair to look at a map on the other side of
the roomand poring over the columns of a Kentish newspaper - but
they always attracted me back again; and whenever I looked towards

those two red sunsI was sure to find themeither just rising or
just setting.

At lengthmuch to my reliefmy 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
undeniablemy 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 doMiss Trotwood.'

'What's that?' inquired my aunt.

'Leave your nephew herefor 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 monasteryand almost as roomy. Leave him here.'

My aunt evidently liked the offerthough she was delicate of
accepting it. So did I.
'ComeMiss Trotwood' said Mr. Wickfield. 'This is the way out of
the difficulty. It's only a temporary arrangementyou know. If
it don't act wellor don't quite accord with our mutual
conveniencehe 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 heI
see; but -'

'Come! I know what you mean' cried Mr. Wickfield. 'You shall not
be oppressed by the receipt of favoursMiss Trotwood. You may pay
for himif you like. We won't be hard about termsbut you shall
pay if you will.'

'On that understanding' said my aunt'though it doesn't lessen
the real obligationI 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 thatalmost as easily; and
into a shady old drawing-roomlighted by some three or four of the
quaint windows I had looked up at from the street: which had old
oak seats in themthat seemed to have come of the same trees as
the shining oak floorand the great beams in the ceiling. It was
a prettily furnished roomwith a piano and some lively furniture
in red and greenand some flowers. It seemed to be all old nooks
and corners; and in every nook and corner there was some queer
little tableor cupboardor bookcaseor seator something or
otherthat made me think there was not such another good corner in
the room; until I looked at the next oneand 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 panelled wall
and a girl of about my own age came quickly out and kissed him. On
her faceI saw immediately the placid and sweet expression of the
lady whose picture had looked at me downstairs. It seemed to my
imagination as if the portrait had grown womanlyand the original
remained a child. Although her face was quite bright and happy


there was a tranquillity about itand about her - a quietgood
calm spirit - that I never have forgotten; that I shall never
forget. This was his little housekeeperhis daughter AgnesMr.
Wickfield said. When I heard how he said itand saw how he held
her handI guessed what the one motive of his life was.

She had a little basket-trifle hanging at her sidewith 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 he told her
about mewith a pleasant face; and when he had concludedproposed
to my aunt that we should go upstairs and see my room. We all went
togethershe before us: and a glorious old room it waswith more
oak beamsand diamond panes; and the broad balustrade going all
the way up to it.

I cannot call to mind where or whenin my childhoodI had seen a
stained glass window in a church. Nor do I recollect its subject.
But I know that when I saw her turn roundin the grave light of
the old staircaseand wait for usaboveI thought of that
window; and I associated something of its tranquil brightness with
Agnes Wickfield ever afterwards.

My aunt was as happy as I wasin the arrangement made for me; and
we went down to the drawing-room againwell pleased and gratified.
As she would not hear of staying to dinnerlest she should by any
chance fail to arrive at home with the grey 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 thereand Agnes went
back to her governessand 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.
Wickfieldand that I should want for nothingand gave me the
kindest words and the best advice.

'Trot' said my aunt in conclusion'be a credit to yourselfto
meand Mr. Dickand Heaven be with you!'

I was greatly overcomeand could only thank heragain 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 vicesTrotand I can always be
hopeful of you.'

I promisedas well as I couldthat 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 hastilyand went out of the room
shutting the door after her. At first I was startled by so abrupt
a departureand almost feared I had displeased her; but when I
looked into the streetand saw how dejectedly she got into the
chaiseand drove away without looking upI understood her better
and did not do her that injustice.

By five o'clockwhich was Mr. Wickfield's dinner-hourI had
mustered up my spirits againand was ready for my knife and fork.
The cloth was only laid for us two; but Agnes was waiting in the
drawing-room before dinnerwent down with her fatherand sat
opposite to him at table. I doubted whether he could have dined
without her.

We did not stay thereafter dinnerbut came upstairs into the


drawing-room again: in one snug corner of whichAgnes set glasses
for her fatherand a decanter of port wine. I thought he would
have missed its usual flavourif it had been put there for him by
any other hands.

There he sattaking his wineand taking a good deal of itfor
two hours; while Agnes played on the pianoworkedand talked to
him and me. He wasfor the most partgay and cheerful with us;
but sometimes his eyes rested on herand he fell into a brooding
stateand was silent. She always observed this quicklyI
thoughtand always roused him with a question or caress. Then he
came out of his meditationand drank more wine.

Agnes made the teaand presided over it; and the time passed away
after itas after dinneruntil she went to bed; when her father
took her in his arms and kissed herandshe being goneordered
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 streetthat I might have another peep
at the old housesand the grey Cathedral; and might think of my
coming through that old city on my journeyand of my passing the
very house I lived inwithout knowing it. As I came backI saw
Uriah Heep shutting up the office; and feeling friendly towards
everybodywent in and spoke to himand at partinggave him my
hand. But ohwhat a clammy hand his was! as ghostly to the touch
as to the sight! I rubbed mine afterwardsto warm itAND TO RUB
HIS OFF.

It was such an uncomfortable handthatwhen I went to my roomit
was still cold and wet upon my memory. Leaning out of the window
and seeing one of the faces on the beam-ends looking at me
sidewaysI fancied it was Uriah Heep got up there somehowand
shut him out in a hurry.

CHAPTER 16
I AM A NEW BOY IN MORE SENSES THAN ONE

Next morningafter breakfastI entered on school life again. I
wentaccompanied by Mr. Wickfieldto the scene of my future
studies - a grave building in a courtyardwith 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 - and was introduced to my new masterDoctor
Strong.

Doctor Strong looked almost as rustyto my thinkingas the tall
iron rails and gates outside the house; and almost as stiff and
heavy as the great stone urns that flanked themand were set up
on the top of the red-brick wallat regular distances all round
the courtlike sublimated skittlesfor Time to play at. He was
in his library (I mean Doctor Strong was)with his clothes not
particularly well brushedand 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 eyethat reminded me of
a long-forgotten blind old horse who once used to crop the grass
and tumble over the gravesin Blunderstone churchyardhe said he
was glad to see me: and then he gave me his hand; which I didn't
know what to do withas it did nothing for itself.


Butsitting at worknot far from Doctor Strongwas a very pretty
young lady - whom he called Annieand who was his daughterI
supposed - who got me out of my difficulty by kneeling down to put
Doctor Strong's shoes onand button his gaiterswhich she did
with great cheerfulness and quickness. When she had finishedand
we were going out to the schoolroomI was much surprised to hear
Mr. Wickfieldin bidding her good morningaddress her as 'Mrs.
Strong'; and I was wondering could she be Doctor Strong's son's
wifeor could she be Mrs. Doctor Strongwhen Doctor Strong
himself unconsciously enlightened me.

'By the byWickfield' he saidstopping 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. Wickfield. 'No. Not yet.'

'I could wish it done as soon as it can be doneWickfield' said
Doctor Strong'for Jack Maldon is needyand idle; and of those
two bad thingsworse things sometimes come. What does Doctor
Watts say' he addedlooking at meand moving his head to the
time of his quotation'"Satan finds some mischief stillfor idle
hands to do."'

'EgadDoctor' returned Mr. Wickfield'if Doctor Watts knew
mankindhe might have writtenwith as much truthSatan finds
some mischief still, for busy hands to do.The busy people achieve
their full share of mischief in the worldyou may rely upon it.
What have the people been aboutwho have been the busiest in
getting moneyand in getting powerthis century or two? No
mischief?'

'Jack Maldon will never be very busy in getting eitherI expect'
said Doctor Strongrubbing his chin thoughtfully.

'Perhaps not' said Mr. Wickfield; 'and you bring me back to the
questionwith an apology for digressing. NoI have not been able
to dispose of Mr. Jack Maldon yet. I believe' he said this with
some hesitation'I penetrate your motiveand it makes the thing
more difficult.'

'My motive' returned Doctor Strong'is to make some suitable
provision for a cousinand an old playfellowof Annie's.'

'YesI know' said Mr. Wickfield; 'at home or abroad.'

'Aye!' replied the Doctorapparently wondering why he emphasized
those words so much. 'At home or abroad.'

'Your own expressionyou 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 Mr. Wickfield'for meaning abroadand not at
home?'


'No' returned the Doctor.

'I am bound to believe youand of course I do believe you' said
Mr. Wickfield. 'It might have simplified my office very muchif
I had known it before. But I confess I entertained another
impression.'

Doctor Strong regarded him with a puzzled and doubting lookwhich
almost immediately subsided into a smile that gave me great
encouragement; for it was full of amiability and sweetnessand
there was a simplicity in itand indeed in his whole mannerwhen
the studiouspondering frost upon it was got throughvery
attractive and hopeful to a young scholar like me. Repeating 'no'
and 'not the least'and other short assurances to the same
purportDoctor Strong jogged on before usat a queeruneven
pace; and we followed: Mr. Wickfieldlooking graveI observed
and shaking his head to himselfwithout knowing that I saw him.

The schoolroom was a pretty large hallon the quietest side of the
houseconfronted by the stately stare of some half-dozen of the
great urnsand commanding a peep of an old secluded garden
belonging to the Doctorwhere the peaches were ripening on the
sunny south wall. There were two great aloesin tubson the turf
outside the windows; the broad hard leaves of which plant (looking
as if they were made of painted tin) have ever sinceby
associationbeen symbolical to me of silence and retirement.
About five-and-twenty boys were studiously engaged at their books
when we went inbut they rose to give the Doctor good morningand
remained standing when they saw Mr. Wickfield and me.

'A new boyyoung gentlemen' said the Doctor; 'Trotwood
Copperfield.'

One Adamswho was the head-boythen stepped out of his place and
welcomed me. He looked like a young clergymanin his white
cravatbut he was very affable and good-humoured; and he showed me
my placeand presented me to the mastersin a gentlemanly way
that would have put me at my easeif anything could.

It seemed to me so longhoweversince I had been among such boys
or among any companions of my own ageexcept Mick Walker and Mealy
Potatoesthat I felt as strange as ever I have done in my life.
I was so conscious of having passed through scenes of which they
could have no knowledgeand of having acquired experiences foreign
to my ageappearanceand condition as one of themthat I half
believed it was an imposture to come there as an ordinary little
schoolboy. I had becomein the Murdstone and Grinby timehowever
short or long it may have beenso unused to the sports and games
of boysthat I knew I was awkward and inexperienced in the
commonest things belonging to them. Whatever I had learnthad so
slipped away from me in the sordid cares of my life from day to
nightthat nowwhen I was examined about what I knewI knew
nothingand was put into the lowest form of the school. But
troubled as I wasby my want of boyish skilland of book-learning
tooI was made infinitely more uncomfortable by the consideration
thatin what I did knowI was much farther removed from my
companions than in what I did not. My mind ran upon what they
would thinkif they knew of my familiar acquaintance with the
King's Bench Prison? Was there anything about me which would
reveal my proceedings in connexion with the Micawber family - all
those pawningsand sellingsand suppers - in spite of myself?
Suppose some of the boys had seen me coming through Canterbury
wayworn and raggedand should find me out? What would they say
who made so light of moneyif they could know how I had scraped my


halfpence togetherfor the purchase of my daily saveloy and beer
or my slices of pudding? How would it affect themwho were so
innocent of London lifeand London streetsto 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 muchon that first day at
Doctor Strong'sthat I felt distrustful of my slightest look and
gesture; shrunk within 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 housethat
when I knocked at itwith my new school-books under my armI
began to feel my uneasiness softening away. As I went up to my
airy old roomthe grave shadow of the staircase seemed to fall
upon my doubts and fearsand to make the past more indistinct. I
sat theresturdily conning my booksuntil dinner-time (we were
out of school for good at three); and went downhopeful of
becoming a passable sort of boy yet.

Agnes was in the drawing-roomwaiting for her fatherwho was
detained by someone in his office. She met me with her pleasant
smileand asked me how I liked the school. I told her I should
like it very muchI 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.'

'Ahbut you mean hereat your own home?'

'Papa couldn't spare me to go anywhere else' she answeredsmiling
and shaking her head. 'His housekeeper must be in his houseyou
know.'

'He is very fond of youI 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. Butas he was not there
she came back again.

'Mama has been dead ever since I was born' she saidin her quiet
way. 'I only know her picturedownstairs. I saw you looking at
it yesterday. Did you think whose it was?'

I told her yesbecause it was so like herself.

'Papa says sotoo' said Agnespleased. 'Hark! That's papa
now!'

Her bright calm face lighted up with pleasure as she went to meet
himand as they came inhand in hand. He greeted me cordially;
and told me I should certainly be happy under Doctor Strongwho
was one of the gentlest of men.

'There may be someperhaps - I don't know that there are - who
abuse his kindness' said Mr. Wickfield. 'Never be one of those
Trotwoodin anything. He is the least suspicious of mankind; and
whether that's a meritor whether it's a blemishit deserves
consideration in all dealings with the Doctorgreat or small.'

He spokeI thoughtas if he were wearyor dissatisfied with
something; but I did not pursue the question in my mindfor dinner
was just then announcedand we went down and took the same seats


as before.

We had scarcely done sowhen Uriah Heep put in his red head and
his lank hand at the doorand said:

'Here's Mr. Maldon begs the favour of a wordsir.'

'I am but this moment quit of Mr. Maldon' said his master.

'Yessir' returned Uriah; 'but Mr. Maldon has come backand he
begs the favour of a word.'

As he held the door open with his handUriah looked at meand
looked at Agnesand looked at the dishesand looked at the
platesand looked at every object in the roomI thought- yet
seemed to look at nothing; 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 sayon reflection' observed a
voice behind Uriahas Uriah's head was pushed awayand the
speaker's substituted - 'pray excuse me for this intrusion - that
as it seems I have no choice in the matterthe sooner I go abroad
the better. My cousin Annie did saywhen we talked of itthat
she liked to have her friends within reach rather than to have them
banishedand the old Doctor -'

'Doctor Strongwas that?' Mr. Wickfield interposedgravely.

'Doctor Strongof course' returned the other; 'I call him the old
Doctor; it's all the sameyou know.'

'I don't know' returned Mr. Wickfield.

'WellDoctor Strong' said the other - 'Doctor Strong was of the
same mindI believed. But as it appears from the course you take
with me he has changed his mindwhy there's no more to be said
except that the sooner I am offthe better. ThereforeI thought
I'd come back and saythat the sooner I am off the better. When
a plunge is to be made into the waterit's of no use lingering on
the bank.'

'There shall be as little lingering as possiblein your caseMr.
Maldonyou may depend upon it' said Mr. Wickfield.

'Thank'ee' said the other. 'Much obliged. I don't want to look
a gift-horse in the mouthwhich is not a gracious thing to do;
otherwiseI dare saymy cousin Annie could easily arrange it in
her own way. I suppose Annie would only have to say to the old
Doctor -'

'Meaning that Mrs. Strong would only have to say to her husband do
I follow you?' said Mr. Wickfield.

'Quite so' returned the other'- would only have to saythat she
wanted such and such a thing to be so and so; and it would be so
and soas a matter of course.'

'And why as a matter of courseMr. Maldon?' asked Mr. Wickfield
sedately eating his dinner.

'Whybecause Annie's a charming young girland the old Doctor -
Doctor StrongI mean - is not quite a charming young boy' said
Mr. Jack Maldonlaughing. 'No offence to anybodyMr. Wickfield.
I only mean that I suppose some compensation is fair and reasonable
in that sort of marriage.'


'Compensation to the ladysir?' asked Mr. Wickfield gravely.

'To the ladysir' Mr. Jack Maldon answeredlaughing. But
appearing to remark that Mr. Wickfield went on with his dinner in
the same sedateimmovable mannerand that there was no hope of
making him relax a muscle of his facehe added:
'HoweverI have said what I came to sayandwith another apology
for this intrusionI may take myself off. Of course I shall
observe your directionsin considering the matter as one to be
arranged between you and me solelyand not to be referred toup
at the Doctor's.'

'Have you dined?' asked Mr. Wickfieldwith 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. Wickfieldwithout risinglooked after him thoughtfully as he
went out. He was rather a shallow sort of young gentlemanI
thoughtwith a handsome facea rapid utteranceand a confident
bold air. And this was the first I ever saw of Mr. Jack Maldon;
whom I had not expected to see so soonwhen I heard the Doctor
speak of him that morning.

When we had dinedwe went upstairs againwhere everything went on
exactly as on the previous day. Agnes set the glasses and
decanters in the same cornerand Mr. Wickfield sat down to drink
and drank a good deal. Agnes played the piano to himsat by him
and worked and talkedand played some games at dominoes with me.
In good time she made tea; and afterwardswhen I brought down my
bookslooked into themand showed me what she knew of them (which
was no slight matterthough she said it was)and what was the
best way to learn and understand them. I see herwith her modest
orderlyplacid mannerand I hear her beautiful calm voiceas I
write these words. The influence for all goodwhich she came to
exercise over me at a later timebegins already to descend upon my
breast. I love little Em'lyand I don't love Agnes - nonot at
all in that way - but I feel that there are goodnesspeaceand
truthwherever Agnes is; and that the soft light of the coloured
window in the churchseen long agofalls on her alwaysand on me
when I am near herand on everything around.

The time having come for her withdrawal for the nightand she
having left usI gave Mr. Wickfield my handpreparatory to going
away myself. But he checked me and said: 'Should you like to stay
with usTrotwoodor to go elsewhere?'

'To stay' I answeredquickly.

'You are sure?'

'If you please. If I may!'

'Whyit's but a dull life that we lead hereboyI am afraid' he
said.

'Not more dull for me than Agnessir. Not dull at all!'

'Than Agnes' he repeatedwalking slowly to the great
chimney-pieceand 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 nowfor they were cast
downand 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 differentthat's quite
different.'

He was musingnot 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 darlingor that my darling may die and leave
mecomes like a spectreto distress my happiest hoursand is
only to be drowned in -'

He did not supply the word; but pacing slowly to the place where he
had satand mechanically going through the action of pouring wine
from the empty decanterset it down and paced back again.

'If it is miserable to bearwhen she is here' he said'what
would it beand she away? Nonono. I cannot try that.'

He leaned against the chimney-piecebrooding so long that I could
not decide whether to run the risk of disturbing him by goingor
to remain quietly where I wasuntil he should come out of his
reverie. At length he aroused himselfand looked about the room
until his eyes encountered mine.

'Stay with usTrotwoodeh?' he said in his usual mannerand as
if he were answering something I had just said. 'I am glad of it.
You are company to us both. It is wholesome to have you here.
Wholesome for mewholesome for Agneswholesome perhaps for all of
us.'

'I am sure it is for mesir' I said. 'I am so glad to be here.'

'That's a fine fellow!' said Mr. Wickfield. 'As long as you are
glad to be hereyou shall stay here.' He shook hands with me upon
itand clapped me on the back; and told me that when I had
anything to do at night after Agnes had left usor when I wished
to read for my own pleasureI was free to come down to his room
if he were there and if I desired it for company's sakeand to sit
with him. I thanked him for his consideration; andas he went
down soon afterwardsand I was not tiredwent down toowith a
book in my handto avail myselffor half-an-hourof his
permission.

Butseeing a light in the little round officeand immediately
feeling myself attracted towards Uriah Heepwho had a sort of
fascination for meI went in there instead. I found Uriah reading
a great fat bookwith such demonstrative attentionthat his lank
forefinger followed up every line as he readand made clammy
tracks along the page (or so I fully believed) like a snail.

'You are working late tonightUriah' says I.

'YesMaster Copperfield' says Uriah.

As I was getting on the stool oppositeto talk to him more
convenientlyI observed that he had not such a thing as a smile
about himand that he could only widen his mouth and make two hard
creases down his cheeksone on each sideto stand for one.


'I am not doing office-workMaster Copperfield' said Uriah.

'What workthen?' I asked.

'I am improving my legal knowledgeMaster Copperfield' said
Uriah. 'I am going through Tidd's Practice. Ohwhat a writer Mr.
Tidd isMaster Copperfield!'

My stool was such a tower of observationthat as I watched him
reading on againafter this rapturous exclamationand following
up the lines with his forefingerI observed that his nostrils
which were thin and pointedwith sharp dints in themhad a
singular and most uncomfortable way of expanding and contracting
themselves - that they seemed to twinkle instead of his eyeswhich
hardly ever twinkled at all.

'I suppose you are quite a great lawyer?' I saidafter looking at
him for some time.

'MeMaster Copperfield?' said Uriah. 'Ohno! I'm a very umble
person.'

It was no fancy of mine about his handsI observed; for he
frequently ground the palms against each other as if to squeeze
them dry and warmbesides often wiping themin a stealthy wayon
his pocket-handkerchief.

'I am well aware that I am the umblest person going' said Uriah
Heepmodestly; 'let the other be where he may. My mother is
likewise a very umble person. We live in a numble abodeMaster
Copperfieldbut 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 presentMaster Copperfield' said
Uriah Heep. 'But we have much to be thankful for. How much have
I to be thankful for in living with Mr. Wickfield!'

I asked Uriah if he had been with Mr. Wickfield long?

'I have been with himgoing on four yearMaster Copperfield'
said Uriah; shutting up his bookafter carefully marking the place
where he had left off. 'Since a year after my father's death. How
much have I to be thankful forin that! How much have I to be
thankful forin Mr. Wickfield's kind intention to give me my
articleswhich would otherwise not lay within the umble means of
mother and self!'

'Thenwhen your articled time is overyou'll be a regular lawyer
I suppose?' said I.

'With the blessing of ProvidenceMaster Copperfield' returned
Uriah.

'Perhaps you'll be a partner in Mr. Wickfield's businessone of
these days' I saidto make myself agreeable; 'and it will be
Wickfield and Heepor Heep late Wickfield.'

'Oh noMaster Copperfield' returned Uriahshaking his head'I
am much too umble for that!'

He certainly did look uncommonly like the carved face on the beam
outside my windowas he satin his humilityeyeing me sideways


with his mouth widenedand the creases in his cheeks.


'Mr. Wickfield is a most excellent manMaster Copperfield' said
Uriah. 'If you have known him longyou know itI am suremuch
better than I can inform you.'


I replied that I was certain he was; but that I had not known him
long myselfthough he was a friend of my aunt's.


'OhindeedMaster Copperfield' said Uriah. 'Your aunt is a
sweet ladyMaster Copperfield!'


He had a way of writhing when he wanted to express enthusiasm
which was very ugly; and which diverted my attention from the
compliment he had paid my relationto the snaky twistings of his
throat and body.


'A sweet ladyMaster Copperfield!' said Uriah Heep. 'She has a
great admiration for Miss AgnesMaster CopperfieldI believe?'


I said'Yes' boldly; not that I knew anything about itHeaven
forgive me!


'I hope you havetooMaster Copperfield' said Uriah. 'But I am
sure you must have.'


'Everybody must have' I returned.


'Ohthank youMaster Copperfield' said Uriah Heep'for that
remark! It is so true! Umble as I amI know it is so true! Oh
thank youMaster Copperfield!'
He writhed himself quite off his stool in the excitement of his
feelingsandbeing offbegan to make arrangements for going
home.


'Mother will be expecting me' he saidreferring to a pale
inexpressive-faced watch in his pocket'and getting uneasy; for
though we are very umbleMaster Copperfieldwe are much attached
to one another. If you would come and see usany afternoonand
take a cup of tea at our lowly dwellingmother would be as proud
of your company as I should be.'


I said I should be glad to come.


'Thank youMaster Copperfield' returned Uriahputting his book
away upon the shelf - 'I suppose you stop heresome timeMaster
Copperfield?'


I said I was going to be brought up thereI believedas long as
I remained at school.


'Ohindeed!' exclaimed Uriah. 'I should think YOU would come into
the business at lastMaster Copperfield!'


I protested that I had no views of that sortand that no such
scheme was entertained in my behalf by anybody; but Uriah insisted
on blandly replying to all my assurances'OhyesMaster
CopperfieldI should think you wouldindeed!' and'Ohindeed
Master CopperfieldI should think you wouldcertainly!' over and
over again. Beingat lastready to leave the office for the
nighthe asked me if it would suit my convenience to have the
light put out; and on my answering 'Yes' instantly extinguished
it. After shaking hands with me - his hand felt like a fishin
the dark - he opened the door into the street a very littleand



crept outand shut itleaving me to grope my way back into the
house: which cost me some trouble and a fall over his stool. This
was the proximate causeI supposeof my dreaming about himfor
what appeared to me to be half the night; and dreamingamong other
thingsthat he had launched Mr. Peggotty's house on a piratical
expeditionwith a black flag at the mastheadbearing the
inscription 'Tidd's Practice'under which diabolical ensign he was
carrying me and little Em'ly to the Spanish Mainto be drowned.

I got a little the better of my uneasiness when I went to school
next dayand a good deal the better next dayand so shook it off
by degreesthat in less than a fortnight I was quite at homeand
happyamong my new companions. I was awkward enough in their
gamesand backward enough in their studies; but custom would
improve me in the first respectI hopedand hard work in the
second. AccordinglyI went to work very hardboth in play and in
earnestand gained great commendation. Andin a very little
whilethe Murdstone and Grinby life became so strange to me that
I hardly believed in itwhile 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
orderedand on a sound system; with an appealin everythingto
the honour and good faith of the boysand an avowed intention to
rely on their possession of those qualities unless they proved
themselves unworthy of itwhich worked wonders. We all felt that
we had a part in the management of the placeand in sustaining its
character and dignity. Hencewe soon became warmly attached to it

-I am sure I did for oneand I never knewin all my timeof any
other boy being otherwise - and learnt with a good willdesiring
to do it credit. We had noble games out of hoursand plenty of
liberty; but even thenas I rememberwe were well spoken of in
the townand rarely did any disgraceby 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 houseand
through them I learnedat second handsome particulars of the
Doctor's history - ashow he had not yet been married twelve
months to the beautiful young lady I had seen in the studywhom he
had married for love; for she had not a sixpenceand had a world
of poor relations (so our fellows said) ready to swarm the Doctor
out of house and home. Alsohow the Doctor's cogitating manner
was attributable to his being always engaged in looking out for
Greek roots; whichin my innocence and ignoranceI supposed to be
a botanical furor on the Doctor's partespecially as he always
looked at the ground when he walked aboutuntil I understood that
they were roots of wordswith a view to a new Dictionary which he
had in contemplation. Adamsour head-boywho had a turn for
mathematicshad made a calculationI was informedof the time
this Dictionary would take in completingon the Doctor's planand
at the Doctor's rate of going. He considered that it might be done
in one thousand six hundred and forty-nine yearscounting from the
Doctor's lastor sixty-secondbirthday.

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
elsefor 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 housewith the stray rooks and jackdaws
looking after him with their heads cocked slylyas if they knew
how much more knowing they were in worldly affairs than heif 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 vagabond was made for the next two days. It was so notorious
in the housethat the masters and head-boys took pains to cut
these marauders off at anglesand to get out of windowsand turn
them out of the courtyardbefore they could make the Doctor aware
of their presence; which was sometimes happily effected within a
few yards of himwithout his knowing anything of the matteras he
jogged to and fro. Outside his own domainand unprotectedhe was
a very sheep for the shearers. He would have taken his gaiters off
his legsto give away. In factthere was a story current among
us (I have no ideaand never hadon what authoritybut I have
believed it for so many years that I feel quite certain it is
true)that on a frosty dayone winter-timehe actually did
bestow his gaiters on a beggar-womanwho occasioned some scandal
in the neighbourhood by exhibiting a fine infant from door to door
wrapped in those garmentswhich were universally recognizedbeing
as well known in the vicinity as the Cathedral. The legend added
that the only person who did not identify them was the Doctor
himselfwhowhen they were shortly afterwards displayed at the
door of a little second-hand shop of no very good reputewhere
such things were taken in exchange for ginwas more than once
observed to handle them approvinglyas if admiring some curious
novelty in the patternand considering them an improvement on his
own.

It was very pleasant to see the Doctor with his pretty young wife.
He had a fatherlybenignant 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 wereand I sometimes had
a nearer observation of them in the study or the parlour. She
appeared to me to take great care of the Doctorand to like him
very muchthough I never thought her vitally interested in the
Dictionary: some cumbrous fragments of which work the Doctor always
carried in his pocketsand in the lining of his hatand generally
seemed to be expounding to her as they walked about.

I saw a good deal of Mrs. Strongboth because she had taken a
liking for me on the morning of my introduction to the Doctorand
was always afterwards kind to meand interested in me; and because
she was very fond of Agnesand was often backwards and forwards at
our house. There was a curious constraint between her and Mr.
WickfieldI thought (of whom she seemed to be afraid)that never
wore off. When she came there of an eveningshe always shrunk
from accepting his escort homeand ran away with me instead. And
sometimesas we were running gaily across the Cathedral yard
togetherexpecting to meet nobodywe 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 generalshipand the skill with which she
marshalled great forces of relations against the Doctor. She was
a littlesharp-eyed womanwho used to wearwhen she was dressed
one unchangeable capornamented with some artificial flowersand
two artificial butterflies supposed to be hovering above the
flowers. There was a superstition among us that this cap had come
from Franceand could only originate in the workmanship of that
ingenious nation: but all I certainly know about itisthat it
always made its appearance of an eveningwheresoever 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 Doctor Strong's expenselike busy bees.


I observed the Old Soldier - not to adopt the name disrespectfully

-to pretty good advantageon 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'swhich was given on the occasion of Mr. Jack
Maldon's departure for Indiawhither he was going as a cadetor
something of that kind: Mr. Wickfield having at length arranged the
business. It happened to be the Doctor's birthdaytoo. We had
had a holidayhad made presents to him in the morninghad made a
speech to him through the head-boyand had cheered him until we
were hoarseand until he had shed tears. And nowin the evening
Mr. WickfieldAgnesand Iwent to have tea with him in his
private capacity.
Mr. Jack Maldon was therebefore us. Mrs. Strongdressed in
whitewith cherry-coloured ribbonswas playing the pianowhen 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 usualI thoughtwhen she turned round; but she looked very
prettyWonderfully pretty.

'I have forgottenDoctor' said Mrs. Strong's mamawhen we were
seated'to pay you the compliments of the day - though they are
as you may supposevery far from being mere compliments in my
case. Allow me to wish you many happy returns.'

'I thank youma'am' replied the Doctor.

'Manymanymanyhappy returns' said the Old Soldier. 'Not only
for your own sakebut for Annie'sand John Maldon'sand many
other people's. It seems but yesterday to meJohnwhen you were
a little creaturea head shorter than Master Copperfieldmaking
baby love to Annie behind the gooseberry bushes in the
back-garden.'

'My dear mama' said Mrs. Strong'never mind that now.'

'Anniedon't be absurd' returned her mother. 'If you are to
blush to hear of such things now you are an old married womanwhen
are you not to blush to hear of them?'

'Old?' exclaimed Mr. Jack Maldon. 'Annie? Come!'

'YesJohn' returned the Soldier. 'Virtuallyan old married
woman. Although not old by years - for when did you ever hear me
sayor who has ever heard me saythat a girl of twenty was old by
years! - your cousin is the wife of the Doctorandas suchwhat
I have described her. It is well for youJohnthat your cousin
is the wife of the Doctor. You have found in him an influential
and kind friendwho will be kinder yetI venture to predictif
you deserve it. I have no false pride. I never hesitate to admit
franklythat there are some members of our family who want a
friend. You were one yourselfbefore your cousin's influence
raised up one for you.'

The Doctorin the goodness of his heartwaved his hand as if to
make light of itand save Mr. Jack Maldon from any further
reminder. But Mrs. Markleham changed her chair for one next the
Doctor'sand putting her fan on his coat-sleevesaid:

'Noreallymy dear Doctoryou must excuse me if I appear to
dwell on this ratherbecause I feel so very strongly. I call it
quite my monomaniait is such a subject of mine. You are a
blessing to us. You really are a Boonyou know.'


'Nonsensenonsense' said the Doctor.

'NonoI beg your pardon' retorted the Old Soldier. 'With
nobody presentbut our dear and confidential friend Mr. Wickfield
I cannot consent to be put down. I shall begin to assert the
privileges of a mother-in-lawif you go on like thatand scold
you. I am perfectly honest and outspoken. What I am sayingis
what I said when you first overpowered me with surprise - you
remember how surprised I was? - by proposing for Annie. Not that
there was anything so very much out of the wayin the mere fact of
the proposal - it would be ridiculous to say that! - but because
you having known her poor fatherand having known her from a baby
six months oldI hadn't thought of you in such a light at allor
indeed as a marrying man in any way- simply thatyou know.'

'Ayeaye' returned the Doctorgood-humouredly. 'Never mind.'

'But I DO mind' said the Old Soldierlaying 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 Annieand I
told her what had happened. I saidMy 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
saidNow, Annie, tell me the truth this moment; is your heart
free?Mama,she said cryingI am extremely young- which was
perfectly true - "and I hardly know if I have a heart at all."
Then, my dear,I saidyou may rely upon it, it's free. At all
events, my love,said IDoctor Strong is in an agitated state of
mind, and must be answered. He cannot be kept in his present state
of suspense.Mama,said Anniestill cryingwould he be
unhappy without me? If he would, I honour and respect him so much,
that I think I will have him.So it was settled. And thenand
not till thenI said to AnnieAnnie, Doctor Strong will not only
be your husband, but he will 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 timeand I have used
it againtoday. 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 standing near her
and looking on the ground too. She now said very softlyin a
trembling voice:

'MamaI hope you have finished?'
'Nomy dear Annie' returned the Old Soldier'I have not quite
finished. Since you ask memy loveI reply that I have not. I
complain that you really are a little unnatural towards your own
family; andas it is of no use complaining to you. I mean to
complain to your husband. Nowmy dear Doctordo look at that
silly wife of yours.'

As the Doctor turned his kind facewith its smile of simplicity
and gentlenesstowards hershe drooped her head more. I noticed
that Mr. Wickfield looked at her steadily.

'When I happened to say to that naughty thingthe other day'
pursued her mothershaking her head and her fan at herplayfully
'that there was a family circumstance she might mention to you indeed
I thinkwas bound to mention - she saidthat to mention
it was to ask a favour; and thatas you were too generousand as
for her to ask was always to haveshe wouldn't.'

'Anniemy dear' said the Doctor. 'That was wrong. It robbed me


of a pleasure.'

'Almost the very words I said to her!' exclaimed her mother. 'Now
reallyanother timewhen I know what she would tell you but for
this reasonand won'tI have a great mindmy dear Doctorto
tell you myself.'

'I shall be glad if you will' returned the Doctor.

'Shall I?'

'Certainly.'

'WellthenI will!' said the Old Soldier. 'That's a bargain.'
And havingI supposecarried her pointshe 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 inamong whom were the two masters and
Adamsthe talk became general; and it naturally turned on Mr. Jack
Maldonand his voyageand the country he was going toand his
various plans and prospects. He was to leave that nightafter
supperin a post-chaisefor Gravesend; where the shipin which
he was to make the voyagelay; and was to be gone - unless he came
home on leaveor for his health - I don't know how many years. I
recollect it was settled by general consent that India was quite a
misrepresented countryand had nothing objectionable in itbut a
tiger or twoand a little heat in the warm part of the day. For
my own partI looked on Mr. Jack Maldon as a modern Sindbadand
pictured him the bosom friend of all the Rajahs in the East
sitting under canopiessmoking curly golden pipes - a mile long
if they could be straightened out.

Mrs. Strong was a very pretty singer: as I knewwho often heard
her singing by herself. Butwhether she was afraid of singing
before peopleor was out of voice that eveningit was certain
that she couldn't sing at all. She tried a duetoncewith her
cousin Maldonbut could not so much as begin; and afterwardswhen
she tried to sing by herselfalthough she began sweetlyher voice
died away on a suddenand left her quite distressedwith her head
hanging down over the keys. The good Doctor said she was nervous
andto relieve herproposed 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 directlyfor her
partner; and instructed himas the first preliminary of
initiationto give her all the silver he had in his pocket.

We had a merry gamenot made the less merry by the Doctor's
mistakesof which he committed an innumerable quantityin spite
of the watchfulness of the butterfliesand to their great
aggravation. Mrs. Strong had declined to playon the ground of
not feeling very well; and her cousin Maldon had excused himself
because he had some packing to do. When he had done ithowever
he returnedand they sat togethertalkingon the sofa. From
time to time she came and looked over the Doctor's handand told
him what to play. She was very paleas she bent over himand I
thought her finger trembled as she pointed out the cards; but the
Doctor was quite happy in her attentionand took no notice of
thisif it were so.

At supperwe were hardly so gay. Everyone appeared to feel that
a parting of that sort was an awkward thingand that the nearer it
approachedthe more awkward it was. Mr. Jack Maldon tried to be
very talkativebut was not at his easeand made matters worse.


And they were not improvedas it appeared to meby the Old
Soldier: who continually recalled passages of Mr. Jack Maldon's
youth.

The Doctorhoweverwho feltI am surethat he was making
everybody happywas well pleasedand had no suspicion but that we
were all at the utmost height of enjoyment.

'Anniemy dear' said helooking at his watchand filling his
glass'it is past your cousin jack's timeand we must not detain
himsince time and tide - both concerned in this case - wait for
no man. Mr. Jack Maldonyou have a long voyageand a strange
countrybefore you; but many men have had bothand many men will
have bothto the end of time. The winds you are going to tempt
have wafted thousands upon thousands to fortuneand brought
thousands upon thousands happily back.'

'It's an affecting thing' said Mrs. Markleham - 'however it's
viewedit's affectingto see a fine young man one has known from
an infantgoing away to the other end of the worldleaving all he
knows behindand not knowing what's before him. A young man
really well deserves constant support and patronage' looking at
the Doctor'who makes such sacrifices.'

'Time will go fast with youMr. Jack Maldon' pursued the Doctor
'and fast with all of us. Some of us can hardly expectperhaps
in the natural course of thingsto greet you on your return. The
next best thing is to hope to do itand that's my case. I shall
not weary you with good advice. You have long had a good model
before youin your cousin Annie. Imitate her virtues as nearly as
you can.'

Mrs. Markleham fanned herselfand shook her head.

'FarewellMr. Jack' said the Doctorstanding up; on which we all
stood up. 'A prosperous voyage outa thriving career abroadand
a happy return home!'

We all drank the toastand all shook hands with Mr. Jack Maldon;
after which he hastily took leave of the ladies who were thereand
hurried to the doorwhere he was receivedas he got into the
chaisewith a tremendous broadside of cheers discharged by our
boyswho had assembled on the lawn for the purpose. Running in
among them to swell the ranksI was very near the chaise when it
rolled away; and I had a lively impression made upon mein the
midst of the noise and dustof having seen Mr. Jack Maldon rattle
past with an agitated faceand something cherry-coloured in his
hand.

After another broadside for the Doctorand another for the
Doctor's wifethe boys dispersedand 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 awayand how he had borne
itand how he had felt itand all the rest of it. In the midst
of these remarksMrs. Markleham cried: 'Where's Annie?'

No Annie was there; and when they called to herno Annie replied.
But all pressing out of the roomin a crowdto see what was the
matterwe found her lying on the hall floor. There was great
alarm at firstuntil it was found that she was in a swoonand
that the swoon was yielding to the usual means of recovery; when
the Doctorwho had lifted her head upon his kneeput her curls
aside with his handand saidlooking around:


'Poor Annie! She's so faithful and tender-hearted! It's the
parting from her old playfellow and friend - her favourite cousin

-that has done this. Ah! It's a pity! I am very sorry!'
When she opened her eyesand saw where she wasand that we were
all standing about hershe arose with assistance: turning her
headas she did soto lay it on the Doctor's shoulder - or to
hide itI don't know which. We went into the drawing-roomto
leave her with the Doctor and her mother; but she saidit seemed
that she was better than she had been since morningand that she
would rather be brought among us; so they brought her inlooking
very white and weakI thoughtand sat her on a sofa.

'Anniemy dear' said her motherdoing something to her dress.
'See here! You have lost a bow. Will anybody be so good as find
a ribbon; a cherry-coloured ribbon?'

It was the one she had worn at her bosom. We all looked for it; I
myself looked everywhereI am certain - but nobody could find it.

'Do you recollect where you had it lastAnnie?' said her mother.

I wondered how I could have thought she looked whiteor anything
but burning redwhen she answered that she had had it safea
little while agoshe thoughtbut it was not worth looking for.

Neverthelessit was looked for againand still not found. She
entreated that there might be no more searching; but it was still
sought forin a desultory wayuntil she was quite welland the
company took their departure.

We walked very slowly homeMr. WickfieldAgnesand I - Agnes and
I admiring the moonlightand Mr. Wickfield scarcely raising his
eyes from the ground. When weat lastreached our own door
Agnes discovered that she had left her little reticule behind.
Delighted to be of any service to herI ran back to fetch it.

I went into the supper-room where it had been leftwhich was
deserted and dark. But a door of communication between that and
the Doctor's studywhere there was a lightbeing openI passed
on thereto say what I wantedand to get a candle.

The Doctor was sitting in his easy-chair by the firesideand his
young wife was on a stool at his feet. The Doctorwith a
complacent smilewas reading aloud some manuscript explanation or
statement of a theory out of that interminable Dictionaryand she
was looking up at him. But with such a face as I never saw. It
was so beautiful in its formit was so ashy paleit was so fixed
in its abstractionit was so full of a wildsleep-walkingdreamy
horror of I don't know what. The eyes were wide openand her
brown hair fell in two rich clusters on her shouldersand on her
white dressdisordered by the want of the lost ribbon. Distinctly
as I recollect her lookI cannot say of what it was expressiveI
cannot even say of what it is expressive to me nowrising again
before my older judgement. Penitencehumiliationshamepride
loveand trustfulness - I see them all; and in them allI see
that horror of I don't know what.

My entranceand my saying what I wantedroused her. It disturbed
the Doctor toofor when I went back to replace the candle I had
taken from the tablehe was patting her headin 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 himin a rapidurgent mannerto let her stay - to
let her feel assured (I heard her murmur some broken words to this
effect) that she was in his confidence that night. Andas she
turned again towards himafter glancing at me as I left the room
and went out at the doorI saw her cross her hands upon his knee
and look up at him with the same facesomething quietedas he
resumed his reading.

It made a great impression on meand I remembered it a long time
afterwards; as I shall have occasion to narrate when the time
comes.

CHAPTER 17
SOMEBODY TURNS UP

It has not occurred to me to mention Peggotty since I ran away;
butof courseI wrote her a letter almost as soon as I was housed
at Doverand anotherand a longer lettercontaining all
particulars fully relatedwhen my aunt took me formally under her
protection. On my being settled at Doctor Strong's I wrote to her
againdetailing my happy condition and prospects. I never could
have derived anything like the pleasure from spending the money Mr.
Dick had given methat I felt in sending a gold half-guinea to
Peggottyper postenclosed in this last letterto discharge the
sum I had borrowed of her: in which epistlenot beforeI
mentioned about the young man with the donkey-cart.

To these communications Peggotty replied as promptlyif not as
conciselyas a merchant's clerk. Her utmost powers of expression
(which were certainly not great in ink) were exhausted in the
attempt to write what she felt on the subject of my journey. Four
sides of incoherent and interjectional beginnings of sentences
that had no endexcept blotswere inadequate 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 paperand what could I have desired more?

I made outwithout much difficultythat 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 personshe wrote;
but to think that Miss Betsey should seem to be so different from
what she had been thought to bewas a Moral! - that was her word.
She was evidently still afraid of Miss Betseyfor she sent her
grateful duty to her but timidly; and she was evidently afraid of
metooand entertained the probability of my running away again
soon: if I might judge from the repeated hints she threw outthat
the coach-fare to Yarmouth was always to be had of her for the
asking.

She gave me one piece of intelligence which affected me very much
namelythat there had been a sale of the furniture at our old
homeand that Mr. and Miss Murdstone were gone awayand the house
was shut upto be let or sold. God knows I had no part in it
while they remained therebut it pained me to think of the dear
old place as altogether abandoned; of the weeds growing tall in the
gardenand the fallen leaves lying thick and wet upon the paths.
I imagined how the winds of winter would howl round ithow the
cold rain would beat upon the window-glasshow the moon would make
ghosts on the walls of the empty roomswatching their solitude all
night. I thought afresh of the grave in the churchyardunderneath
the tree: and it seemed as if the house were dead toonowand all


connected with my father and mother were faded away.

There was no other news in Peggotty's letters. Mr. Barkis was an
excellent husbandshe saidthough still a little near; but we all
had our faultsand she had plenty (though I am sure I don't know
what they were); and he sent his dutyand my little bedroom was
always ready for me. Mr. Peggotty was welland Ham was welland
Mrs.. Gummidge was but poorlyand little Em'ly wouldn't send her
lovebut said that Peggotty might send itif she liked.

All this intelligence I dutifully imparted to my auntonly
reserving to myself the mention of little Em'lyto whom I
instinctively felt that she would not very tenderly incline. While
I was yet new at Doctor Strong'sshe made several excursions over
to Canterbury to see meand always at unseasonable hours: with the
viewI supposeof taking me by surprise. Butfinding me well
employedand bearing a good characterand hearing on all hands
that I rose fast in the schoolshe soon discontinued these visits.
I saw her on a Saturdayevery third or fourth weekwhen I went
over to Dover for a treat; and I saw Mr. Dick every alternate
Wednesdaywhen he arrived by stage-coach at noonto stay until
next morning.

On these occasions Mr. Dick never travelled without a leathern
writing-deskcontaining a supply of stationery and the Memorial;
in relation to which document he had a notion that time was
beginning to press nowand that it really must be got out of hand.

Mr. Dick was very partial to gingerbread. To render his visits the
more agreeablemy aunt had instructed me to open a credit for him
at a cake shopwhich 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. Thisand the reference of all his little
bills at the county inn where he sleptto my auntbefore they
were paidinduced me to suspect that he was only allowed to rattle
his moneyand not to spend it. I found on further investigation
that this was soor 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 herand always
desired to please herhe was thus made chary of launching into
expense. On this pointas 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 secrecy
and always in a whisper.

'Trotwood' said Mr. Dickwith an air of mysteryafter imparting
this confidence to meone Wednesday; 'who's the man that hides
near our house and frightens her?'

'Frightens my auntsir?'

Mr. Dick nodded. 'I thought nothing would have frightened her' he
said'for she's -' here he whispered softly'don't mention it the
wisest and most wonderful of women.' Having said whichhe
drew backto observe the effect which this description of her made
upon me.

'The first time he came' said Mr. Dick'was- let me see- sixteen
hundred and forty-nine was the date of King Charles's execution.
I think you said sixteen hundred and forty-nine?'

'Yessir.'

'I don't know how it can be' said Mr. Dicksorely puzzled and


shaking his head. 'I don't think I am as old as that.'

'Was it in that year that the man appearedsir?' I asked.

'Whyreally' said Mr. Dick'I don't see how it can have been in
that yearTrotwood. Did you get that date out of history?'

'Yessir.'

'I suppose history never liesdoes it?' said Mr. Dickwith a
gleam of hope.

'Oh dearnosir!' I repliedmost decisively. I was ingenuous
and youngand I thought so.

'I can't make it out' said Mr. Dickshaking his head. 'There's
something wrongsomewhere. Howeverit was very soon after the
mistake was made of putting some of the trouble out of King
Charles's head into my headthat the man first came. I was
walking out with Miss Trotwood after teajust at darkand there
he wasclose to our house.'

'Walking about?' I inquired.

'Walking about?' repeated Mr. Dick. 'Let me seeI must recollect
a bit. N-nono; he was not walking about.'

I askedas the shortest way to get at itwhat he WAS doing.

'Wellhe wasn't there at all' said Mr. Dick'until he came up
behind herand whispered. Then she turned round and faintedand
I stood still and looked at himand 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. Dicknodding his head gravely.
'Never came outtill last night! We were walking last nightand
he came up behind her againand I knew him again.'

'And did he frighten my aunt again?'

'All of a shiver' said Mr. Dickcounterfeiting that affection and
making his teeth chatter. 'Held by the palings. Cried. But
Trotwoodcome here' getting me close to himthat he might
whisper very softly; 'why did she give him moneyboyin the
moonlight?'

'He was a beggarperhaps.'

Mr. Dick shook his headas utterly renouncing the suggestion; and
having replied a great many timesand with great confidence'No
beggarno beggarno beggarsir!' went on to saythat from his
window he had afterwardsand late at nightseen my aunt give this
person money outside the garden rails in the moonlightwho then
slunk away - into the ground againas he thought probable - and
was seen no more: while my aunt came hurriedly and secretly back
into the houseand hadeven that morningbeen quite different
from her usual self; which preyed on Mr. Dick's mind.

I had not the least beliefin the outset of this storythat the
unknown was anything but a delusion of Mr. Dick'sand 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 attemptor threat of an attemptmight have
been twice made to take poor Mr. Dick himself from under my aunt's
protectionand whether my auntthe strength of whose kind feeling
towards him I knew from herselfmight have been induced to pay a
price for his peace and quiet. As I was already much attached to
Mr. Dickand very solicitous for his welfaremy fears favoured
this supposition; and for a long time his Wednesday hardly ever
came roundwithout my entertaining a misgiving that he would not
be on the coach-box as usual. There he always appearedhowever
grey-headedlaughingand 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 life; 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-flyingwas as deeply interested in all our
sports as anyone among us. How often have I seen himintent upon
a match at marbles or pegtoplooking on with a face of unutterable
interestand hardly breathing at the critical times! How often
at hare and houndshave I seen him mounted on a little knoll
cheering the whole field on to actionand waving his hat above his
grey headoblivious of King Charles the Martyr's headand all
belonging to it! How many a summer hour have I known to be but
blissful minutes to him in the cricket-field! How many winter days
have I seen himstanding blue-nosedin the snow and east wind
looking at the boys going down the long slideand clapping his
worsted gloves in rapture!

He was an universal favouriteand his ingenuity in little things
was transcendent. He could cut oranges into such devices as none
of us had an idea of. He could make a boat out of anythingfrom
a skewer upwards. He could turn cramp-bones into chessmen; fashion
Roman chariots from old court cards; make spoked wheels out of
cotton reelsand bird-cages of old wire. But he was greatest of
allperhapsin the articles of string and straw; with which we
were all persuaded he could do anything that could be done by
hands.

Mr. Dick's renown was not long confined to us. After a few
WednesdaysDoctor Strong himself made some inquiries of me about
himand I told him all my aunt had told me; which interested the
Doctor so much that he requestedon the occasion of his next
visitto be presented to him. This ceremony I performed; and the
Doctor begging Mr. Dickwhensoever he should not find me at the
coach officeto come on thereand rest himself until our
morning's work was overit soon passed into a custom for Mr. Dick
to come on as a matter of courseandif we were a little lateas
often happened on a Wednesdayto walk about the courtyardwaiting
for me. Here he made the acquaintance of the Doctor's beautiful
young wife (paler than formerlyall this time; more rarely seen by
me or anyoneI think; and not so gaybut not less beautiful)and
so became more and more familiar by degreesuntilat lasthe
would come into the school and wait. He always sat in a particular
corneron a particular stoolwhich was called 'Dick'after him;
here he would sitwith his grey head bent forwardattentively
listening to whatever might be going onwith a profound veneration
for the learning he had never been able to acquire.

This veneration Mr. Dick extended to the Doctorwhom 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 Doctor had struck up quite a friendship
and would walk together by the houron that side of the courtyard


which was known among us as The Doctor's WalkMr. 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 Dictionaryin these walksI never knew;
perhaps he felt it all the sameat firstas reading to himself.
Howeverit passed into a custom too; and Mr. Dicklistening with
a face shining with pride and pleasurein 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 schoolroom
windows - the Doctor reading with his complacent smilean
occasional flourish of the manuscriptor grave motion of his head;
and Mr. Dick listeningenchained by interestwith his poor wits
calmly wandering God knows whereupon the wings of hard words - I
think of it as one of the pleasantest thingsin a quiet waythat
I have ever seen. I feel as if they might go walking to and fro
for everand the world might somehow be the better for it - as if
a thousand things it makes a noise aboutwere not one half so good
for itor me.

Agnes was one of Mr. Dick's friendsvery soon; and in often coming
to the househe made acquaintance with Uriah. The friendship
between himself and me increased continuallyand it was maintained
on this odd footing: thatwhile Mr. Dick came professedly to look
after me as my guardianhe always consulted me in any little
matter of doubt that aroseand invariably guided himself by my
advice; not only having a high respect for my native sagacitybut
considering that I inherited a good deal from my aunt.

One Thursday morningwhen 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: addingwith a writhe'But I didn't expect you to
keep itMaster Copperfieldwe're 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 stillas
I stood looking him in the face in the street. But I felt it quite
an affront to be supposed proudand said I only wanted to be
asked.

' Ohif that's allMaster Copperfield' said Uriah'and it
really isn't our umbleness that prevents youwill you come this
evening? But if it is our umblenessI hope you won't mind owning
to itMaster Copperfield; for we are well aware of our condition.'

I said I would mention it to Mr. Wickfieldand if he approvedas
I had no doubt he wouldI would come with pleasure. Soat six
o'clock that eveningwhich was one of the early office evenings
I announced myself as readyto Uriah.

'Mother will be proudindeed' he saidas we walked away
together. 'Or she would be proudif it wasn't sinfulMaster
Copperfield.'

'Yet you didn't mind supposing I was proud this morning' I
returned.

'Oh dearnoMaster Copperfield!' returned Uriah. 'Ohbelieve
meno! 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 askedto change the
subject.


'OhMaster Copperfield' he saidwith an air of self-denial'my
reading is hardly to be called study. I have passed an hour or two
in the eveningsometimeswith Mr. Tidd.'


'Rather hardI 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 onwith the
two forefingers of his skeleton right handhe added:


'There are expressionsyou seeMaster Copperfield - Latin words
and terms - in Mr. Tiddthat 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 pleasureas I learn it.'


'Ohthank youMaster Copperfield' he answeredshaking his head.
'I am sure it's very kind of you to make the offerbut I am much
too umble to accept it.'


'What nonsenseUriah!'


'Ohindeed you must excuse meMaster Copperfield! I am greatly
obligedand I should like it of all thingsI assure you; but I am
far too umble. There are people enough to tread upon me in my
lowly statewithout my doing outrage to their feelings by
possessing learning. Learning ain't for me. A person like myself
had better not aspire. If he is to get on in lifehe must get on
umblyMaster Copperfield!'


I never saw his mouth so wideor the creases in his cheeks so
deepas when he delivered himself of these sentiments: shaking his
head all the timeand writhing modestly.


'I think you are wrongUriah' I said. 'I dare say there are
several things that I could teach youif you would like to learn
them.'


'OhI don't doubt thatMaster Copperfield' he answered; 'not in
the least. But not being umble yourselfyou don't judge well
perhapsfor them that are. I won't provoke my betters with
knowledgethank you. I'm much too umble. Here is my umble
dwellingMaster Copperfield!'


We entered a lowold-fashioned roomwalked straight into from the
streetand found there Mrs. Heepwho was the dead image of Uriah
only short. She received me with the utmost humilityand
apologized to me for giving her son a kissobserving thatlowly
as they werethey had their natural affectionswhich they hoped
would give no offence to anyone. It was a perfectly decent room
half parlour and half kitchenbut not at all a snug room. The
tea-things were set upon the tableand the kettle was boiling on
the hob. There was a chest of drawers with an escritoire topfor
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 cupboard: and there
were the usual articles of furniture. I don't remember that any
individual object had a barepinchedspare look; but I do



remember that the whole place had.

It was perhaps a part of Mrs. Heep's humilitythat she still wore
weeds. Notwithstanding the lapse of time that had occurred since
Mr. Heep's deceaseshe 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 rememberedmy UriahI am sure' said Mrs.
Heepmaking the tea'when Master Copperfield pays us a visit.'

'I said you'd think somother' said Uriah.

'If I could have wished father to remain among us for any reason'
said Mrs. Heep'it would have beenthat he might have known his
company this afternoon.'

I felt embarrassed by these compliments; but I was sensibletoo
of being entertained as an honoured guestand I thought Mrs. Heep
an agreeable woman.

'My Uriah' said Mrs. Heep'has looked forward to thissira
long while. He had his fears that our umbleness stood in the way
and I joined in them myself. Umble we areumble we have been
umble we shall ever be' said Mrs. Heep.

'I am sure you have no occasion to be soma'am' I said'unless
you like.'

'Thank yousir' retorted Mrs. Heep. 'We know our station and are
thankful in it.'

I found that Mrs. Heep gradually got nearer to meand that Uriah
gradually got opposite to meand that they respectfully plied me
with the choicest of the eatables on the table. There was nothing
particularly choice thereto be sure; but I took the will for the
deedand felt that they were very attentive. Presently they began
to talk about auntsand then I told them about mine; and about
fathers and mothersand then I told them about mine; and then Mrs.
Heep began to talk about fathers-in-lawand then I began to tell
her about mine - but stoppedbecause my aunt had advised me to
observe a silence on that subject. A tender young corkhowever
would have had no more chance against a pair of corkscrewsor a
tender young tooth against a pair of dentistsor a little
shuttlecock against two battledoresthan 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 tellwith a certainty I
blush to think of. the more especiallyas in my juvenile
franknessI took some credit to myself for 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 meas a touch of nature; but the skill
with which the one followed up whatever the other saidwas a touch
of art which I was still less proof against. When there was
nothing more to be got out of me about myself (for on the Murdstone
and Grinby lifeand on my journeyI was dumb)they began about
Mr. Wickfield and Agnes. Uriah threw the ball to Mrs. HeepMrs.
Heep caught it and threw it back to UriahUriah kept it up a
little whilethen sent it back to Mrs. Heepand so they went on
tossing it about until I had no idea who had got itand was quite
bewildered. The ball itself was always changing too. Now it was
Mr. Wickfieldnow Agnesnow the excellence of Mr. Wickfieldnow


my admiration of Agnes; now the extent of Mr. Wickfield's business
and resourcesnow our domestic life after dinner; nowthe wine
that Mr. Wickfield tookthe reason why he took itand the pity
that it was he took so much; now one thingnow anotherthen
everything at once; and all the timewithout appearing to speak
very oftenor to do anything but sometimes encourage them a
littlefor fear they should be overcome by their humility and the
honour of my companyI found myself perpetually letting out
something 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 uncomfortableand to wish myself well
out of the visitwhen a figure coming down the street passed the
door - it stood open to air the roomwhich was warmthe weather
being close for the time of year - came back againlooked inand
walked inexclaiming loudly'Copperfield! Is it possible?'

It was Mr. Micawber! It was Mr. Micawberwith his eye-glassand
his walking-stickand his shirt-collarand his genteel airand
the condescending roll in his voiceall complete!

'My dear Copperfield' said Mr. Micawberputting out his hand
'this is indeed a meeting which is calculated to impress the mind
with a sense of the instability and uncertainty of all human - in
shortit is a most extraordinary meeting. Walking along the
streetreflecting upon the probability of something turning up (of
which I am at present rather sanguine)I find a young but valued
friend turn upwho is connected with the most eventful period of
my life; I may saywith the turning-point of my existence.
Copperfieldmy dear fellowhow do you do?'

I cannot say - I really cannot say - that I was glad to see Mr.
Micawber there; but I was glad to see him tooand shook hands with
himheartilyinquiring how Mrs. Micawber was.

'Thank you' said Mr. Micawberwaving his hand as of oldand
settling his chin in his shirt-collar. 'She is tolerably
convalescent. The twins no longer derive their sustenance from
Nature's founts - in short' said Mr. Micawberin one of his
bursts of confidence'they are weaned - and Mrs. Micawber isat
presentmy travelling companion. She will be rejoiced
Copperfieldto 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 smiledsettled his chin againand looked about
him.

'I have discovered my friend Copperfield' said Mr. Micawber
genteellyand without addressing himself particularly to anyone
'not in solitudebut partaking of a social meal in company with a
widow ladyand one who is apparently her offspring - in short'
said Mr. Micawberin another of his bursts of confidence'her
son. I shall esteem it an honour to be presented.'

I could do no lessunder these circumstancesthan make Mr.
Micawber known to Uriah Heep and his mother; which I accordingly
did. As they abased themselves before himMr. Micawber took a
seatand waved his hand in his most courtly manner.


'Any friend of my friend Copperfield's' said Mr. Micawber'has a
personal claim upon myself.'

'We are too umblesir' said Mrs. Heep'my son and meto be the
friends of Master Copperfield. He has been so good as take his tea
with usand we are thankful to him for his companyalso to you
sirfor your notice.'

'Ma'am' returned Mr. Micawberwith a bow'you are very obliging:
and what are you doingCopperfield? Still in the wine trade?'

I was excessively anxious to get Mr. Micawber away; and replied
with my hat in my handand a very red faceI have no doubtthat
I was a pupil at Doctor Strong's.

'A pupil?' said Mr. Micawberraising his eyebrows. 'I am
extremely happy to hear it. Although a mind like my friend
Copperfield's' - to Uriah and Mrs. Heep - 'does not require that
cultivation whichwithout his knowledge of men and thingsit
would requirestill it is a rich soil teeming with latent
vegetation - in short' said Mr. Micawbersmilingin another
burst of confidence'it is an intellect capable of getting up the
classics to any extent.'

Uriahwith his long hands slowly twining over one anothermade a
ghastly writhe from the waist upwardsto express his concurrence
in this estimation of me.

'Shall we go and see Mrs. Micawbersir?' I saidto get Mr.
Micawber away.

'If you will do her that favourCopperfield' replied Mr.
Micawberrising. 'I have no scruple in sayingin the presence of
our friends herethat I am a man who hasfor 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. 'Sometimes I have risen superior
to my difficulties. Sometimes my difficulties have - 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 meand I have given inand said to Mrs.
Micawberin the words of CatoPlato, 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 satisfaction
than in pouring my griefs (if I may describe difficultieschiefly
arising out of warrants of attorney and promissory notes at two and
four monthsby 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 mannermaking a good deal of noise on
the pavement with his shoesand humming a tune as we went.

It was a little inn where Mr. Micawber put upand he occupied a
little room in itpartitioned off from the commercial roomand
strongly flavoured with tobacco-smoke. I think it was over the
kitchenbecause a warm greasy smell appeared to come up through
the chinks in the floorand there was a flabby perspiration on the
walls. I know it was near the baron account of the smell of
spirits and jingling of glasses. Hererecumbent on a small sofa
underneath a picture of a race-horsewith her head close to the
fireand her feet pushing the mustard off the dumb-waiter at the
other end of the roomwas Mrs. Micawberto whom Mr. Micawber


entered firstsaying'My dearallow me to introduce to you a
pupil of Doctor Strong's.'

I noticedby the bythat although Mr. Micawber was just as much
confused as ever about my age and standinghe always remembered
as a genteel thingthat I was a pupil of Doctor Strong's.

Mrs. Micawber was amazedbut very glad to see me. I was very glad
to see her tooandafter an affectionate greeting 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 iswhich I have no doubt he will like to
knowI will go and look at the paper the whileand see whether
anything turns up among the advertisements.'

'I thought you were at Plymouthma'am' 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. Butthe truth
istalent is not wanted in the Custom House. The local influence
of my family was quite unavailing to obtain any employment in that
departmentfor a man of Mr. Micawber'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 youmy dear Master
Copperfieldthat when that branch of my family which is settled in
Plymouthbecame aware that Mr. Micawber was accompanied by myself
and by little Wilkins and his sisterand by the twinsthey did
not receive him with that ardour which he might have expected
being so newly released from captivity. In fact' said Mrs.
Micawberlowering her voice- 'this is between ourselves - our
reception was cool.'

'Dear me!' I said.

'Yes' said Mrs. Micawber. 'It is truly painful to contemplate
mankind in such an aspectMaster Copperfieldbut our reception
wasdecidedlycool. There is no doubt about it. In factthat
branch of my family which is settled in Plymouth became quite
personal to Mr. Micawberbefore we had been there a week.'

I saidand thoughtthat they ought to be ashamed of themselves.

'Stillso it was' continued Mrs. Micawber. 'Under such
circumstanceswhat could a man of Mr. Micawber's spirit do? But
one obvious course was left. To borrowof that branch of my
familythe money to return to Londonand to return at any
sacrifice.'

'Then you all came back againma'am?' I said.

'We all came back again' replied Mrs. Micawber. 'Since thenI
have consulted other branches of my family on the course which it
is most expedient for Mr. Micawber to take - for I maintain that he
must take some courseMaster Copperfield' said Mrs. Micawber
argumentatively. 'It is clear that a family of sixnot including
a domesticcannot live upon air.'

'Certainlyma'am' said I.


'The opinion of those other branches of my family' pursued Mrs.
Micawber'isthat Mr. Micawber should immediately turn his
attention to coals.'

'To whatma'am?'

'To coals' said Mrs. Micawber. 'To the coal trade. Mr. Micawber
was induced to thinkon inquirythat there might be an opening
for a man of his talent in the Medway Coal Trade. Thenas Mr.
Micawber very properly saidthe first step to be taken clearly
wasto come and see the Medway. Which we came and saw. I say
weMaster Copperfield; 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 Medway. My opinion
of the coal trade on that river isthat it may require talentbut
that it certainly requires capital. TalentMr. Micawber has;
capitalMr. Micawber has not. We sawI thinkthe greater part
of the Medway; and that is my individual conclusion. Being so near
hereMr. Micawber was of opinion that it would be rash not to come
onand see the Cathedral. Firstlyon account of its being so
well worth seeingand our never having seen it; and secondlyon
account of the great probability of something turning up in a
cathedral town. We have been here' said Mrs. Micawber'three
days. Nothing hasas yetturned up; and it may not surprise you
my dear Master Copperfieldso much as it would a strangerto know
that we are at present waiting for a remittance from Londonto
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 lodgings in Pentonville)
from my boy and girland from my twins.'

I felt the utmost sympathy for Mr. and Mrs. Micawber in this
anxious extremityand said as much to Mr. Micawberwho now
returned: adding that I only wished I had money enoughto lend
them the amount they needed. Mr. Micawber's answer expressed the
disturbance of his mind. He saidshaking hands with me
'Copperfieldyou are a true friend; but when the worst comes to
the worstno man is without a friend who is possessed of shaving
materials.' At this dreadful hint Mrs. Micawber threw her arms
round Mr. Micawber's neck and entreated him to be calm. He wept;
but so far recoveredalmost immediatelyas to ring the bell for
the waiterand bespeak a hot kidney pudding and a plate of shrimps
for breakfast in the morning.

When I took my leave of themthey both pressed me so much to come
and dine before they went awaythat I could not refuse. Butas
I knew I could not come next daywhen I should have a good deal to
prepare in the eveningMr. 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 day
afterif it would suit me better. Accordingly I was called out of
school next forenoonand found Mr. Micawber in the parlour; who
had called to say that the dinner would take place as proposed.
When I asked him if the remittance had comehe pressed my hand and
departed.

As I was looking out of window that same eveningit surprised me
and made me rather uneasyto see Mr. Micawber and Uriah Heep walk
pastarm in arm: Uriah humbly sensible of the honour that was done
himand Mr. Micawber taking a bland delight in extending his


patronage to Uriah. But I was still more surprisedwhen I went to
the little hotel next day at the appointed dinner-hourwhich was
four o'clockto findfrom what Mr. Micawber saidthat he had
gone home with Uriahand had drunk brandy-and-water at Mrs.
Heep's.

'And I'll tell you whatmy dear Copperfield' said Mr. Micawber
'your friend Heep is a young fellow who might be attorney-general.
If I had known that young manat the period when my difficulties
came to a crisisall I can say isthat I believe my creditors
would have been a great deal better managed than they were.'

I hardly understood how this could have beenseeing that Mr.
Micawber had paid them nothing at all as it was; but I did not like
to ask. Neither did I like to saythat 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 feelingsorat
all eventsMrs. Micawber'sshe being very sensitive; but I was
uncomfortable about ittooand often thought about it afterwards.

We had a beautiful little dinner. Quite an elegant dish of fish;
the kidney-end of a loin of vealroasted; fried sausage-meat; a
partridgeand a pudding. There was wineand 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 punchso that it looked
as if it had been varnished all over. He got cheerfully
sentimental about the townand 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 heand Mrs. Micawberand Itook a review of our past
acquaintancein the course of which we sold the property all over
again. Then I proposed Mrs. Micawber: orat leastsaid
modestly'If you'll allow meMrs. MicawberI shall now have the
pleasure of drinking your healthma'am.' On which Mr. Micawber
delivered an eulogium on Mrs. Micawber's characterand said she
had ever been his guidephilosopherand friendand that he would
recommend mewhen I came to a marrying time of lifeto marry such
another womanif such another woman could be found.

As the punch disappearedMr. Micawber became still more friendly
and convivial. Mrs. Micawber's spirits becoming elevatedtoowe
sang 'Auld Lang Syne'. When we came to 'Here's a handmy 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 meantwe were really affected.

In a wordI never saw anybody so thoroughly jovial as Mr. Micawber
wasdown to the very last moment of the eveningwhen I took a
hearty farewell of himself and his amiable wife. ConsequentlyI
was not preparedat seven o'clock next morningto receive the
following communicationdated half past nine in the evening; a
quarter of an hour after I had left him:


'My DEAR YOUNG FRIEND

'The die is cast - all is over. Hiding the ravages of care with a
sickly mask of mirthI have not informed youthis eveningthat
there is no hope of the remittance! Under these circumstances
alike humiliating to endurehumiliating to contemplateand
humiliating to relateI have discharged the pecuniary liability


contracted at this establishmentby giving a note of handmade
payable fourteen days after dateat my residencePentonville
London. When it becomes dueit will not be taken up. The result
is destruction. The bolt is impendingand the tree must fall.

'Let the wretched man who now addresses youmy 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 useone
gleam of day mightby possibilitypenetrate into the cheerless
dungeon of his remaining existence - though his longevity isat
present (to say the least of it)extremely problematical.

'This is the last communicationmy dear Copperfieldyou will ever
receive

'From

'The

'Beggared Outcast

'WILKINS MICAWBER.'

I was so shocked by the contents of this heart-rending letterthat
I ran off directly towards the little hotel with the intention of
taking it on my way to Doctor Strong'sand trying to soothe Mr.
Micawber with a word of comfort. Buthalf-way thereI met the
London coach with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber up behind; Mr. Micawber
the very picture of tranquil enjoymentsmiling at Mrs. Micawber's
conversationeating walnuts out of a paper bagwith a bottle
sticking out of his breast pocket. As they did not see meI
thought it bestall things considerednot to see them. Sowith
a great weight taken off my mindI turned into a by-street that
was the nearest way to schooland feltupon the wholerelieved
that they were gone; though I still liked them very much
nevertheless.

CHAPTER 18
A RETROSPECT

My school-days! The silent gliding on of my existence - the
unseenunfelt progress of my life - from childhood up to youth!
Let me thinkas I look back upon that flowing waternow a dry
channel overgrown with leaveswhether there are any marks along
its courseby which I can remember how it ran.

A momentand I occupy my place in the Cathedralwhere we all went
togetherevery Sunday morningassembling first at school for that
purpose. The earthy smellthe sunless airthe sensation of the
world being shut outthe resounding of the organ through the black
and white arched galleries and aislesare wings that take me back
and hold me hovering above those daysin 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
creaturedwelling afar offwhose giddy height is unattainable.
Agnes says 'No' but I say 'Yes' and tell her that she little
thinks what stores of knowledge have been mastered by the wonderful
Beingat whose place she thinks Ieven Iweak aspirantmay


arrive in time. He is not my private friend and public patronas
Steerforth wasbut I hold him in a reverential respect. I chiefly
wonder what he'll bewhen he leaves Doctor Strong'sand what
mankind will do to maintain any place against him.

But who is this that breaks upon me? This is Miss Shepherdwhom
I love.

Miss Shepherd is a boarder at the Misses Nettingalls'
establishment. I adore Miss Shepherd. She is a little girlin a
spencerwith a round face and curly flaxen hair. The Misses
Nettingalls' young ladies come to the Cathedral too. I cannot look
upon my bookfor I must look upon Miss Shepherd. When the
choristers chauntI hear Miss Shepherd. In the service I mentally
insert Miss Shepherd's name - I put her in among the Royal Family.
At homein my own roomI am sometimes moved to cry out'OhMiss
Shepherd!' in a transport of love.

For some timeI am doubtful of Miss Shepherd's feelingsbutat
lengthFate being propitiouswe meet 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 jacketand come out at
my hair. I say nothing to Miss Shepherdbut we understand each
other. Miss Shepherd and myself live but to be united.

Why do I secretly give Miss Shepherd twelve Brazil nuts for a
presentI wonder? They are not expressive of affectionthey are
difficult to pack into a parcel of any regular shapethey are hard
to crackeven in room doorsand they are oily when cracked; yet
I feel that they are appropriate to Miss Shepherd. Softseedy
biscuitsalsoI bestow upon Miss Shepherd; and oranges
innumerable. OnceI kiss Miss Shepherd in the cloak-room.
Ecstasy! What are my agony and indignation next daywhen I hear
a flying rumour 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 soand
having avowed a preference for Master Jones - for Jones! a boy of
no merit whatever! The gulf between me and Miss Shepherd widens.
At lastone dayI meet the Misses Nettingalls' establishment out
walking. Miss Shepherd makes a face as she goes byand laughs to
her companion. All is over. The devotion of a life - it seems a
lifeit is all the same - is at an end; Miss Shepherd comes out of
the morning serviceand the Royal Family know her no more.

I am higher in the schooland no one breaks my peace. I am not at
all politenowto the Misses Nettingalls' young ladiesand
shouldn't dote on any of themif they were twice as many and
twenty times as beautiful. I think the dancing-school a tiresome
affairand wonder why the girls can't dance by themselves and
leave us alone. I am growing great in Latin versesand neglect
the laces of my boots. Doctor Strong refers to me in public as a
promising young scholar. Mr. Dick is wild with joyand my aunt
remits me a guinea by the next post.

The shade of a young butcher riseslike 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 abroadthat the
beef suet with which he anoints his hair gives him unnatural
strengthand that he is a match for a man. He is a broad-faced
bull-neckedyoung butcherwith rough red cheeksan


ill-conditioned mindand an injurious tongue. His main use of
this tongueisto disparage Doctor Strong's young gentlemen. He
sayspubliclythat if they want anything he'll give it 'em. He
names individuals among them (myself included)whom he could
undertake to settle with one handand the other tied behind him.
He waylays the smaller boys to punch their unprotected headsand
calls challenges after me in the open streets. For these
sufficient reasons I resolve to fight the butcher.

It is a summer eveningdown in a green hollowat the corner of a
wall. I meet the butcher by appointment. I am attended by a
select body of our boys; the butcherby two other butchersa
young publicanand a sweep. The preliminaries are adjustedand
the butcher and myself stand face to face. In a moment the butcher
lights ten thousand candles out of my left eyebrow. In another
momentI don't know where the wall isor where I amor where
anybody is. I hardly know which is myself and which the butcher
we are always in such a tangle and tussleknocking about upon the
trodden grass. Sometimes I see the butcherbloody but confident;
sometimes I see nothingand sit gasping on my second's knee;
sometimes I go in at the butcher madlyand cut my knuckles open
against his facewithout appearing to discompose him at all. At
last I awakevery queer about the headas from a giddy sleepand
see the butcher walking offcongratulated by the two other
butchers and the sweep and publicanand putting on his coat as he
goes; from which I augurjustlythat the victory is his.

I am taken home in a sad plightand I have beef-steaks put to my
eyesand am rubbed with vinegar and brandyand find a great puffy
place bursting out on my upper lipwhich swells immoderately. For
three or four days I remain at homea very ill-looking subject
with a green shade over my eyes; and I should be very dullbut
that Agnes is a sister to meand condoles with meand reads to
meand makes the time light and happy. Agnes has my confidence
completelyalways; I tell her all about the butcherand the
wrongs he has heaped upon me; she thinks I couldn't have done
otherwise than fight the butcherwhile she shrinks and trembles at
my having fought him.

Time has stolen on unobservedfor Adams is not the head-boy in the
days that are come nownor has he been this many and many a day.
Adams has left the school so longthat when he comes backon a
visit to Doctor Strongthere are not many therebesides myself
who know him. Adams is going to be called to the bar almost
directlyand is to be an advocateand to wear a wig. I am
surprised to find him a meeker man than I had thoughtand less
imposing in appearance. He has not staggered the world yet
either; for it goes on (as well as I can make out) pretty much the
same as if he had never joined it.

A blankthrough which the warriors of poetry and history march on
in stately hosts that seem to have no end - and what comes next!
I am the head-boynow! 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 myselfwhen 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 - as something I have passedrather than
have actually been - and almost think of him as of someone else.

And the little girl I saw on that first day at Mr. Wickfield's
where is she? Gone also. In her steadthe perfect likeness of
the picturea child likeness no moremoves about the house; and
Agnes - my sweet sisteras I call her in my thoughtsmy
counsellor and friendthe better angel of the lives of all who


come within her calmgoodself-denying influence - is quite a
woman.

What other changes have come upon mebesides the changes in my
growth and looksand in the knowledge I have garnered all this
while? I wear a gold watch and chaina ring upon my little
fingerand a long-tailed coat; and I use a great deal of bear's
grease - whichtaken in conjunction with the ringlooks 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 talldark
black-eyedfine figure of a woman. The eldest Miss Larkins is not
a chicken; for the youngest Miss Larkins is not thatand 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 herwhen her bonnet (she has a bright taste in
bonnets) is seen coming down the pavementaccompanied by her
sister's bonnet. She laughs and talksand 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
toknowing 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
militaryought to have some compensationif there be even-handed
justice in the world.

My passion takes away my appetiteand makes me wear my newest silk
neckerchief continually. I have no relief but in putting on my
best clothesand having my boots cleaned over and over again. I
seemthento be worthier of the eldest Miss Larkins. Everything
that belongs to heror is connected with heris precious to me.
Mr. Larkins (a gruff old gentleman with a double chinand one of
his eyes immovable in his head) is fraught with interest to me.
When I can't meet his daughterI go where I am likely to meet him.
To say 'How do you doMr. Larkins? Are the young ladies and all
the family quite well?' seems so pointedthat I blush.

I think continually about my age. Say I am seventeenand say that
seventeen is young for the eldest Miss Larkinswhat of that?
BesidesI shall be one-and-twenty in no time almost. I regularly
take walks outside Mr. Larkins's house in the eveningthough it
cuts me to the heart to see the officers go inor to hear them up
in the drawing-roomwhere the eldest Miss Larkins plays the harp.
I even walkon two or three occasionsin a sicklyspoony manner
round and round the house after the family are gone to bed
wondering which is the eldest Miss Larkins's chamber (and pitching
I dare say nowon Mr. Larkins's instead); wishing that a fire
would burst out; that the assembled crowd would stand appalled;
that Idashing through them with a laddermight rear it against
her windowsave her in my armsgo back for something she had left
behindand perish in the flames. For I am generally disinterested
in my loveand think I could be content to make a figure before
Miss Larkinsand expire.

Generallybut not always. Sometimes brighter visions rise before
me. When I dress (the occupation of two hours)for a great ball
given at the Larkins's (the anticipation of three weeks)I indulge
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 shoulderand saying'OhMr. Copperfieldcan I


believe my ears!' I picture Mr. Larkins waiting on me next morning
and saying'My dear Copperfieldmy daughter has told me all.
Youth is no objection. Here are twenty thousand pounds. Be
happy!' I picture my aunt relentingand blessing us; and Mr. Dick
and Doctor Strong being present at the marriage ceremony. I am a
sensible fellowI believe - I believeon looking backI mean and
modest I am sure; but all this goes on notwithstanding.
I repair to the enchanted housewhere there are lights
chatteringmusicflowersofficers (I am sorry to see)and the
eldest Miss Larkinsa blaze of beauty. She is dressed in blue
with blue flowers in her hair - 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 toand I am a little uncomfortable;
for I appear not to belong to anybodyand nobody appears to have
anything to say to meexcept Mr. Larkinswho asks me how my
schoolfellows arewhich he needn't doas I have not come there to
be insulted.

But after I have stood in the doorway for some timeand feasted my
eyes upon the goddess of my heartshe approaches me - shethe
eldest Miss Larkins! - and asks me pleasantlyif I dance?

I stammerwith a bow'With youMiss Larkins.'

'With no one else?' inquires Miss Larkins.

'I should have no pleasure in dancing with anyone else.'

Miss Larkins laughs and blushes (or I think she blushes)and says
'Next time but oneI shall be very glad.'

The time arrives. 'It is a waltzI think' Miss Larkins
doubtfully observeswhen I present myself. 'Do you waltz? If
notCaptain Bailey -'

But I do waltz (pretty welltooas it happens)and I take Miss
Larkins out. I take her sternly from the side of Captain Bailey.
He is wretchedI have no doubt; but he is nothing to me. I have
been wretchedtoo. I waltz with the eldest Miss Larkins! I don't
know whereamong whomor how long. I only know that I swim about
in spacewith a blue angelin a state of blissful deliriumuntil
I find myself alone with her in a little roomresting on a sofa.
She admires a flower (pink camellia japonicaprice half-a-crown)
in my button-hole. I give it herand say:

'I ask an inestimable price for itMiss Larkins.'

'Indeed! What is that?' returns Miss Larkins.

'A flower of yoursthat I may treasure it as a miser does gold.'

'You're a bold boy' says Miss Larkins. 'There.'

She gives it menot displeased; and I put it to my lipsand then
into my breast. Miss Larkinslaughingdraws her hand through my
armand says'Now take me back to Captain Bailey.'

I am lost in the recollection of this delicious interviewand the
waltzwhen she comes to me againwith a plain elderly gentleman
who has been playing whist all nightupon her armand says:

'Oh! here is my bold friend! Mr. Chestle wants to know youMr.
Copperfield.'


I feel at once that he is a friend of the familyand am much
gratified.

'I admire your tastesir' 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
neighbourhood - neighbourhood of Ashford - and take a run about our
place-we shall be glad for you to stop as long as you like.'

I thank Mr. Chestle warmlyand 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 imaginationall night longwith my arm round the
blue waist of my dear divinity. For some days afterwardsI am
lost in rapturous reflections; but I neither see her in the street
nor when I call. I am imperfectly consoled for this disappointment
by the sacred pledgethe perished flower.

'Trotwood' says Agnesone day after dinner. 'Who do you think is
going to be married tomorrow? Someone you admire.'

'Not youI supposeAgnes?'

'Not me!' raising her cheerful face from the music she is copying.
'Do you hear himPapa? - The eldest Miss Larkins.'

'To - to Captain Bailey?' I have just enough power to ask.

'No; to no Captain. To Mr. Chestlea hop-grower.'

I am terribly dejected for about a week or two. I take off my
ringI wear my worst clothesI use no bear's greaseand I
frequently lament over the late Miss Larkins's faded flower.
Beingby that timerather tired of this kind of lifeand having
received new provocation from the butcherI throw the flower away
go out with the butcherand gloriously defeat him.

Thisand the resumption of my ringas well as of the bear's
grease in moderationare the last marks I can discernnowin my
progress to seventeen.

CHAPTER 19
I LOOK ABOUT MEAND MAKE A DISCOVERY

I am doubtful whether I was at heart glad or sorrywhen my
school-days drew to an endand the time came for my leaving Doctor
Strong's. I had been very happy thereI had a great attachment
for the Doctorand I was eminent and distinguished in that little
world. For these reasons I was sorry to go; but for other reasons
unsubstantial enoughI was glad. Misty ideas of being a young man
at my own disposalof the importance attaching to a young man at
his own disposalof the wonderful things to be seen and done by
that magnificent animaland the wonderful effects he could not
fail to make upon societylured me away. So powerful were these
visionary considerations in my boyish mindthat I seemaccording
to my present way of thinkingto have left school without natural
regret. The separation has not made the impression on methat
other separations have. I try in vain to recall how I felt about
itand what its circumstances were; but it is not momentous in my
recollection. I suppose the opening prospect confused me. I know
that my juvenile experiences went for little or nothing then; and


that life was more like a great fairy storywhich I was just about
to begin to readthan 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 endeavoured to
find a satisfactory answer to her often-repeated question'What I
would like to be?' But I had no particular likingthat I could
discoverfor anything. If I could have been inspired with a
knowledge of the science of navigationtaken the command of a
fast-sailing expeditionand gone round the world on a triumphant
voyage of discoveryI think I might have considered myself
completely suited. Butin the absence of any such miraculous
provisionmy desire 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 councilswith a meditative
and sage demeanour. 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 ungraciouslythat he never ventured on a second;
but ever afterwards confined himself to looking watchfully at her
for her suggestionsand rattling his money.

'TrotI tell you whatmy dear' said my auntone morning in the
Christmas season when I left school: 'as this knotty point is still
unsettledand as we must not make a mistake in our decision if we
can help itI think we had better take a little breathing-time.
In the meanwhileyou must try to look at it from a new point of
viewand not as a schoolboy.'

'I willaunt.'

'It has occurred to me' pursued my aunt'that a little change
and a glimpse of life out of doorsmay be useful in helping you to
know your own mindand form a cooler judgement. Suppose you were
to go down into the old part of the country againfor instance
and see that - that out-of-the-way woman with the savagest of
names' said my auntrubbing her nosefor she could never
thoroughly forgive Peggotty for being so called.

'Of all things in the worldauntI should like it best!'

'Well' said my aunt'that's luckyfor 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 doTrotwill always be natural
and rational.'

'I hope soaunt.'

'Your sisterBetsey Trotwood' said my aunt'would have been as
natural and rational a girl as ever breathed. You'll be worthy of
herwon't you?'

'I hope I shall be worthy of YOUaunt. That will be enough for
me.'

'It's a mercy that poor dear baby of a mother of yours didn't
live' said my auntlooking at me approvingly'or she'd have been
so vain of her boy by this timethat her soft little head would
have been completely turnedif there was anything of it left to
turn.' (My aunt always excused any weakness of her own in my
behalfby transferring it in this way to my poor mother.) 'Bless
meTrotwoodhow you do remind me of her!'


'PleasantlyI hopeaunt?' said I.

'He's as like herDick' said my auntemphatically'he's as like
heras she was that afternoon before she began to fret - bless my
hearthe's as like heras he can look at me out of his two eyes!'

'Is he indeed?' said Mr. Dick.

'And he's like Davidtoo' said my auntdecisively.

'He is very like David!' said Mr. Dick.

'But what I want you to beTrot' resumed my aunt'- I don't mean
physicallybut morally; you are very well physically - isa firm
fellow. A fine firm fellowwith a will of your own. With
resolution' said my auntshaking her cap at meand clenching her
hand. 'With determination. With characterTrot - with strength
of character that is not to be influencedexcept on good reason
by anybodyor by anything. That's what I want you to be. That's
what your father and mother might both have beenHeaven knowsand
been the better for it.'

I intimated that I hoped I should be what she described.

'That you may beginin a small wayto have a reliance upon
yourselfand to act for yourself' said my aunt'I shall send you
upon your tripalone. I did thinkonceof Mr. Dick's going with
you; buton second thoughtsI shall keep him to take care of me.'

Mr. Dickfor a momentlooked a little disappointed; until the
honour and dignity of having to take care of the most wonderful
woman in the worldrestored the sunshine to his face.

'Besides' said my aunt'there's the Memorial -'

'Ohcertainly' said Mr. Dickin a hurry'I intendTrotwoodto
get that done immediately - it really must be done immediately!
And then it will go inyou know - and then -' said Mr. Dickafter
checking himselfand pausing a long time'there'll be a pretty
kettle of fish!'

In pursuance of my aunt's kind schemeI was shortly afterwards
fitted out with a handsome purse of moneyand a portmanteauand
tenderly dismissed upon my expedition. At partingmy aunt gave me
some good adviceand a good many kisses; and said that as her
object was that I should look about meand should think a little
she would recommend me to stay a few days in Londonif I liked it
either on my way down into Suffolkor in coming back. In a word
I was at liberty to do what I wouldfor three weeks or a month;
and no other conditions were imposed upon my freedom than the
before-mentioned thinking and looking about meand a pledge to
write three times a week and faithfully report myself.

I went to Canterbury firstthat 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 meand 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 handwhen I miss you. Though that's not saying
much; for there's no head in my right handand no heart. Everyone
who knows youconsults with youand is guided by youAgnes.'


'Everyone who knows mespoils meI believe' she answered
smiling.

'No. it's because you are like no one else. You are so goodand
so sweet-tempered. You have such a gentle natureand you are
always right.'

'You talk' said Agnesbreaking into a pleasant laughas 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 shall
confide in youjust the sameAgnes. I can never grow out of
that. Whenever I fall into troubleor fall in loveI shall
always tell youif you'll let me - even when I come to fall in
love in earnest.'

'Whyyou have always been in earnest!' said Agneslaughing again.

'Oh! that was as a childor a schoolboy' said Ilaughing in my
turnnot without being a little shame-faced. 'Times are altering
nowand I suppose I shall be in a terrible state of earnestness
one day or other. My wonder isthat you are not in earnest
yourselfby this timeAgnes.'

Agnes laughed againand shook her head.

'OhI 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 ofwho deserves to love youAgnes. Someone of
a nobler characterand more worthy altogether than anyone I have
ever seen heremust rise upbefore I give my consent. In the
time to comeI shall have a wary eye on all admirers; and shall
exact a great deal from the successful oneI assure you.'

We had gone onso farin a mixture of confidential jest and
earnestthat had long grown naturally out of our familiar
relationsbegun as mere children. But Agnesnow suddenly lifting
up her eyes to mineand speaking in a different mannersaid:

'Trotwoodthere is something that I want to ask youand that I
may not have another opportunity of asking for a long timeperhaps

-something I would askI thinkof no one else. Have you
observed any gradual alteration in Papa?'
I had observed itand had often wondered whether she had too. I
must have shown as muchnowin my face; for her eyes were in a
moment cast downand I saw tears in them.

'Tell me what it is' she saidin a low voice.

'I think - shall I be quite plainAgnesliking him so much?'

'Yes' she said.

'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 Agnesshaking her head.

'His hand trembleshis speech is not plainand his eyes look


wild. I have remarked that at those timesand when he is least
like himselfhe is most certain to be wanted on some business.'

'By Uriah' said Agnes.

'Yes; and the sense of being unfit for itor of not having
understood itor of having shown his condition in spite of
himselfseems to make him so uneasythat next day he is worse
and next day worseand so he becomes jaded and haggard. Do not be
alarmed by what I sayAgnesbut in this state I saw himonly the
other eveninglay down his head upon his deskand shed tears like
a child.'

Her hand passed softly before my lips while I was yet speakingand
in a moment she had met her father at the door of the roomand was
hanging on his shoulder. The expression of her faceas they both
looked towards meI felt to be very touching. There was such deep
fondness for himand gratitude 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 himeven in my inmost thoughtsand to let no
harsh construction find any place against him; she wasat onceso
proud of him and devoted to himyet so compassionate and sorry
and so reliant upon me to be sotoo; that nothing she could have
said would have expressed more to meor 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 Doctorand his young
wifeand her mother. The Doctorwho made as much of my going
away as if I were going to Chinareceived me as an honoured guest;
and called for a log of wood to be thrown on the firethat 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 Doctorwarming his hands; 'I am getting lazy
and want ease. I shall relinquish all my young people in another
six monthsand lead a quieter life.'

'You have said soany time these ten yearsDoctor' Mr. Wickfield
answered.

'But now I mean to do it' returned the Doctor. 'My first master
will succeed me - I am in earnest at last - so you'll soon have to
arrange our contractsand to bind us firmly to themlike a couple
of knaves.'

'And to take care' said Mr. Wickfield'that you're not imposed
oneh? As you certainly would bein any contract 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 Doctorwith a
smile'but my Dictionary; and this other contract-bargain -
Annie.'

As Mr. Wickfield glanced towards hersitting at the tea table by
Agnesshe seemed to me to avoid his look with such unwonted
hesitation and timiditythat his attention became fixed upon her
as if something were suggested to his thoughts.

'There is a post come in from IndiaI observe' he saidafter a
short silence.

'By the by! and letters from Mr. Jack Maldon!' said the Doctor.


'Indeed!'
'Poor dear Jack!' said Mrs. Marklehamshaking her head. 'That
trying climate! - like livingthey tell meon a sand-heap
underneath a burning-glass! He looked strongbut he wasn't. My
dear Doctorit was his spiritnot his constitutionthat he
ventured on so boldly. Anniemy dearI am sure you must
perfectly recollect that your cousin never was strong - not what
can be called ROBUSTyou know' said Mrs. Marklehamwith
emphasisand looking round upon us generally'- from the time
when my daughter and himself were children togetherand walking
aboutarm-in-armthe livelong day.'

Anniethus addressedmade no reply.

'Do I gather from what you sayma'amthat Mr. Maldon is ill?'
asked Mr. Wickfield.

'Ill!' replied the Old Soldier. 'My dear sirhe's all sorts of
things.'

'Except well?' said Mr. Wickfield.

'Except wellindeed!' said the Old Soldier. 'He has had dreadful
strokes of the sunno doubtand jungle fevers and aguesand
every kind of thing you can mention. As to his liver' said the
Old Soldier resignedly'thatof coursehe gave up altogether
when he first went out!'

'Does he say all this?' asked Mr. Wickfield.

'Say? My dear sir' returned Mrs. Marklehamshaking 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.

'Anniemy dear' returned her mother'once for allI must really
beg that you will not interfere with meunless 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 - why should
I confine myself to four! I WON'T confine myself to four - eight
sixteentwo-and-thirtyrather than say anything calculated to
overturn the Doctor's plans.'

'Wickfield's plans' said the Doctorstroking his faceand
looking penitently at his adviser. 'That is to sayour joint
plans for him. I said myselfabroad 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. 'Everything was done
for the bestmy dear Mr. Wickfield; everything was done for the
kindest and bestwe know. But if the dear fellow can't live
therehe can't live there. And if he can't live therehe'll die
theresooner than he'll overturn the Doctor's plans. I know him'
said the Old Soldierfanning herselfin a sort of calm prophetic
agony'and I know he'll die theresooner than he'll overturn the
Doctor's plans.'

'Wellwellma'am' said the Doctor cheerfully'I am not bigoted
to my plansand I can overturn them myself. I can substitute some
other plans. If Mr. Jack Maldon comes home on account of ill


healthhe must not be allowed to go backand we must endeavour to
make some more suitable and fortunate provision for him in this
country.'

Mrs. Markleham was so overcome by this generous speech - whichI
need not sayshe had not at all expected or led up to - that she
could only tell the Doctor it was like himselfand go several
times through that operation of kissing the sticks of her fanand
then tapping his hand with it. After which she gently chid her
daughter Anniefor not being more demonstrative when such
kindnesses were showeredfor her sakeon her old playfellow; and
entertained us with some particulars concerning other deserving
members of her familywhom it was desirable to set on their
deserving legs.

All this timeher daughter Annie never once spokeor lifted up
her eyes. All this timeMr. Wickfield had his glance upon her as
she sat by his own daughter's side. It appeared to me that he
never thought of being observed by anyone; but was so intent upon
herand upon his own thoughts in connexion with heras to be
quite absorbed. He now asked what Mr. Jack Maldon had actually
written in reference to himselfand to whom he had written?

'Whyhere' said Mrs. Marklehamtaking a letter from the
chimney-piece above the Doctor's head'the dear fellow says to the
Doctor himself - where is it? Oh! - "I am sorry to inform you that
my health is suffering severelyand that I fear I may be reduced
to the necessity of returning home for a timeas the only hope of
restoration." That's pretty plainpoor fellow! His only hope of
restoration! But Annie's letter is plainer still. Annieshow me
that letter again.'

'Not nowmama' she pleaded in a low tone.

'My dearyou absolutely areon some subjectsone 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 allI believeunless I had
asked for it myself. Do you call that confidencemy lovetowards
Doctor Strong? I am surprised. You ought to know better.'

The letter was reluctantly produced; and as I handed it to the old
ladyI saw how the unwilling hand from which I took ittrembled.

'Now let us see' said Mrs. Marklehamputting her glass to her
eye'where the passage is. "The remembrance of old timesmy
dearest Annie" - and so forth - it's not there. "The amiable old
Proctor" - who's he? Dear meAnniehow illegibly your cousin
Maldon writesand how stupid I am! "Doctor of course. Ah!
amiable indeed!' Here she left off, to kiss her fan again, and
shake it at the Doctor, who was looking at us in a state of placid
satisfaction. 'Now I have found it. You may not be surprised to
hearAnnie - no, to be sure, knowing that he never was really
strong; what did I say just now? - that I have undergone so much
in this distant placeas to have decided to leave it at all
hazards; on sick leaveif I can; on total resignationif that is
not to be obtained. What I have enduredand do endure hereis
insupportable." And but for the promptitude of that best of
creatures' said Mrs. Marklehamtelegraphing the Doctor as before
and refolding the letter'it would be insupportable to me to think
of.'

Mr. Wickfield said not one wordthough the old lady looked to him
as if for his commentary on this intelligence; but sat severely


silentwith his eyes fixed on the ground. Long after the subject
was dismissedand other topics occupied ushe remained so; seldom
raising his eyesunless to rest them for a momentwith a
thoughtful frownupon the Doctoror his wifeor both.

The Doctor was very fond of music. Agnes sang with great sweetness
and expressionand so did Mrs. Strong. They sang togetherand
played duets togetherand we had quite a little concert. But I
remarked two things: firstthat though Annie soon recovered her
composureand was quite herselfthere was a blank between her and
Mr. Wickfield which separated them wholly from each other;
secondlythat Mr. Wickfield seemed to dislike the intimacy between
her and Agnesand to watch it with uneasiness. And nowI must
confessthe recollection of what I had seen on that night when Mr.
Maldon went awayfirst began to return upon me with a meaning it
had never hadand 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 manner; and when I looked at Agnes by her
sideand thought how good and true Agnes wassuspicions arose
within me that it was an ill-assorted friendship.

She was so happy in it herselfhoweverand the other was so happy
toothat they made the evening fly away as if it were but an hour.
It closed in an incident which I well remember. They were taking
leave of each otherand Agnes was going to embrace her and kiss
herwhen Mr. Wickfield stepped between themas if by accident
and drew Agnes quickly away. Then I sawas though all the
intervening time had been cancelledand I were still standing in
the doorway on the night of the departurethe expression of that
night in the face of Mrs. Strongas it confronted his.

I cannot say what an impression this made upon meor how
impossible I found itwhen I thought of her afterwardsto
separate her from this lookand 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 grey headwas mingled with
commiseration for his faith in those who were treacherous to him
and with resentment against those who injured him. The impending
shadow of a great afflictionand a great disgrace that had no
distinct form in it yetfell like a stain upon the quiet place
where I had worked and played as a boyand did it a cruel wrong.
I had no pleasure in thinkingany moreof the grave old
broad-leaved aloe-treeswhich remained shut up in themselves a
hundred years togetherand of the trim smooth grass-plotand the
stone urnsand the Doctor's walkand the congenial sound of the
Cathedral bell hovering above them all. It was as if the tranquil
sanctuary of my boyhood had been sacked before my faceand its
peace and honour given to the winds.

But morning brought with it my parting from the old housewhich
Agnes had filled with her influence; and that occupied my mind
sufficiently. I should be there again soonno doubt; I might
sleep again - perhaps often - in my old room; but the days of my
inhabiting there were goneand 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 Doverthan I cared to show to
Uriah Heep; who was so officious to help methat I uncharitably
thought him mighty glad that I was going.

I got away from Agnes and her fathersomehowwith an indifferent
show of being very manlyand took my seat upon the box of the
London coach. I was so softened and forgivinggoing through the
townthat 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 moreoverhis appearance was so little improved by the loss of
a front tooth which I had knocked outthat I thought it best to
make no advances.


The main object on my mindI rememberwhen we got fairly on the
roadwas to appear as old as possible to the coachmanand to
speak extremely gruff. The latter point I achieved at great
personal inconvenience; but I stuck to itbecause I felt it was a
grown-up sort of thing.


'You are going throughsir?' said the coachman.


'YesWilliam' I saidcondescendingly (I knew him); 'I am going
to London. I shall go down into Suffolk afterwards.'


'Shootingsir?' said the coachman.


He knew as well as I did that it was just as likelyat that time
of yearI was going down there whaling; but I felt complimented
too.


'I don't know' I saidpretending to be undecided'whether I
shall take a shot or not.'
'Birds is got wery shyI'm told' said William.


'So I understand' said I.


'Is Suffolk your countysir?' asked William.


'Yes' I saidwith some importance. 'Suffolk's my county.'


'I'm told the dumplings is uncommon fine down there' said William.


I was not aware of it myselfbut I felt it necessary to uphold the
institutions of my countyand to evince a familiarity with them;
so I shook my headas much as to say'I believe you!'


'And the Punches' said William. 'There's cattle! A Suffolk
Punchwhen he's a good unis worth his weight in gold. Did you
ever breed any Suffolk Punches yourselfsir?'


'N-no' I said'not exactly.'


'Here's a gen'lm'n behind meI'll pound it' said William'as has
bred 'em by wholesale.'


The gentleman spoken of was a gentleman with a very unpromising
squintand a prominent chinwho had a tall white hat on with a
narrow flat brimand 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 shoulderso near to me
that his breath quite tickled the back of my head; and as I looked
at himhe leered at the leaders with the eye with which he didn't
squintin 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 bredand no sort of dorg. Orses and dorgs is
some men's fancy. They're wittles and drink to me - lodgingwife
and children - readingwritingand Arithmetic - snufftobacker
and sleep.'

'That ain't a sort of man to see sitting behind a coach-boxis it
though?' said William in my earas he handled the reins.

I construed this remark into an indication of a wish that he should
have my placeso I blushingly offered to resign it.

'Wellif you don't mindsir' said William'I think it would be
more correct.'

I have always considered this as the first fall I had in life.
When I booked my place at the coach office I had had 'Box Seat'
written against the entryand had given the book-keeper
half-a-crown. I was got up in a special great-coat and shawl
expressly to do honour to that distinguished eminence; had
glorified myself upon it a good deal; and had felt that I was a
credit to the coach. And herein the very first stageI was
supplanted by a shabby man with a squintwho had no other merit
than smelling like a livery-stablesand being able to walk across
memore like a fly than a human beingwhile the horses were at a
canter!

A distrust of myselfwhich has often beset me in life on small
occasionswhen it would have been better awaywas assuredly not
stopped in its growth by this little incident outside 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
journeybut I felt completely extinguishedand dreadfully young.

It was curious and interestingneverthelessto be sitting up
there behind four horses: well educatedwell dressedand with
plenty of money in my pocket; and to look out for the places where
I had slept on my weary journey. I had abundant occupation for my
thoughtsin every conspicuous landmark on the road. When I looked
down at the trampers whom we passedand saw that well-remembered
style of face turned upI felt as if the tinker's blackened hand
were in the bosom of my shirt again. When we clattered through the
narrow street of Chathamand I caught a glimpsein passingof
the lane where the old monster lived who had bought my jacketI
stretched my neck eagerly to look for the place where I had satin
the sun and in the shadewaiting for my money. When we cameat
lastwithin a stage of Londonand passed the veritable Salem
House where Mr. Creakle had laid about him with a heavy handI
would have given all I hadfor lawful permission to get down and
thrash himand let all the boys out like so many caged sparrows.

We went to the Golden Cross at Charing Crossthen a mouldy sort of
establishment in a close neighbourhood. A waiter showed me into
the coffee-room; and a chambermaid introduced me to my small
bedchamberwhich smelt like a hackney-coachand was shut up like
a family vault. I was still painfully conscious of my youthfor
nobody stood in any awe of me at all: the chambermaid being utterly
indifferent to my opinions on any subjectand the waiter being
familiar with meand offering advice to my inexperience.

'Well now' said the waiterin a tone of confidence'what would
you like for dinner? Young gentlemen likes poultry in general:
have a fowl!'

I told himas majestically as I couldthat I wasn't in the humour


for a fowl.

'Ain't you?' said the waiter. 'Young gentlemen is generally tired
of beef and mutton: have a weal cutlet!'

I assented to this proposalin default of being able to suggest
anything else.

'Do you care for taters?' said the waiterwith an insinuating
smileand his head on one side. 'Young gentlemen generally has
been overdosed with taters.'

I commanded himin my deepest voiceto order a veal cutlet and
potatoesand all things fitting; and to inquire at the bar if
there were any letters for Trotwood CopperfieldEsquire - which I
knew there were notand couldn't bebut 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 engagedhe asked me what I would take with
it; and on my replying 'Half a pint of sherry'thought it a
favourable opportunityI am afraidto extract that measure of
wine from the stale leavings at the bottoms of several small
decanters. I am of this opinionbecausewhile I was reading the
newspaperI observed him behind a low wooden partitionwhich was
his private apartmentvery busy pouring out of a number of those
vessels into onelike a chemist and druggist making up a
prescription. When the wine cametooI thought it flat; and it
certainly had more English crumbs in itthan were to be expected
in a foreign wine in anything like a pure statebut I was bashful
enough to drink itand 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 therefrom the back of a centre boxI
saw Julius Caesar and the new Pantomime. To have all those noble
Romans alive before meand walking in and out for my
entertainmentinstead of being the stern taskmasters they had been
at schoolwas a most novel and delightful effect. But the mingled
reality and mystery of the whole showthe influence upon me of the
poetrythe lightsthe musicthe companythe smooth stupendous
changes of glittering and brilliant scenerywere so dazzlingand
opened up such illimitable regions of delightthat when I came out
into the rainy streetat twelve o'clock at nightI felt as if I
had come from the cloudswhere I had been leading a romantic life
for agesto a bawlingsplashinglink-lighted
umbrella-strugglinghackney-coach-jostlingpatten-clinking
muddymiserable world.

I had emerged by another doorand stood in the street for a little
whileas if I really were a stranger upon earth: but the
unceremonious pushing and hustling that I receivedsoon recalled
me to myselfand put me in the road back to the hotel; whither I
wentrevolving the glorious vision all the way; and whereafter
some porter and oystersI sat revolving it stillat past one
o'clockwith my eyes on the coffee-room fire.

I was so filled with the playand with the past - for it wasin
a mannerlike a shining transparencythrough which I saw my
earlier life moving along - 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 wellbecame a real


presence to me. But I recollect being conscious of his company
without having noticed his coming in - and my still sitting
musingover the coffee-room fire.

At last I rose to go to bedmuch to the relief of the sleepy
waiterwho had got the fidgets in his legsand was twisting them
and hitting themand putting them through all kinds of contortions
in his small pantry. In going towards the doorI passed the
person who had come inand saw him plainly. I turned directly
came backand looked again. He did not know mebut I knew him in
a moment.

At another time I might have wanted the confidence or the decision
to speak to himand might have put it off until next dayand
might have lost him. Butin the then condition of my mindwhere
the play was still running highhis former protection of me
appeared so deserving of my gratitudeand my old love for him
overflowed my breast so freshly and spontaneouslythat I went up
to him at oncewith a fast-beating heartand said:

'Steerforth! won't you speak to me?'

He looked at me - just as he used to looksometimes -but I saw no
recognition in his face.

'You don't remember meI am afraid' said I.

'My God!' he suddenly exclaimed. 'It's little Copperfield!'

I grasped him by both handsand could not let them go. But for
very shameand the fear that it might displease himI could have
held him round the neck and cried.

'I nevernevernever was so glad! My dear SteerforthI am so
overjoyed to see you!'

'And I am rejoiced to see youtoo!' he saidshaking my hands
heartily. 'WhyCopperfieldold boydon't be overpowered!' And
yet he was gladtooI thoughtto 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 backand I made a clumsy laugh of itand we sat down
togetherside by side.

'Whyhow do you come to be here?' said Steerforthclapping me on
the shoulder.

'I came here by the Canterbury coachtoday. I have been adopted
by an aunt down in that part of the countryand have just finished
my education there. How do YOU come to be hereSteerforth?'

'WellI am what they call an Oxford man' he returned; 'that is to
sayI get bored to death down thereperiodically - and I am on my
way now to my mother's. You're a devilish amiable-looking fellow
Copperfield. just what you used to benow 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
hairand said gaily:


'YesI am on an expedition of duty. My mother lives a little way
out of town; and the roads being in a beastly conditionand our
house tedious enoughI remained here tonight instead of going on.
I have not been in town half-a-dozen hoursand those I have been
dozing and grumbling away at the play.'

'I have been at the playtoo' said I. 'At Covent Garden. What
a delightful and magnificent entertainmentSteerforth!'

Steerforth laughed heartily.

'My dear young Davy' he saidclapping me on the shoulder again
'you are a very Daisy. The daisy of the fieldat sunriseis not
fresher than you are. I have been at Covent Gardentooand there
never was a more miserable business. Holloayou sir!'

This was addressed to the waiterwho had been very attentive to
our recognitionat a distanceand now came forward deferentially.

'Where have you put my friendMr. Copperfield?' said Steerforth.

'Beg your pardonsir?'

'Where does he sleep? What's his number? You know what I mean'
said Steerforth.

'Wellsir' said the waiterwith an apologetic air. 'Mr.
Copperfield is at present in forty-foursir.'

'And what the devil do you mean' retorted Steerforth'by putting
Mr. Copperfield into a little loft over a stable?'

'Whyyou see we wasn't awaresir' returned the waiterstill
apologetically'as Mr. Copperfield was anyways particular. We can
give Mr. Copperfield seventy-twosirif it would be preferred.
Next yousir.'

'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-fourlaughed
againand clapped me on the shoulder againand invited me to
breakfast with him next morning at ten o'clock - an invitation I
was only too proud and happy to accept. It being now pretty late
we took our candles and went upstairswhere we parted with
friendly heartiness at his doorand where I found my new room a
great improvement on my old oneit not being at all mustyand
having an immense four-post bedstead in itwhich was quite a
little landed estate. Hereamong pillows enough for sixI soon
fell asleep in a blissful conditionand dreamed of ancient Rome
Steerforthand friendshipuntil the early morning coaches
rumbling out of the archway underneathmade me dream of thunder
and the gods.

CHAPTER 20
STEERFORTH'S HOME

When the chambermaid tapped at my door at eight o'clockand
informed me that my shaving-water was outsideI felt severely the
having no occasion for itand blushed in my bed. The suspicion
that she laughed toowhen she said itpreyed upon my mind all the


time I was dressing; and gave meI was consciousa sneaking and
guilty air when I passed her on the staircaseas I was going down
to breakfast. I was so sensitively awareindeedof being younger
than I could have wishedthat for some time I could not make up my
mind to pass her at allunder the ignoble circumstances of the
case; buthearing her there with a broomstood peeping out of
window at King Charles on horsebacksurrounded by a maze of
hackney-coachesand looking anything but regal in a drizzling rain
and a dark-brown foguntil I was admonished by the waiter that the
gentleman was waiting for me.

It was not in the coffee-room that I found Steerforth expecting me
but in a snug private apartmentred-curtained and Turkey-carpeted
where the fire burnt brightand a fine hot breakfast was set forth
on a table covered with a clean cloth; and a cheerful miniature of
the roomthe firethe breakfastSteerforthand allwas shining
in the little round mirror over the sideboard. I was rather
bashful at firstSteerforth being so self-possessedand elegant
and superior to me in all respects (age included); but his easy
patronage soon put that to rightsand 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 yesterdaywith
this morning's comfort and this morning's entertainment. As to the
waiter's familiarityit was quenched as if it had never been. He
attended on usas I may sayin sackcloth and ashes.

'NowCopperfield' said Steerforthwhen we were alone'I should
like to hear what you are doingand where you are goingand all
about you. I feel as if you were my property.'
Glowing with pleasure to find that he had still this interest in
meI told him how my aunt had proposed the little expedition that
I had before meand whither it tended.

'As you are in no hurrythen' said Steerforth'come home with me
to Highgateand stay a day or two. You will be pleased with my
mother - she is a little vain and prosy about mebut that you can
forgive her - and she will be pleased with you.'

'I should like to be as sure of thatas you are kind enough to say
you are' I answeredsmiling.

'Oh!' said Steerforth'everyone who likes mehas a claim on her
that is sure to be acknowledged.'

'Then I think I shall be a favourite' said I.

'Good!' said Steerforth. 'Come and prove it. We will go and see
the lions for an hour or two - it's something to have a fresh
fellow like you to show them toCopperfield - and then we'll
journey out to Highgate by the coach.'

I could hardly believe but that I was in a dreamand that I should
wake presently in number forty-fourto 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
schoolfellowand my acceptance of his invitationwe went out in
a hackney-chariotand saw a Panorama and some other sightsand
took a walk through the Museumwhere I could not help observing
how much Steerforth knewon an infinite variety of subjectsand
of how little account he seemed to make his knowledge.

'You'll take a high degree at collegeSteerforth' said I'if you
have not done so already; and they will have good reason to be
proud of you.'


'I take a degree!' cried Steerforth. 'Not I! my dear Daisy - will
you mind my calling you Daisy?'

'Not at all!' said I.

'That's a good fellow! My dear Daisy' said Steerforthlaughing.
'I have not the least desire or intention to distinguish 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.

'You romantic Daisy!' said Steerforthlaughing still more
heartily: 'why should I trouble myselfthat 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 himand he's welcome to
it.'

I was abashed at having made so great a mistakeand was glad to
change the subject. Fortunately it was not difficult to dofor
Steerforth could always pass from one subject to another with a
carelessness and lightness that were his own.

Lunch succeeded to our sight-seeingand the short winter day wore
away so fastthat 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 ladythough not very far advanced in yearswith a proud
carriage and a handsome facewas 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 motherand she gave me
a stately welcome.

It was a genteel old-fashioned housevery quiet and orderly. From
the windows of my room I saw all London lying in the distance like
a great vapourwith here and there some lights twinkling through
it. I had only timein dressingto glance at the solid
furniturethe framed pieces of work (doneI supposedby
Steerforth's mother when she was a girl)and some pictures in
crayons of ladies with powdered hair and bodicescoming and going
on the wallsas the newly-kindled fire crackled and sputtered
when I was called to dinner.

There was a second lady in the dining-roomof a slight short
figuredarkand not agreeable to look atbut with some
appearance of good looks toowho attracted my attention: perhaps
because I had not expected to see her; perhaps because I found
myself sitting opposite to her; perhaps because of something really
remarkable in her. She had black hair and eager black eyesand
was thinand had a scar upon her lip. It was an old scar - I
should rather call it seamfor it was not discolouredand had
healed years ago - which had once cut through her mouthdownward
towards the chinbut was now barely visible across the table
except above and on her upper lipthe shape of which it had
altered. I concluded in my own mind that she was about thirty
years of ageand that she wished to be married. She was a little
dilapidated - like a house - with having been so long to let; yet
hadas I have saidan appearance of good looks. Her thinness
seemed to be the effect of some wasting fire within herwhich
found a vent in her gaunt eyes.

She was introduced as Miss Dartleand both Steerforth and his
mother called her Rosa. I found that she lived thereand had been
for a long time Mrs. Steerforth's companion. It appeared to me


that she never said anything she wanted to sayoutright; but
hinted itand made a great deal more of it by this practice. For
examplewhen Mrs. Steerforth observedmore in jest than earnest
that she feared her son led but a wild life at collegeMiss Dartle
put in thus:


'Ohreally? You know how ignorant I amand that I only ask for
informationbut isn't it always so? I thought that kind of life
was on all hands understood to be - eh?'
'It is education for a very grave professionif you mean that
Rosa' Mrs. Steerforth answered with some coldness.


'Oh! Yes! That's very true' returned Miss Dartle. 'But isn't
itthough? - I want to be put rightif I am wrong - isn't it
really?'


'Really what?' said Mrs. Steerforth.


'Oh! You mean it's not!' returned Miss Dartle. 'WellI'm very
glad to hear it! NowI know what to do! That's the advantage of
asking. I shall never allow people to talk before me about
wastefulness and profligacyand so forthin connexion with that
lifeany more.'


'And you will be right' said Mrs. Steerforth. 'My son's tutor is
a conscientious gentleman; and if I had not implicit reliance on my
sonI should have reliance on him.'


'Should you?' said Miss Dartle. 'Dear me! Conscientiousis he?
Really conscientiousnow?'


'YesI am convinced of it' said Mrs. Steerforth.


'How very nice!' exclaimed Miss Dartle. 'What a comfort! Really
conscientious? Then he's not - but of course he can't beif he's
really conscientious. WellI shall be quite happy in my opinion
of himfrom this time. You can't think how it elevates him in my
opinionto know for certain that he's really conscientious!'


Her own views of every questionand her correction of everything
that was said to which she was opposedMiss Dartle insinuated in
the same way: sometimesI could not conceal from myselfwith
great powerthough in contradiction even of Steerforth. An
instance happened before dinner was done. Mrs. Steerforth speaking
to me about my intention of going down into SuffolkI said at
hazard how glad I should beif Steerforth would only go there with
me; and explaining to him that I was going to see my old nurseand
Mr. Peggotty's familyI 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 adoptedthoughas
a son. He has a very pretty little niece toowhom he adopted as
a daughter. In shorthis house - or rather his boatfor he lives
in oneon dry land - is full of people who are objects of his
generosity and kindness. You would be delighted to see that
household.'


'Should I?' said Steerforth. 'WellI 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 youDaisy)to see that sort of people
togetherand 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 Dartlewhose sparkling eyes had been watchful
of usnow broke in again.

'Ohbutreally? Do tell me. Are theythough?' she said.

'Are they what? And are who what?' said Steerforth.

'That sort of people. - Are they really animals and clodsand
beings of another order? I want to know SO much.'

'Whythere's a pretty wide separation between them and us' said
Steerforthwith indifference. 'They are not to be expected to be
as sensitive as we are. Their delicacy is not to be shockedor
hurt easily. They are wonderfully virtuousI dare say - some
people contend for thatat least; and I am sure I don't want to
contradict them - but they have not very fine naturesand they may
be thankful thatlike their coarse rough skinsthey are not
easily wounded.'

'Really!' said Miss Dartle. 'WellI don't knownowwhen I have
been better pleased than to hear that. It's so consoling! It's
such a delight to know thatwhen they sufferthey don't feel!
Sometimes I have been quite uneasy for that sort of people; but now
I shall just dismiss the idea of themaltogether. Live and learn.
I had my doubtsI confessbut now they're cleared up. I didn't
knowand now I do knowand that shows the advantage of asking don't
it?'

I believed that Steerforth had said what he hadin jestor to
draw Miss Dartle out; and I expected him to say as much when she
was goneand we two were sitting before the fire. But he merely
asked me what I thought of her.

'She is very cleveris she not?' I asked.

'Clever! She brings everything to a grindstone' said Steerforth
and sharpens itas 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 felland he paused a moment.

'Whythe fact is' he returned'I did that.'

'By an unfortunate accident!'

'No. I was a young boyand she exasperated meand I threw a
hammer at her. A promising young angel I must have been!'
I was deeply sorry to have touched on such a painful themebut
that was useless now.

'She has borne the mark ever sinceas you see' said Steerforth;
'and she'll bear it to her graveif 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 motherwho was then a widowbrought her here to be
company to her. She has a couple of thousand pounds of her own
and saves the interest of it every yearto 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 Steerforthlooking at the fire. 'Some brothers
are not loved over much; and some love - but help yourself
Copperfield! We'll drink the daisies of the fieldin compliment
to you; and the lilies of the valley that toil notneither do they
spinin compliment to me - the more shame for me!' A moody smile
that had overspread his features cleared off as he said this
merrilyand he was his own frankwinning 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 faceand thatwhen she turned
palethat mark altered firstand became a dulllead-coloured
streaklengthening out to its full extentlike 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 back gammon

-when I thought herfor one momentin 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 infantin a locketwith
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 hershe
kept in a cabinet near her own chair by the fire; and she would
have read me some of themand I should have been very glad to hear
them tooif he had not interposedand coaxed her out of the
design.

'It was at Mr. Creakle'smy son tells methat you first became
acquainted' said Mrs. Steerforthas she and I were talking at one
tablewhile they played backgammon at another. 'IndeedI
recollect his speakingat that timeof a pupil younger than
himself who had taken his fancy there; but your nameas you may
supposehas not lived in my memory.'

'He was very generous and noble to me in those daysI assure you
ma'am' said I'and I stood in need of such a friend. I should
have been quite crushed without him.'

'He is always generous and noble' said Mrs. Steerforthproudly.

I subscribed to this with all my heartGod knows. She knew I did;
for the stateliness of her manner already abated towards meexcept
when she spoke in praise of himand 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
timeof 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 superiorityand would be content to bow himself before
it; and we found such a man there.'

I knew thatknowing the fellow. And yet I did not despise him the
more for itbut 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 onthereby a feeling of
voluntary emulation and conscious pride' the fond lady went on to
say. 'He would have risen against all constraint; but he found


himself the monarch of the placeand he haughtily determined to be
worthy of his station. It was like himself.'

I echoedwith all my heart and soulthat it was like himself.

'So my son tookof his own willand on no compulsionto the
course in which he can alwayswhen it is his pleasureoutstrip
every competitor' she pursued. 'My son informs meMr.
Copperfieldthat you were quite devoted to himand that when you
met yesterday you made yourself known to him with tears of joy.
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 anyone who is so sensible of his meritand I am
very glad to see you hereand can assure you that he feels an
unusual friendship for youand that you may rely on his
protection.'

Miss Dartle played backgammon as eagerly as she did everything
else. If I had seen herfirstat the boardI should have
fancied that her figure had got thinand her eyes had got large
over that pursuitand no other in the world. But I am very much
mistaken if she missed a word of thisor lost a look of mine as I
received it with the utmost pleasureand honoured by Mrs.
Steerforth's confidencefelt older than I had done since I left
Canterbury.

When the evening was pretty far spentand a tray of glasses and
decanters came inSteerforth promisedover the firethat he
would seriously think of going down into the country with me.
There was no hurryhe said; a week hence would do; and his mother
hospitably said the same. While we were talkinghe more than once
called me Daisy; which brought Miss Dartle out again.

'But reallyMr. Copperfield' she asked'is it a nickname? And
why does he give it you? Is it - eh? - because he thinks you young
and innocent? I am so stupid in these things.'

I coloured in replying that I believed it was.

'Oh!' said Miss Dartle. 'Now I am glad to know that! I ask for
informationand I am glad to know it. He thinks you young and
innocent; and so you are his friend. Wellthat's quite
delightful!'

She went to bed soon after thisand Mrs. Steerforth retired too.
Steerforth and Iafter lingering for half-an-hour over the fire
talking about Traddles and all the rest of them at old Salem House
went upstairs together. Steerforth's room was next to mineand I
went in to look at it. It was a picture of comfortfull of
easy-chairscushions and footstoolsworked by his mother's hand
and with no sort of thing omitted that could help to render it
complete. Finallyher handsome features looked down on her
darling from a portrait on the wallas if it were even something
to her that her likeness should watch him while he slept.

I found the fire burning clear enough in my room by this timeand
the curtains drawn before the windows and round the bedgiving 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 timewhen I found a likeness of Miss
Dartle looking eagerly at me from above the chimney-piece.

It was a startling likenessand necessarily had a startling look.
The painter hadn't made the scarbut I made it; and there it was


coming and going; now confined to the upper lip as I had seen it at
dinnerand now showing the whole extent of the wound inflicted by
the hammeras 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 herI undressed
quicklyextinguished my lightand went to bed. Butas I fell
asleepI could not forget that she was still there looking'Is it
reallythough? I want to know'; and when I awoke in the nightI
found that I was uneasily asking all sorts of people in my dreams
whether it really was or not - without knowing what I meant.

CHAPTER 21
LITTLE EM'LY

There was a servant in that housea man whoI understoodwas
usually with Steerforthand had come into his service at the
Universitywho was in appearance a pattern of respectability. I
believe there never existed in his station a more
respectable-looking man. He was taciturnsoft-footedvery quiet
in his mannerdeferentialobservantalways at hand when wanted
and never near when not wanted; but his great claim to
consideration was his respectability. He had not a pliant facehe
had rather a stiff neckrather a tight smooth head with short hair
clinging to it at the sidesa soft way of speakingwith a
peculiar habit of whispering the letter S so distinctlythat 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 respectabilityand walked secure in it. It would
have been next to impossible to suspect him of anything wronghe
was so thoroughly respectable. Nobody could have thought of
putting him in a liveryhe was so highly respectable. To have
imposed any derogatory work upon himwould have been to inflict a
wanton insult on the feelings of a most respectable man. And of
thisI noticed- the women-servants in the household were so
intuitively consciousthat 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 qualityas in
every other he possessedhe only seemed to be the more
respectable. Even the fact that no one knew his Christian name
seemed to form a part of his respectability. Nothing could be
objected against his surnameLittimerby which he was known.
Peter might have been hangedor Tom transported; but Littimer was
perfectly respectable.

It was occasionedI supposeby the reverend nature of
respectability in the abstractbut I felt particularly young in
this man's presence. How old he was himselfI could not guess and
that again went to his credit on the same score; for in the
calmness of respectability he might have numbered fifty years as
well as thirty.

Littimer was in my room in the morning before I was upto bring me
that reproachful shaving-waterand to put out my clothes. When I
undrew the curtains and looked out of bedI saw himin an equable
temperature of respectabilityunaffected by the east wind of
Januaryand not even breathing frostilystanding my boots right
and left in the first dancing positionand blowing specks of dust
off my coat as he laid it down like a baby.


I gave him good morningand asked him what o'clock it was. He
took out of his pocket the most respectable hunting-watch I ever
sawand preventing the spring with his thumb from opening far
looked in at the face as if he were consulting an oracular oyster
shut it up againand saidif I pleasedit was half past eight.

'Mr. Steerforth will be glad to hear how you have restedsir.'

'Thank you' said I'very well indeed. Is Mr. Steerforth quite
well?'

'Thank yousirMr. 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 honour of doing for you
sir? The warning-bell will ring at nine; the family take breakfast
at half past nine.'

'NothingI thank you.'

'I thank YOUsirif you please'; and with thatand with a little
inclination of his head when he passed the bed-sideas an apology
for correcting mehe went outshutting 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 yetinvariablyhowever far I might have
been lifted out of myself over-nightand advanced towards maturer
yearsby Steerforth's companionshipor Mrs. Steerforth's
confidenceor Miss Dartle's conversationin the presence of this
most respectable man I becameas our smaller poets sing'a boy
again'.

He got horses for us; and Steerforthwho knew everythinggave me
lessons in riding. He provided foils for usand Steerforth gave
me lessons in fencing - glovesand I beganof the same masterto
improve in boxing. It gave me no manner of concern that Steerforth
should find me a novice in these sciencesbut I never could bear
to show my want of skill before the respectable Littimer. I had no
reason to believe that Littimer understood such arts himself; he
never led me to suppose anything of the kindby so much as the
vibration of one of his respectable eyelashes; yet whenever he was
bywhile we were practisingI felt myself the greenest and most
inexperienced of mortals.

I am particular about this manbecause he made a particular effect
on me at that timeand because of what took place thereafter.

The week passed away in a most delightful manner. It passed
rapidlyas may be supposedto one entranced as I was; and yet it
gave me so many occasions for knowing Steerforth betterand
admiring him more in a thousand respectsthat at its close I
seemed to have been with him for a much longer time. A dashing way
he had of treating me like a playthingwas more agreeable to me
than any behaviour he could have adopted. It reminded me of our
old acquaintance; it seemed the natural sequel of it; it showed me
that he was unchanged; it relieved me of any uneasiness I might
have feltin comparing my merits with hisand measuring my claims
upon his friendship by any equal standard; above allit was a
familiarunrestrainedaffectionate demeanour that he used towards
no one else. As he had treated me at school differently from all
the restI joyfully believed that he treated me in life unlike any


other friend he had. I believed that I was nearer to his heart
than any other friendand my own heart warmed with attachment to
him.
He made up his mind to go with me into the countryand the day
arrived for our departure. He had been doubtful at first whether
to take Littimer or notbut decided to leave him at home. The
respectable creaturesatisfied with his lot whatever it was
arranged our portmanteaux on the little carriage that was to take
us into Londonas if they were intended to defy the shocks of
agesand received my modestly proffered donation with perfect
tranquillity.

We bade adieu to Mrs. Steerforth and Miss Dartlewith many thanks
on my partand much kindness on the devoted mother's. The last
thing I saw was Littimer's unruffled eye; fraughtas I fancied
with the silent conviction that I was very young indeed.

What I feltin returning so auspiciously to the old familiar
placesI shall not endeavour to describe. We went down by the
Mail. I was so concernedI recollecteven for the honour of
Yarmouththat when Steerforth saidas we drove through its dark
streets to the innthatas well as he could make outit was a
goodqueerout-of-the-way kind of holeI was highly pleased. We
went to bed on our arrival (I observed a pair of dirty shoes and
gaiters in connexion with my old friend the Dolphin as we passed
that door)and breakfasted late in the morning. Steerforthwho
was in great spiritshad been strolling about the beach before I
was upand had made acquaintancehe saidwith half the boatmen
in the place. Moreoverhe had seenin the distancewhat he was
sure must be the identical house of Mr. Peggottywith smoke coming
out of the chimney; and had had a great mindhe told meto walk
in and swear he was myself grown out of knowledge.

'When do you propose to introduce me thereDaisy?' he said. 'I am
at your disposal. Make your own arrangements.'

'WhyI was thinking that this evening would be a good time
Steerforthwhen they are all sitting round the fire. I should
like you to see it when it's snugit's such a curious place.'

'So be it!' returned Steerforth. 'This evening.'

'I shall not give them any notice that we are hereyou know' said
Idelighted. 'We must take them by surprise.'

'Ohof 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 mentioned' I
returned.

'Aha! What! you recollect my skirmishes with Rosado you?' he
exclaimed with a quick look. 'Confound the girlI 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 nurseI suppose?'

'Whyyes' I said'I must see Peggotty first of all.'

'Well' replied Steerforthlooking at his watch. 'Suppose I
deliver you up to be cried over for a couple of hours. Is that
long enough?'

I answeredlaughingthat I thought we might get through it in


that timebut that he must come also; for he would find that his
renown had preceded himand that he was almost as great a
personage as I was.

'I'll come anywhere you like' 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 pleasesentimental or comical.'

I gave him minute directions for finding the residence of Mr.
Barkiscarrier to Blunderstone and elsewhere; andon this
understandingwent out alone. There was a sharp bracing air; the
ground was dry; the sea was crisp and clear; the sun was diffusing
abundance of lightif not much warmth; and everything was fresh
and lively. I was so fresh and lively myselfin the pleasure of
being therethat I could have stopped the people in the streets
and shaken hands with them.

The streets looked smallof course. The streets that we have only
seen as children always doI believewhen we go back to them.
But I had forgotten nothing in themand found nothing changed
until I came to Mr. Omer's shop. OMER AND Joram was now written
upwhere OMER used to be; but the inscriptionDRAPERTAILOR
HABERDASHERFUNERAL FURNISHER&c.remained as it was.

My footsteps seemed to tend so naturally to the shop doorafter I
had read these words from over the waythat 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 armswhile another little fellow
clung to her apron. I had no difficulty in recognizing either
Minnie or Minnie's children. The glass door of the parlour was not
open; but in the workshop across the yard I could faintly hear the
old tune playingas if it had never left off.

'Is Mr. Omer at home?' said Ientering. 'I should like to see
himfor a momentif he is.'

'Oh yessirhe is at home' said Minnie; 'the weather don't suit
his asthma out of doors. Joecall your grandfather!'

The little fellowwho was holding her aprongave such a lusty
shoutthat the sound of it made him bashfuland he buried his
face in her skirtsto her great admiration. I heard a heavy
puffing and blowing coming towards usand soon Mr. Omer
shorter-winded than of yorebut not much older-lookingstood
before me.

'Servantsir' said Mr. Omer. 'What can I do for yousir?'
'You can shake hands with meMr. Omerif you please' said I
putting out my own. 'You were very good-natured to me oncewhen
I am afraid I didn't show that I thought so.'

'Was I though?' returned the old man. 'I'm glad to hear itbut 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 meand my
having breakfast hereand our riding out to Blunderstone together:
youand Iand Mrs. Joramand Mr. Joram too - who wasn't her
husband then?'


'WhyLord bless my soul!' exclaimed Mr. Omerafter being thrown
by his surprise into a fit of coughing'you don't say so! Minnie
my dearyou recollect? Dear meyes; the party was a ladyI
think?'

'My mother' I rejoined.

'To - be - sure' said Mr. Omertouching 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 it wasof course. Dear me! And how have you
been since?'

Very wellI thanked himas I hoped he had been too.

'Oh! nothing to grumble atyou know' said Mr. Omer. 'I find my
breath gets shortbut it seldom gets longer as a man gets older.
I take it as it comesand make the most of it. That's the best
wayain't it?'

Mr. Omer coughed againin consequence of laughingand was
assisted out of his fit by his daughterwho now stood close beside
usdancing her smallest child on the counter.

'Dear me!' said Mr. Omer. 'Yesto be sure. Two parties! Whyin
that very rideif you'll believe methe day was named for my
Minnie to marry Joram. "Do name itsir says Joram. Yesdo
father says Minnie. And now he's come into the business. And
look here! The youngest!'

Minnie laughed, and stroked her banded hair upon her 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 grey one with silver nails, not this measurement' the
measurement of the dancing child upon the counter - 'by a good
two inches. - Will you take something?'

I thanked him, but declined.

'Let me see,' said Mr. Omer. 'Barkis's the carrier's wife -
Peggotty's the boatman's sister - 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
dress-making business - 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 mile 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 - 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 extent, 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, and was so exhausted that he was obliged to sit
on the stool of the shop-desk.

'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 account of her sometimes saying, at the
school, that if she was a lady she would like to do so-and-so for
her uncle - don't you see? - and buy him such-and-such fine
things.'

'I assure you, Mr. Omer, she has said so to me,' I returned
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 - a little spoiled - 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 believe.'

'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 she worth any six, now?'

'Yes, father,' replied Minnie. 'Never say I detracted from her!'

'Very good,' said Mr. Omer. 'That's right. And so, young
gentleman,' he added, after a few moments' further rubbing 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 towards the door of the
parlour. 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 another child of Minnie's who was
playing near her; with enough of wilfulness in her bright face to
justify what I had heard; 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 alas!
it was the tune that never DOES leave off - was beating,
softly, all the while.

'Wouldn't you like to step in,' said Mr. Omer, 'and speak to her?
Walk in and speak to her, sir! Make yourself at home!'

I was too bashful to do so then - I was afraid of confusing her,
and I was no less afraid of confusing myself.- but I informed
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 - what is it? - the Rookery,' said I.

She took a step backward, and put out her hands in an undecided
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 extravagances 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. I was troubled with no misgiving
that it was young in me to respond to her emotions. I had never
laughed and cried in all 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 another laugh and
another cry upon my shoulder. At last, to make the matter easier,
I went upstairs with her; and having waited outside for a minute,
while she said a word of preparation 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 upward, and so covered, with that exception, that
he seemed to be nothing but a face - like a conventional cherubim

-he looked the queerest object I ever beheld.
'What 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 long time,' said I.

'And I don't regret it,' said Mr. Barkis. 'Do you remember 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's 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.

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, turning 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 deserves, and
more! My dear, you'll get a dinner today, for company; something
good to eat and drink, will you?'

I should have protested against this unnecessary demonstration in
my honour, but that I saw Peggotty, on the opposite side of the
bed, extremely anxious I should not. So I held my peace.

'I have got a trifle of money somewhere about me, my dear,' said
Mr. Barkis, 'but I'm a little tired. If you and Mr. David will
leave me for a short nap, I'll try and find it when I wake.'

We left the room, in compliance with this request. When we got
outside the door, Peggotty informed me that Mr. Barkis, being now
'a little nearer' than he used to be, always resorted to 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 imposition on us, and
in having preserved the impenetrable secret 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 difference between his
having been a personal benefactor of hers, and a kind friend to me,
and that she would have received him with the utmost gratitude and
devotion in any case. But his easy, spirited good humour; his
genial manner, his handsome looks, his natural gift of adapting
himself to whomsoever 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 - if I were to say willingly, I
should not half express how readily and gaily. 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 impossibility 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 parlour, 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 pictures, 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 belong?' he
said. 'What is seems"compared to that?' It was settled at
once.

He maintained all his delightful qualities to the lastuntil we
started forthat eight o'clockfor Mr. Peggotty's boat. Indeed
they were more and more brightly exhibited as the hours went on;
for I thought even thenand I have no doubt nowthat the
consciousness of success in his determination to pleaseinspired
him with a new delicacy of perceptionand made itsubtle as it
wasmore easy to him. If anyone had told methenthat all this
was a brilliant gameplayed for the excitement of the momentfor
the employment of high spiritsin the thoughtless love of
superiorityin a mere wasteful careless course of winning what was
worthless to himand next minute thrown away - I sayif anyone
had told me such a lie that nightI wonder in what manner of
receiving it my indignation would have found a vent! Probably only
in an increasehad that been possibleof the romantic feelings of
fidelity and friendship with which I walked beside himover the
dark wintry sands towards the old boat; the wind sighing around us
even more mournfullythan it had sighed and moaned upon the night
when I first darkened Mr. Peggotty's door.

'This is a wild kind of placeSteerforthis it not?'

'Dismal enough in the dark' he said: 'and the sea roars as if it
were hungry for us. Is that the boatwhere I 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 itby instinctI suppose.'

We said no more as we approached the lightbut made softly for the
door. I laid my hand upon the latch; and whispering Steerforth to
keep close to mewent in.

A murmur of voices had been audible on the outsideandat the
moment of our entrancea clapping of hands: which latter noiseI
was surprised to seeproceeded from the generally disconsolate
Mrs. Gummidge. But Mrs. Gummidge was not the only person there who
was unusually excited. Mr. Peggottyhis face lighted up with
uncommon satisfactionand laughing with all his mightheld his
rough arms wide openas if for little Em'ly to run into them; Ham
with a mixed expression in his face of admirationexultationand
a lumbering sort of bashfulness that sat upon him very wellheld
little Em'ly by the handas if he were presenting her to Mr.
Peggotty; little Em'ly herselfblushing and shybut delighted
with Mr. Peggotty's delightas her joyous eyes expressedwas
stopped by our entrance (for she saw us first) in the very act of
springing from Ham to nestle in Mr. Peggotty's embrace. In the


first glimpse we had of them alland at the moment of our passing
from the dark cold night into the warm light roomthis was the way
in which they were all employed: Mrs. Gummidge in the background
clapping her hands like a madwoman.

The little picture was so instantaneously dissolved by our going
inthat one might have doubted whether it had ever been. I was in
the midst of the astonished familyface to face with Mr. Peggotty
and holding out my hand to himwhen Ham shouted:

'Mas'r Davy! It's Mas'r Davy!'

In a moment we were all shaking hands with one anotherand asking
one another how we didand telling one another how glad we were to
meetand all talking at once. Mr. Peggotty was so proud and
overjoyed to see usthat he did not know what to say or dobut
kept over and over again shaking hands with meand then with
Steerforthand then with meand then ruffling his shaggy hair all
over his headand laughing with such glee and triumphthat it was
a treat to see him.

'Whythat you two gent'lmen - gent'lmen growed - should come to
this here roof tonightof all nights in my life' said Mr.
Peggotty'is such a thing as never happened aforeI do rightly
believe! Em'lymy darlingcome here! Come heremy little
witch! There's Mas'r Davy's friendmy dear! There's the
gent'lman as you've heerd onEm'ly. He comes to see youalong
with Mas'r Davyon the brightest night of your uncle's life as
ever was or will beGorm the t'other oneand horroar for it!'

After delivering this speech all in a breathand with
extraordinary animation and pleasureMr. Peggotty put one of his
large hands rapturously on each side of his niece's faceand
kissing it a dozen timeslaid it with a gentle pride and love upon
his broad chestand 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 sleeplooked round upon usquite hot and out of breath
with his uncommon satisfaction.

'If you two gent'lmen - gent'lmen growed nowand such gent'lmen -'
said Mr. Peggotty.

'So th' areso th' are!' cried Ham. 'Well said! So th' are.
Mas'r Davy bor' - gent'lmen growed - so th' are!'

'If you two gent'lmengent'lmen growed' said Mr. Peggotty'don't
ex-cuse me for being in a state of mindwhen you understand
mattersI'll arks your pardon. Em'lymy dear! - She knows I'm a
going to tell' here his delight broke out again'and has made
off. Would you be so good as look arter herMawtherfor a
minute?'

Mrs. Gummidge nodded and disappeared.

'If this ain't' said Mr. Peggottysitting down among us by the
fire'the brightest night o' my lifeI'm a shellfish - biled too

-and more I can't say. This here little Em'lysir' in a low
voice to Steerforth'- her as you see a blushing here just now -'
Steerforth only nodded; but with such a pleased expression of
interestand of participation in Mr. Peggotty's feelingsthat the
latter answered him as if he had spoken.

'To be sure' said Mr. Peggotty. 'That's herand so she is.


Thankeesir.'

Ham nodded to me several timesas if he would have said so too.

'This here little Em'ly of ours' said Mr. Peggotty'has beenin
our housewhat I suppose (I'm a ignorant manbut 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 dosir' returned Mr. Peggotty'and thankee again.
Mas'r Davyhe 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 beenisand will beto my loving art. I am roughsir'
said Mr. Peggotty'I am as rough as a Sea Porkypine; but no one
unlessmayhapit is a womancan knowI thinkwhat our little
Em'ly is to me. And betwixt ourselves' sinking his voice lower
yet'that woman's name ain't Missis Gummidge neitherthough she
has a world of merits.'
Mr. Peggotty ruffled his hair againwith both handsas a further
preparation for what he was going to sayand went onwith a hand
upon each of his knees:

'There was a certain person as had know'd our Em'lyfrom the time
when her father was drownded; as had seen her constant; when a
babbywhen a young galwhen a woman. Not much of a person to
look athe warn't' said Mr. Peggotty'something o' my own build

-rough - a good deal o' the sou'-wester in him - wery salt - but
on the wholea honest sort of a chapwith his art in the right
place.'
I thought I had never seen Ham grin to anything like the extent to
which he sat grinning at us now.

'What does this here blessed tarpaulin go and do' said Mr.
Peggottywith 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' servant to herhe loses in a great
measure his relish for his wittlesand in the long-run he makes it
clear to me wot's amiss. Now I could wish myselfyou seethat
our little Em'ly was in a fair way of being married. I could wish
to see herat all ewentsunder articles to a honest man as had a
right to defend her. I don't know how long I may liveor how soon
I may die; but I know that if I was capsizedany nightin a gale
of wind in Yarmouth Roads hereand was to see the town-lights
shining for the last time over the rollers as I couldn't make no
head againstI could go down quieter for thinking "There's a man
ashore thereiron-true to my little Em'lyGod bless herand no
wrong can touch my Em'ly while so be as that man lives."'

Mr. Peggottyin simple earnestnesswaved his right armas if he
were waving it at the town-lights for the last timeand then
exchanging a nod with Hamwhose eye he caughtproceeded as
before.

'Well! I counsels him to speak to Em'ly. He's big enoughbut he's
bashfuller than a little unand he don't like. So I speak.
What! Him!says Em'ly. "Him that I've know'd so intimate so
many yearsand like so much. OhUncle! I never can have him.
He's such a good fellow!" I gives her a kissand I says no more to
her thanMy 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 saysI 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 mea-shaking of my handI will!he
says. And he was - honourable and manful - for two year going on
and we was just the same at home here as afore.'

Mr. Peggotty's facewhich had varied in its expression with the
various stages of his narrativenow resumed all its former
triumphant delightas he laid a hand upon my knee and a hand upon
Steerforth's (previously wetting them bothfor the greater
emphasis of the action)and divided the following speech between
us:

'All of a suddenone evening - as it might be tonight - comes
little Em'ly from her workand him with her! There ain't so much
in thatyou'll say. Nobecause he takes care on herlike a
brotherarter darkand indeed afore darkand at all times. But
this tarpaulin chaphe takes hold of her handand he cries out to
mejoyfulLook here! This is to be my little wife!And she
sayshalf bold and half shyand half a laughing and half a
cryingYes, Uncle! If you please.- If I please!' cried Mr.
Peggottyrolling his head in an ecstasy at the idea; 'Lordas if
I should do anythink else! - "If you pleaseI am steadier nowand
I have thought better of itand I'll be as good a little wife as
I can to himfor he's a deargood fellow!" Then Missis Gummidge
she claps her hands like a playand you come in. Theer! the
murder's out!' said Mr. Peggotty - 'You come in! It took place
this here present hour; and here's the man that'll marry herthe
minute she's out of her time.'

Ham staggeredas well he mightunder the blow Mr. Peggotty dealt
him in his unbounded joyas a mark of confidence and friendship;
but feeling called upon to say something to ushe saidwith much
faltering and great difficulty:

'She warn't no higher than you wasMas'r Davy - when you first
come - when I thought what she'd grow up to be. I see her grown up

-gent'lmen - like a flower. I'd lay down my life for her - Mas'r
Davy - Oh! most content and cheerful! She's more to me - gent'lmen
-than - she's all to me that ever I can wantand more than ever
I - than ever I could say. I - I love her true. There ain't a
gent'lman in all the land - nor yet sailing upon all the sea - that
can love his lady more than I love herthough there's many a
common man - would say better - 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 pretty little
creature who had won his heart. I thought the simple confidence
reposed in us by Mr. Peggotty and by himselfwasin itself
affecting. I was affected by the story altogether. How far my
emotions were influenced by the recollections of my childhoodI
don't know. Whether I had come there with any lingering fancy that
I was still to love little Em'lyI don't know. I know that I was
filled with pleasure by all this; butat firstwith an
indescribably sensitive pleasurethat a very little would have
changed to pain.

Thereforeif it had depended upon me to touch the prevailing chord
among them with any skillI 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.

'Mr. Peggotty' he said'you are a thoroughly good fellowand


deserve to be as happy as you are tonight. My hand upon it! Ham
I give you joymy boy. My hand upon thattoo! Daisystir the
fireand make it a brisk one! and Mr. Peggottyunless 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 - such a gap least of all - I wouldn't makefor 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 comeand then Ham went.
Presently they brought her to the firesidevery much confusedand
very shy- but she soon became more assured when she found how
gently and respectfully Steerforth spoke to her; how skilfully he
avoided anything that would embarrass her; how he talked to Mr.
Peggotty of boatsand shipsand tidesand fish; how he referred
to me about the time when he had seen Mr. Peggotty at Salem House;
how delighted he was with the boat and all belonging to it; how
lightly and easily he carried onuntil he brought usby degrees
into a charmed circleand we were all talking away without any
reserve.

Em'lyindeedsaid little all the evening; but she lookedand
listenedand her face got animatedand she was charming.
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 - and
little Em'ly's eyes were fastened on him all the timeas if she
saw it too. He told us a merry adventure of his ownas a relief
to thatwith as much gaiety as if the narrative were as fresh to
him as it was to us - and little Em'ly laughed until the boat rang
with the musical soundsand we all laughed (Steerforth too)in
irresistible sympathy with what was so pleasant and light-hearted.
He got Mr. Peggotty to singor rather to roar'When the stormy
winds do blowdo blowdo blow'; and he sang a sailor's song
himselfso pathetically and beautifullythat I could have almost
fancied that the real wind creeping sorrowfully round the house
and murmuring low through our unbroken silencewas there to
listen.

As to Mrs. Gummidgehe roused that victim of despondency with a
success never attained by anyone else (so Mr. Peggotty informed
me)since the decease of the old one. He left her so little
leisure for being miserablethat she said next day she thought she
must have been bewitched.

But he set up no monopoly of the general attentionor the
conversation. When little Em'ly grew more courageousand talked
(but still bashfully) across the fire to meof our old wanderings
upon the beachto pick up shells and pebbles; and when I asked her
if she recollected how I used to be devoted to her; and when we
both laughed and reddenedcasting these looks back on the pleasant
old timesso unreal to look at now; he was silent and attentive
and observed us thoughtfully. She satat this timeand all the
eveningon the old locker in her old little corner by the fire -
Ham beside herwhere I used to sit. I could not satisfy myself
whether it was in her own little tormenting wayor in a maidenly
reserve before usthat she kept quite close to the walland away
from him; but I observed that she did soall the evening.

As I rememberit was almost midnight when we took our leave. We
had had some biscuit and dried fish for supperand Steerforth had
produced from his pocket a full flask of Hollandswhich we men (I
may say we mennowwithout 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 roadI saw the sweet blue eyes of


little Em'ly peeping after usfrom behind Hamand heard her soft
voice calling to us to be careful how we went.

'A most engaging little Beauty!' said Steerforthtaking my arm.
'Well! It's a quaint placeand they are quaint companyand it's
quite a new sensation to mix with them.'

'How fortunate we aretoo' I returned'to have arrived to
witness their happiness in that intended marriage! I never saw
people so happy. How delightful to see itand to be made the
sharers in their honest joyas we have been!'

'That's rather a chuckle-headed fellow for the girl; isn't he?'
said Steerforth.

He had been so hearty with himand with them allthat I felt a
shock in this unexpected and cold reply. But turning quickly upon
himand seeing a laugh in his eyesI answeredmuch relieved:

'AhSteerforth! It's well for you to joke about the poor! You
may skirmish with Miss Dartleor try to hide your sympathies in
jest from mebut I know better. When I see how perfectly you
understand themhow exquisitely you can enter into happiness like
this plain fisherman'sor humour a love like my old nurse'sI
know that there is not a joy or sorrownot an emotionof such
peoplethat can be indifferent to you. And I admire and love you
for itSteerforthtwenty times the more!'

He stoppedandlooking in my facesaid'DaisyI believe you
are in earnestand are good. I wish we all were!' Next moment he
was gaily singing Mr. Peggotty's songas we walked at a round pace
back to Yarmouth.

CHAPTER 22
SOME OLD SCENESAND SOME NEW PEOPLE

Steerforth and I stayed for more than a fortnight in that part of
the country. We were very much togetherI need not say; but
occasionally we were asunder for some hours at a time. He was a
good sailorand I was but an indifferent one; and when he went out
boating with Mr. Peggottywhich was a favourite amusement of his
I generally remained ashore. My occupation of Peggotty's
spare-room put a constraint upon mefrom which he was free: for
knowing how assiduously she attended on Mr. Barkis all dayI did
not like to remain out late at night; whereas Steerforthlying at
the Innhad nothing to consult but his own humour. Thus it came
aboutthat I heard of his making little treats for the fishermen
at Mr. Peggotty's house of call'The Willing Mind'after I was in
bedand of his being afloatwrapped in fishermen's clotheswhole
moonlight nightsand coming back when the morning tide was at
flood. By this timehoweverI knew that his restless nature and
bold spirits delighted to find a vent in rough toil and hard
weatheras in any other means of excitement that presented itself
freshly to him; so none of his proceedings surprised me.

Another cause of our being sometimes apartwasthat I had
naturally an interest in going over to Blunderstoneand revisiting
the old familiar scenes of my childhood; while Steerforthafter
being there oncehad naturally no great interest in going there
again. Henceon three or four days that I can at once recallwe
went our several ways after an early breakfastand met again at a


late dinner. I had no idea how he employed his time in the
intervalbeyond a general knowledge that he was very popular in
the placeand had twenty means of actively diverting himself where
another man might not have found one.

For my own partmy occupation in my solitary pilgrimages was to
recall every yard of the old road as I went along itand to haunt
the old spotsof which I never tired. I haunted themas my
memory had often doneand lingered among them as my younger
thoughts had lingered when I was far away. The grave beneath the
treewhere both my parents lay - on which I had looked outwhen
it was my father's onlywith such curious feelings of compassion
and by which I had stoodso desolatewhen it was opened to
receive my pretty mother and her baby - the grave which Peggotty's
own faithful care had ever since kept neatand made a garden of
I walked nearby the hour. It lay a little off the churchyard
pathin a quiet cornernot so far removed but I could read the
names upon the stone as I walked to and frostartled by the sound
of the church-bell when it struck the hourfor it was like a
departed voice to me. My reflections at these times were always
associated with the figure I was to make in lifeand the
distinguished things I was to do. My echoing footsteps went to no
other tunebut 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 nestsso long
deserted by the rookswere 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
but only by a poor lunatic gentlemanand the people who took care
of him. He was always sitting at my little windowlooking out
into the churchyard; and I wondered whether his rambling thoughts
ever went upon any of the fancies that used to occupy mineon the
rosy mornings when I peeped out of that same little window in my
night-clothesand saw the sheep quietly feeding in the light of
the rising sun.

Our old neighboursMr. and Mrs. Grayperwere gone to South
Americaand the rain had made its way through the roof of their
empty houseand stained the outer walls. Mr. Chillip was married
again to a tallraw-bonedhigh-nosed wife; and they had a weazen
little babywith a heavy head that it couldn't hold upand two
weak staring eyeswith 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 placeuntil the reddening winter sun
admonished me that it was time to start on my returning walk. But
when the place was left behindand especially when Steerforth and
I were happily seated over our dinner by a blazing fireit was
delicious to think of having been there. So it wasthough in a
softened degreewhen I went to my neat room at night; andturning
over the leaves of the crocodile-book (which was always thereupon
a little table)remembered with a grateful heart how blest I was
in having such a friend as Steerforthsuch a friend as Peggotty
and such a substitute for what I had lost as my excellent and
generous aunt.

MY nearest way to Yarmouthin coming back from these long walks
was by a ferry. It landed me on the flat between the town and the
seawhich I could make straight acrossand so save myself a
considerable circuit by the high road. Mr. Peggotty's house being
on that waste-placeand not a hundred yards out of my trackI
always looked in as I went by. Steerforth was pretty sure to be


there expecting meand we went on together through the frosty air
and gathering fog towards the twinkling lights of the town.

One dark eveningwhen I was later than usual - for I hadthat
daybeen making my parting visit to Blunderstoneas we were now
about to return home - 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 unconscious of my approach.
Thisindeedhe might easily have been if he had been less
absorbedfor footsteps fell noiselessly on the sandy ground
outside; but even my entrance failed to rouse him. I was standing
close to himlooking at him; and stillwith a heavy browhe was
lost in his meditations.

He gave such a start when I put my hand upon his shoulderthat he
made me start too.

'You come upon me' he saidalmost angrily'like a reproachful
ghost!'

'I was obliged to announce myselfsomehow' I replied. 'Have I
called you down from the stars?'

'No' he answered. 'No.'

'Up from anywherethen?' said Itaking my seat near him.

'I was looking at the pictures in the fire' he returned.

'But you are spoiling them for me' said Ias he stirred it
quickly with a piece of burning woodstriking out of it a train of
red-hot sparks that went careering up the little chimneyand
roaring out into the air.

'You would not have seen them' he returned. 'I detest this
mongrel timeneither 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 Steerforthglancing round the
room'thinking that all the people we found so glad on the night
of our coming downmight - to judge from the present wasted air of
the place - be dispersedor deador come to I don't know what
harm. DavidI wish to God I had had a judicious father these last
twenty years!'

'My dear Steerforthwhat 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 Peggottyor his lout of a
nephew' he saidgetting up and leaning moodily against the
chimney-piecewith his face towards the fire'than to be myself
twenty times richer and twenty times wiserand be the torment to
myself that I have beenin this Devil's bark of a boatwithin the
last half-hour!'

I was so confounded by the alteration in himthat at first I could


only observe him in silenceas he stood leaning his head upon his
handand looking gloomily down at the fire. At length I begged
himwith all the earnestness I feltto tell me what had occurred
to cross him so unusuallyand to let me sympathize with himif I
could not hope to advise him. Before I had well concludedhe
began to laugh - fretfully at firstbut soon with returning
gaiety.

'Tutit's nothingDaisy! nothing!' he replied. 'I told you at
the inn in LondonI am heavy company for myselfsometimes. I
have been a nightmare to myselfjust now - must have had oneI
think. At odd dull timesnursery tales come up into the memory
unrecognized for what they are. I believe I have been confounding
myself with the bad boy who "didn't care"and became food for
lions - a grander kind of going to the dogsI suppose. What old
women call the horrorshave been creeping over me from head to
foot. I have been afraid of myself.'

'You are afraid of nothing elseI think' said I.

'Perhaps notand yet may have enough to be afraid of too' he
answered. 'Well! So it goes by! I am not about to be hipped
againDavid; but I tell youmy good fellowonce morethat 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 expressionbut I never saw it express
such a dark kind of earnestness as when he said these wordswith
his glance bent on the fire.

'So much for that!' he saidmaking as if he tossed something light
into the airwith his hand. "'Whybeing goneI am a man again
like Macbeth. And now for dinner! If I have not (Macbeth-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 meanwhile, 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, gaily, 'we abandon this buccaneer life tomorrow,
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.'


'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 examination 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; I know how ardent you are
in any pursuit you follow, and how easily you can master it. And
that amazes me most in you, Steerforth- that you should be
contented with such fitful uses of your powers.'

'Contented?' he answered, merrily. 'I am never contented, except
with your freshness, my gentle Daisy. As to fitfulness, 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 apprenticeship, and now don't care about
it. - You know I have bought a boat down here?'

'What an extraordinary fellow you are, Steerforth!' I exclaimed,
stopping - for this was the first I had heard of it. '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,' walking me briskly on, 'I have bought a
boat that was for sale - a clipper, Mr. Peggotty says; and so she
is - 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?'

'Aye, aye,' 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.

'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. I feared that 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 Pole. He shall see to the boat being fresh named. She's the
Stormy Petrel" now. What does Mr. Peggotty care for Stormy
Petrels! I'll have her christened again.'

'By what name?' I asked.

'The "Little Em'ly".'

As he had continued to look steadily at meI took it as a reminder
that he objected to being extolled for his consideration. I could
not help showing in my face how much it pleased mebut I said
littleand he resumed his usual smileand seemed relieved.

'But see here' he saidlooking before us'where the original
little Em'ly comes! And that fellow with hereh? Upon my soul
he's a true knight. He never leaves her!'

Ham was a boat-builder in these dayshaving improved a natural
ingenuity in that handicraftuntil he had become a skilled
workman. He was in his working-dressand looked rugged enough
but manly withaland a very fit protector for the blooming little
creature at his side. Indeedthere was a frankness in his face
an honestyand an undisguised show of his pride in herand his
love for herwhich wereto methe best of good looks. I
thoughtas they came towards usthat they were well matched even
in that particular.

She withdrew her hand timidly from his arm as we stopped to speak
to themand blushed as she gave it to Steerforth and to me. When
they passed onafter we had exchanged a few wordsshe did not
like to replace that handbutstill appearing timid and
constrainedwalked by herself. I thought all this very pretty and
engagingand Steerforth seemed to think so tooas we looked after
them fading away in the light of a young moon.

Suddenly there passed us - evidently following them - a young woman
whose approach we had not observedbut whose face I saw as she
went byand thought I had a faint remembrance of. She was lightly
dressed; looked boldand haggardand flauntingand poor; but
seemedfor the timeto have given all that to the wind which was
blowingand to have nothing in her mind but going after them. As
the dark distant levelabsorbing their figures into itselfleft
but itself visible between us and the sea and cloudsher figure
disappeared in like mannerstill 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 themI think' said I.

'A beggar would be no novelty' said Steerforth; 'but it is a
strange thing that the beggar should take that shape tonight.'


'Why?' I asked.

'For no better reasontrulythan because I was thinking' he
saidafter a pause'of something like itwhen it came by. Where
the Devil did it come fromI wonder!'

'From the shadow of this wallI think' said Ias we emerged upon
a road on which a wall abutted.

'It's gone!' he returnedlooking 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 offand yet again. And he wondered about itin
some broken expressionsseveral timesin the short remainder of
our walk; and only seemed to forget it when the light of fire and
candle shone upon usseated warm and merryat table.

Littimer was thereand had his usual effect upon me. When I said
to him that I hoped Mrs. Steerforth and Miss Dartle were wellhe
answered respectfully (and of course respectably)that they were
tolerably wellhe thanked meand had sent their compliments.
This was alland yet he seemed to me to say as plainly as a man
could say: 'You are very youngsir; you are exceedingly young.'

We had almost finished dinnerwhen taking a step or two towards
the tablefrom the corner where he kept watch upon usor rather
upon meas I felthe said to his master:

'I beg your pardonsir. Miss Mowcher is down here.'

'Who?' cried Steerforthmuch astonished.

'Miss Mowchersir.'

'Whywhat on earth does she do here?' said Steerforth.

'It appears to be her native part of the countrysir. She informs
me that she makes one of her professional visits hereevery year
sir. I met her in the street this afternoonand she wished to
know if she might have the honour of waiting on you after dinner
sir.'

'Do you know the Giantess in questionDaisy?' inquired Steerforth.

I was obliged to confess - I felt ashamedeven of being at this
disadvantage before Littimer - that Miss Mowcher and I were wholly
unacquainted.

'Then you shall know her' said Steerforth'for she is one of the
seven wonders of the world. When Miss Mowcher comesshow her in.'

I felt some curiosity and excitement about this ladyespecially as
Steerforth burst into a fit of laughing when I referred to herand
positively refused to answer any question of which I made her the
subject. I remainedthereforein a state of considerable
expectation until the cloth had been removed some half an hourand
we were sitting over our decanter of wine before the firewhen the
door openedand Littimerwith his habitual serenity quite
undisturbedannounced:

'Miss Mowcher!'

I looked at the doorway and saw nothing. I was still looking at


the doorwaythinking that Miss Mowcher was a long while making her
appearancewhento my infinite astonishmentthere came waddling
round a sofa which stood between me and ita pursy dwarfof about
forty or forty-fivewith a very large head and facea pair of
roguish grey eyesand such extremely little armsthatto enable
herself to lay a finger archly against her snub noseas she ogled
Steerforthshe was obliged to meet the finger half-wayand lay
her nose against it. Her chinwhich was what is called a double
chinwas so fat that it entirely swallowed up the strings of her
bonnetbow and all. Throat she had none; waist she had none; legs
she had noneworth mentioning; for though she was more than
full-sized down to where her waist would have beenif she had had
anyand though she terminatedas human beings generally doin a
pair of feetshe was so short that she stood at a common-sized
chair as at a tableresting a bag she carried on the seat. This
lady - dressed in an off-handeasy style; bringing her nose and
her forefinger togetherwith the difficulty I have described;
standing with her head necessarily on one sideandwith one of
her sharp eyes shut upmaking an uncommonly knowing face - after
ogling Steerforth for a few momentsbroke into a torrent of words.

'What! My flower!' she pleasantly beganshaking her large head at
him. 'You're thereare you! Ohyou naughty boyfie for shame
what do you do so far away from home? Up to mischiefI'll be
bound. Ohyou're a downy fellowSteerforthso you areand I'm
anotherain't I? Hahaha! You'd have betted a hundred pound
to fivenowthat you wouldn't have seen me herewouldn't you?
Bless youman aliveI'm everywhere. I'm here and thereand
where notlike the conjurer's half-crown in the lady's
handkercher. Talking of handkerchers - and talking of ladies what
a comfort you are to your blessed motherain't youmy dear
boyover one of my shouldersand I don't say which!'

Miss Mowcher untied her bonnetat this passage of her discourse
threw back the stringsand sat downpantingon a footstool in
front of the fire - making a kind of arbour of the dining table
which spread its mahogany shelter above her head.

'Oh my stars and what's-their-names!' she went onclapping a hand
on each of her little kneesand glancing shrewdly at me'I'm of
too full a habitthat's the factSteerforth. After a flight of
stairsit gives me as much trouble to draw every breath I wantas
if it was a bucket of water. If you saw me looking out of an upper
windowyou'd think I was a fine womanwouldn't you?'

'I should think thatwherever I saw you' replied Steerforth.

'Go alongyou dogdo!' cried the little creaturemaking 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 honour I was at
Lady Mithers's last week - THERE'S a woman! How SHE wears! - and
Mithers himself came into the room where I was waiting for her THERE'S
a man! How HE wears! and his wig toofor he's had it
these ten years - and he went on at that rate in the complimentary
linethat I began to think I should be obliged to ring the bell.
Ha! ha! ha! He's a pleasant wretchbut he wants principle.'

'What were you doing for Lady Mithers?' asked Steerforth.

'That's tellingsmy blessed infant' she retortedtapping her
nose againscrewing up her faceand twinkling her eyes like an
imp of supernatural intelligence. 'Never YOU mind! You'd like to
know whether I stop her hair from falling offor dye itor touch
up her complexionor improve her eyebrowswouldn't you? And so


you shallmy darling - when I tell you! Do you know what my great
grandfather's name was?'

'No' said Steerforth.

'It was Walkermy sweet pet' replied Miss Mowcher'and he came
of a long line of Walkersthat 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 toowhen
listening to what was said to heror when waiting for an answer to
what she had said herselfof pausing with her head cunningly on
one sideand one eye turned up like a magpie's. Altogether I was
lost in amazementand sat staring at herquite obliviousI am
afraidof the laws of politeness.

She had by this time drawn the chair to her sideand was busily
engaged in producing from the bag (plunging in her short arm to the
shoulderat every dive) a number of small bottlesspongescombs
brushesbits of flannellittle pairs of curling-ironsand other
instrumentswhich she tumbled in a heap upon the chair. From this
employment she suddenly desistedand said to Steerforthmuch to
my confusion:

'Who's your friend?'

'Mr. Copperfield' said Steerforth; 'he wants to know you.'

'Wellthenhe shall! I thought he looked as if he did!' returned
Miss Mowcherwaddling up to mebag in handand 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 acquaintanceMr. CopperfieldI'm sure.'

I said that I congratulated myself on having the honour to make
hersand that the happiness was mutual.

'Ohmy goodnesshow polite we are!' exclaimed Miss Mowcher
making a preposterous attempt to cover her large face with her
morsel of a hand. 'What a world of gammon and spinnage it is
thoughain't it!'

This was addressed confidentially to both of usas the morsel of
a hand came away from the faceand buried itselfarm and allin
the bag again.

'What do you meanMiss Mowcher?' said Steerforth.

'Ha! ha! ha! What a refreshing set of humbugs we areto be sure
ain't wemy sweet child?' replied that morsel of a womanfeeling
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-turvyI call himfor his
name's got all the letters in ithiggledy-piggledy.'

'The Russian Prince is a client of yoursis he?' said Steerforth.

'I believe youmy pet' replied Miss Mowcher. 'I keep his nails
in order for him. Twice a week! Fingers and toes.'

'He pays wellI hope?' said Steerforth.

'Paysas he speaksmy dear child - through the nose' replied


Miss Mowcher. 'None of your close shavers the Prince ain't. You'd
say soif you saw his moustachios. Red by natureblack by art.'

'By your artof 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 Russiabut
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 humbugjust now?' inquired
Steerforth.

'Ohyou're a broth of a boyain't you?' returned Miss Mowcher
shaking her head violently. 'I saidwhat a set of humbugs we were
in generaland 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 sortthan all my talents put together. I always carry
'em about. They're the best introduction. If Miss Mowcher cuts
the Prince's nailsshe must be all right. I give 'em away to the
young ladies. They put 'em in albumsI believe. Ha! ha! ha!
Upon my lifethe whole social system(as the men call it when
they make speeches in Parliament) is a system of Prince's nails!'
said this least of womentrying to fold her short armsand
nodding her large head.

Steerforth laughed heartilyand I laughed too. 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 eyeand to wink with
the other.

'Wellwell!' she saidsmiting her small kneesand rising'this
is not business. ComeSteerforthlet's explore the polar
regionsand have it over.'

She then selected two or three of the little instrumentsand a
little bottleand asked (to my surprise) if the table would bear.
On Steerforth's replying in the affirmativeshe pushed a chair
against itand begging the assistance of my handmounted up
pretty nimblyto the topas if it were a stage.

'If either of you saw my ankles' she saidwhen she was safely
elevated'say soand I'll go home and destroy myself!'

'I did not' said Steerforth.

'I did not' said I.

'Well then' cried Miss Mowcher' I'll consent to live. Now
duckyduckyduckycome to Mrs. Bond and be killed.'

This was an invocation to Steerforth to place himself under her
hands; whoaccordinglysat himself downwith his back to the
tableand his laughing face towards meand submitted his head to
her inspectionevidently for no other purpose than our
entertainment. To see Miss Mowcher standing over himlooking at
his rich profusion of brown hair through a large round magnifying
glasswhich she took out of her pocketwas a most amazing
spectacle.

'You're a pretty fellow!' said Miss Mowcherafter a brief
inspection. 'You'd be as bald as a friar on the top of your head
in twelve monthsbut for me. just half a minutemy young friend
and we'll give you a polishing that shall keep your curls on for
the next ten years!'


With thisshe tilted some of the contents of the little bottle on
to one of the little bits of flannelandagain imparting some of
the virtues of that preparation to one of the little brushesbegan
rubbing and scraping away with both on the crown of Steerforth's
head in the busiest manner I ever witnessedtalking all the time.

'There's Charley Pyegravethe duke's son' she said. 'You know
Charley?' peeping round into his face.

'A little' said Steerforth.

'What a man HE is! THERE'S a whisker! As to Charley's legsif
they were only a pair (which they ain't)they'd defy competition.
Would you believe he tried to do without me - in the Life-Guards
too?'

'Mad!' said Steerforth.

'It looks like it. Howevermad or sanehe tried' returned Miss
Mowcher. 'What does he dobutlo and behold youhe goes into a
perfumer's shopand wants to buy a bottle of the Madagascar
Liquid.'

'Charley does?' said Steerforth.

'Charley does. But they haven't got any of the Madagascar Liquid.'

'What is it? Something to drink?' asked Steerforth.

'To drink?' returned Miss Mowcherstopping to slap his cheek. 'To
doctor his own moustachios withyou know. There was a woman in
the shop - elderly female - quite a Griffin - who had never even
heard of it by name. "Begging pardonsir said the Griffin to
Charley, it's not - not - not ROUGEis it?" "Rouge said
Charley to the Griffin. What the unmentionable to ears politedo
you think I want with rouge?" "No offencesir said the Griffin;
we have it asked for by so many namesI thought it might be." Now
thatmy child' continued Miss Mowcherrubbing all the time as
busily as ever'is another instance of the refreshing humbug I was
speaking of. I do something in that way myself - perhaps a good
deal - perhaps a little - sharp's the wordmy dear boy - never
mind!'

'In what way do you mean? In the rouge way?' said Steerforth.

'Put this and that togethermy tender pupil' returned the wary
Mowchertouching her nose'work it by the rule of Secrets in all
tradesand the product will give you the desired result. I say I
do a little in that way myself. One DowagerSHE calls it
lip-salve. AnotherSHE calls it gloves. AnotherSHE calls it
tucker-edging. AnotherSHE calls it a fan. I call it whatever
THEY call it. I supply it for 'embut we keep up the trick soto
one anotherand make believe with such a facethat they'd as soon
think of laying it onbefore a whole drawing-roomas before me.
And when I wait upon 'emthey'll say to me sometimes - WITH IT ON

-thickand no mistake - "How am I lookingMowcher? Am I pale?"
Ha! ha! ha! ha! Isn't THAT refreshingmy young friend!'
I never did in my days behold anything like Mowcher as she stood
upon the dining tableintensely enjoying this refreshmentrubbing
busily at Steerforth's headand 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 herejemmy.'

'No?' said Steerforth.

'Not the ghost of one' replied Miss Mowcher.

'We could show her the substance of oneI think?' said Steerforth
addressing his eyes to mine. 'EhDaisy?'

'Yesindeed' said I.

'Aha?' cried the little creatureglancing sharply at my faceand
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 eitherbut continued to rubwith her
head on one side and her eye turned upas if she were looking for
an answer in the air and were confident of its appearing presently.

'A sister of yoursMr. Copperfield?' she criedafter a pauseand
still keeping the same look-out. 'Ayeaye?'

'No' said Steerforthbefore I could reply. 'Nothing of the sort.
On the contraryMr. Copperfield used - or I am much mistaken - to
have a great admiration for her.'

'Whyhasn't he now?' returned Miss Mowcher. 'Is he fickle? Oh
for shame! Did he sip every flowerand change every houruntil
Polly his passion requited? - Is her name Polly?'

The Elfin suddenness with which she pounced upon me with this
questionand a searching lookquite disconcerted me for a moment.

'NoMiss Mowcher' I replied. 'Her name is Emily.'

'Aha?' she cried exactly as before. 'Umph? What a rattle I am!
Mr. Copperfieldain't I volatile?'

Her tone and look implied something that was not agreeable to me in
connexion with the subject. So I saidin 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 senseas much as I admire her for her good
looks.'

'Well said!' cried Steerforth. 'Hearhearhear! Now I'll quench
the curiosity of this little Fatimamy dear Daisyby leaving her
nothing to guess at. She is at present apprenticedMiss Mowcher
or articledor whatever it may beto Omer and Joram
HaberdashersMillinersand so forthin this town. Do you
observe? Omer and Joram. The promise of which my friend has
spokenis made and entered into with her cousin; Christian name
Ham; surnamePeggotty; occupationboat-builder; also of this
town. She lives with a relative; Christian nameunknown; surname
Peggotty; occupationseafaring; also of this town. She is the
prettiest and most engaging little fairy in the world. I admire
her - as my friend does - exceedingly. If it were not that I might
appear to disparage her Intendedwhich I know my friend would not
likeI would addthat to me she seems to be throwing 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 wordswhich were very slowly and
distinctly spokenwith her head on one sideand her eye in the
air as if she were still looking for that answer. When he ceased
she became brisk again in an instantand rattled away with
surprising volubility.

'Oh! And that's all about itis it?' she exclaimedtrimming his
whiskers with a little restless pair of scissorsthat 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's that game at forfeits? I
love my love with an Ebecause she's enticing; I hate her with an
Ebecause she's engaged. I took her to the sign of the exquisite
and treated her with an elopementher name's Emilyand she lives
in the east? Ha! ha! ha! Mr. Copperfieldain't I volatile?'

Merely looking at me with extravagant slynessand not waiting for
any replyshe continuedwithout drawing breath:

'There! If ever any scapegrace was trimmed and touched up to
perfectionyou areSteerforth. If I understand any noddle in the
worldI understand yours. Do you hear me when I tell you thatmy
darling? I understand yours' peeping down into his face. 'Now
you may mizzlejemmy (as we say at Court)and if Mr. Copperfield
will take the chair I'll operate on him.'

'What do you sayDaisy?' inquired Steerforthlaughingand
resigning his seat. 'Will you be improved?'

'Thank youMiss Mowchernot this evening.'

'Don't say no' returned the little womanlooking at me with 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.'

'NoI thank you. Not at present.'

'Go in for a tip' she urged. 'No? Let's get the scaffolding up
thenfor a pair of whiskers. Come!'

I could not help blushing as I declinedfor I felt we were on my
weak pointnow. But Miss Mowcherfinding that I was not at
present disposed for any decoration within the range of her art
and that I wasfor the time beingproof against the blandishments
of the small bottle which she held up before one eye to enforce her
persuasionssaid we would make a beginning on an early dayand
requested the aid of my hand to descend from her elevated station.
Thus assistedshe skipped down with much agilityand began to tie
her double chin into her bonnet.

'The fee' said Steerforth'is -'

'Five bob' replied Miss Mowcher'and dirt cheapmy chicken.
Ain't I volatileMr. Copperfield?'

I replied politely: 'Not at all.' But I thought she was rather so
when she tossed up his two half-crowns like a goblin piemancaught
themdropped them in her pocketand gave it a loud slap.


'That's the Till!' observed Miss Mowcherstanding at the chair
againand replacing in the bag a miscellaneous collection 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 Beadwood
when they took him to church "to marry him to somebody"as he
saysand left the bride behind. Ha! ha! ha! A wicked rascal
Nedbut droll! NowI know I'm going to break your heartsbut I
am forced to leave you. You must call up all your fortitudeand
try to bear it. Good-byeMr. Copperfield! Take care of yourself
jockey of Norfolk! How I have been rattling on! It's all the
fault of you two wretches. I forgive you! "Bob swore!" - as the
Englishman said for "Good night"when he first learnt Frenchand
thought it so like English. "Bob swore my ducks!'

With the bag slung over her arm, and rattling as she waddled away,
she waddled to the door, where she stopped to inquire if she should
leave us a lock of her hair. 'Ain't I volatile?' she added, as a
commentary on this offer, and, with her finger on her nose,
departed.

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 our laugh quite out, which
was after some time, he told me that Miss Mowcher had quite an
extensive connexion, 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
anyone 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 downstairs.

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 - 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
churchyard don't hold any that the folk shrink away from, more.'


'Did I see her tonight, Ham, on the sand, after we met you?'


'Keeping us in sight?' said Ham. 'It's like you did, 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 whispering Em'lyEm'lyfor Christ's sake
have a woman's heart towards me. I was once like you!" Those was
solemn wordsMas'r Davyfur to hear!'


'They were indeedHam. What did Em'ly do?'
'Says Em'lyMartha, is it you? Oh, Martha, can it be you?- for
they had sat at work togethermany a dayat Mr. Omer's.'


'I recollect her now!' cried Irecalling 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 interrupt
you.'


'For the matter o' thatMas'r Davy' replied Ham'all's told
a'most in them wordsEm'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 theerfor her loving
uncle was come homeand he wouldn't - noMas'r Davy' said Ham
with great earnestness'he couldn'tkind-natur'dtender-hearted
as he issee them two togetherside by sidefor all the
treasures that's wrecked in the sea.'


I felt how true this was. I knew iton the instantquite as well
as Ham.


'So Em'ly writes in pencil on a bit of paper' he pursued'and
gives it to her out o' winder to bring here. "Show that she
says, to my auntMrs. Barkisand she'll set you down by her
firefor the love of metill uncle is gone outand I can come."
By and by she tells me what I tell youMas'r Davyand asks me to
bring her. What can I do? She doen't ought to know any suchbut
I can't deny herwhen the tears is on her face.'


He put his hand into the breast of his shaggy jacketand took out
with great care a pretty little purse.


'And if I could deny her when the tears was on her faceMas'r
Davy' said Hamtenderly adjusting it on the rough palm of his
hand'how could I deny her when she give me this to carry for her


-knowing what she brought it for? Such a toy as it is!' said Ham
thoughtfully looking on it. 'With such a little money in itEm'ly
my dear.'
I shook him warmly by the hand when he had put it away again - for
that was more satisfactory to me than saying anything - and we
walked up and downfor a minute or twoin silence. The door
opened thenand Peggotty appearedbeckoning to Ham to come in.
I would have kept awaybut she came after meentreating me to
come in too. Even thenI would have avoided the room where they
all werebut for its being the neat-tiled kitchen I have mentioned
more than once. The door opening immediately into itI found
myself among them before I considered whither I was going.


The girl - the same I had seen upon the sands - was near the fire.
She was sitting on the groundwith her head and one arm lying on
a chair. I fanciedfrom the disposition of her figurethat Em'ly
had but newly risen from the chairand that the forlorn head might
perhaps have been lying on her lap. I saw but little of the girl's
faceover which her hair fell loose and scatteredas if she had
been disordering it with her own hands; but I saw that she was
youngand 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 seemedin the silenceto 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 themlooking on the prostrate girl with a mixture
of compassion for herand of jealousy of her holding any
companionship with her whom he loved so wellwhich I have always
remembered distinctly. They both spoke as if she were ill; in a
softsuppressed tone that was plainly heardalthough it hardly
rose above a whisper.

'Better there than here' said a third voice aloud - 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 headand looked darkly round at him for a
moment; then laid it down againand curved her right arm about her
neckas a woman in a feveror in an agony of pain from a shot
might twist herself.

'She will try to do well' said little Em'ly. 'You don't know what
she has said to us. Does he - do they - 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!' with a
dreadful shiver'take me out of these streetswhere the whole
town knows me from a child!'

As Em'ly held out her hand to HamI saw him put in it a little
canvas bag. She took itas if she thought it were her purseand
made a step or two forward; but finding her mistakecame back to
where he had retired near meand showed it to him.

'It's all yournEm'ly' I could hear him say. 'I haven't nowt in
all the wureld that ain't yournmy dear. It ain't of no delight
to meexcept for you!'

The tears rose freshly in her eyesbut she turned away and went to
Martha. What she gave herI don't know. I saw her stooping over
herand putting money in her bosom. She whispered somethingas
she asked was that enough? 'More than enough' the other saidand
took her hand and kissed it.

Then Martha aroseand gathering her shawl about hercovering her
face with itand weeping aloudwent slowly to the door. She
stopped a moment before going outas if she would have uttered
something or turned back; but no word passed her lips. Making the


same lowdrearywretched moaning in her shawlshe went away.

As the door closedlittle Em'ly looked at us three in a hurried
manner and then hid her face in her handsand fell to sobbing.

'Doen'tEm'ly!' said Hamtapping her gently on the shoulder.
'Doen'tmy dear! You doen't ought to cry sopretty!'

'OhHam!' she exclaimedstill weeping pitifully'I am not so
good a girl as I ought to be! I know I have not the thankful
heartsometimesI ought to have!'

'Yesyesyou haveI'm sure' said Ham.

'No! no! no!' cried little Em'lysobbingand shaking her head.
'I am not as good a girl as I ought to be. Not near! not near!'
And still she criedas if her heart would break.

'I try your love too much. I know I do!' she sobbed. 'I'm often
cross to youand changeable with youwhen I ought to be far
different. You are never so to me. Why am I ever so to youwhen
I should think of nothing but how to be gratefuland to make you
happy!'

'You always make me so' said Ham'my dear! I am happy in the
sight of you. I am happyall day longin the thoughts of you.'

'Ah! that's not enough!' she cried. 'That is because you are good;
not because I am! Ohmy dearit might have been a better fortune
for youif you had been fond of someone else - of someone steadier
and much worthier than mewho was all bound up in youand never
vain and changeable like me!'

'Poor little tender-heart' said Hamin a low voice. 'Martha has
overset heraltogether.'

'Pleaseaunt' sobbed Em'ly'come hereand let me lay my head
upon you. OhI am very miserable tonightaunt! OhI am not as
good a girl as I ought to be. I am notI know!'

Peggotty had hastened to the chair before the fire. Em'lywith
her arms around her neckkneeled by herlooking up most earnestly
into her face.

'Ohprayaunttry to help me! Hamdeartry to help me! Mr.
Davidfor the sake of old timesdopleasetry 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 morewhat a blessed thing
it is to be the wife of a good manand to lead a peaceful life.
Oh meoh me! Oh my heartmy heart!'

She dropped her face on my old nurse's breastandceasing this
supplicationwhich in its agony and grief was half a woman'shalf
a child'sas all her manner was (beingin thatmore naturaland
better suited to her beautyas I thoughtthan any other manner
could have been)wept silentlywhile my old nurse hushed her like
an infant.

She got calmer by degreesand then we soothed her; now talking
encouraginglyand now jesting a little with heruntil she began
to raise her head and speak to us. So we got onuntil she was
able to smileand then to laughand then to sit uphalf ashamed;
while Peggotty recalled her stray ringletsdried her eyesand
made her neat againlest her uncle should wonderwhen she got


homewhy his darling had been crying.

I saw her dothat nightwhat I had never seen her do before. I
saw her innocently kiss her chosen husband on the cheekand creep
close to his bluff form as if it were her best support. When they
went away togetherin the waning moonlightand I looked after
themcomparing their departure in my mind with Martha'sI saw
that she held his arm with both her handsand still kept close to
him.

CHAPTER 23
I CORROBORATE Mr. DICKAND CHOOSE A PROFESSION

When I awoke in the morning I thought very much of little Em'ly
and her emotion last nightafter Martha had left. I felt as if I
had come into the knowledge of those domestic weaknesses and
tendernesses in a sacred confidenceand that to disclose them
even to Steerforthwould be wrong. I had no gentler feeling
towards anyone than towards the pretty creature who had been my
playmateand whom I have always been persuadedand shall always
be persuadedto my dying dayI then devotedly loved. The
repetition to any ears - even to Steerforth's - of what she had
been unable to repress when her heart lay open to me by an
accidentI felt would be a rough deedunworthy of myself
unworthy of the light of our pure childhoodwhich I always saw
encircling her head. I made a resolutionthereforeto keep it in
my own breast; and there it gave her image a new grace.

While we were at breakfasta letter was delivered to me from my
aunt. As it contained matter on which I thought Steerforth could
advise me as well as anyoneand on which I knew I should be
delighted to consult himI resolved to make it a subject of
discussion on our journey home. For the present we had enough to
doin taking leave of all our friends. Mr. Barkis was far from
being the last among themin his regret at our departure; and I
believe would even have opened the box againand sacrificed
another guineaif it would have kept us eight-and-forty hours in
Yarmouth. Peggotty 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; and there were so many seafaring volunteers in attendance
on Steerforthwhen our portmanteaux went to the coachthat if we
had had the baggage of a regiment with uswe should hardly have
wanted porters to carry it. In a wordwe departed to the regret
and admiration of all concernedand left a great many people very
sorry behind US.

Do you stay long hereLittimer?' said Ias he stood waiting to
see the coach start.

'Nosir' he replied; 'probably not very longsir.'

'He can hardly sayjust now' observed Steerforthcarelessly.
'He knows what he has to doand he'll do it.'

'That I am sure he will' said I.

Littimer touched his hat in acknowledgement of my good opinionand
I felt about eight years old. He touched it once morewishing us
a good journey; and we left him standing on the pavementas
respectable a mystery as any pyramid in Egypt.


For some little time we held no conversationSteerforth being
unusually silentand I being sufficiently engaged in wondering
within myselfwhen I should see the old places againand what new
changes might happen to me or them in the meanwhile. At length
Steerforthbecoming gay and talkative in a momentas he could
become anything he liked at any momentpulled me by the arm:

'Find a voiceDavid. What about that letter you were speaking of
at breakfast?'

'Oh!' said Itaking it out of my pocket. 'It's from my aunt.'

'And what does she sayrequiring consideration?'

'Whyshe reminds meSteerforth' said I'that I came out on
this expedition to look about meand to think a little.'

'Whichof courseyou have done?'

'Indeed I can't say I haveparticularly. To tell you the truth
I am afraid I have forgotten it.'

'Well! look about you nowand make up for your negligence' said
Steerforth. 'Look to the rightand you'll see a flat country
with a good deal of marsh in it; look to the leftand you'll see
the same. Look to the frontand you'll find no difference; look
to the rearand there it is still.'
I laughedand 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 Steerforthglancing
at the letter in my hand. 'Does she suggest anything?'

'Whyyes' said I. 'She asks mehereif I think I should like
to be a proctor? What do you think of it?'

'WellI don't know' replied Steerforthcoolly. 'You may as well
do that as anything elseI suppose?'

I could not help laughing againat his balancing all callings and
professions so equally; and I told him so.

'What is a proctorSteerforth?' said I.

'Whyhe is a sort of monkish attorney' replied Steerforth. 'He
isto some faded courts held in Doctors' Commons- a lazy old
nook near St. Paul's Churchyard - what solicitors are to the courts
of law and equity. He is a functionary whose existencein the
natural course of thingswould have terminated about two hundred
years ago. I can tell you best what he isby telling you what
Doctors' Commons is. It's a little out-of-the-way placewhere
they administer what is called ecclesiastical lawand play all
kinds of tricks with obsolete old monsters of acts of Parliament
which three-fourths of the world know nothing aboutand the other
fourth supposes to have been dug upin a fossil statein the days
of the Edwards. It's a place that has an ancient monopoly in suits
about people's wills and people's marriagesand disputes among
ships and boats.'

'NonsenseSteerforth!' I exclaimed. 'You don't mean to say that
there is any affinity between nautical matters and ecclesiastical
matters?'

'I don'tindeedmy dear boy' he returned; 'but I mean to say


that they are managed and decided by the same set of peopledown
in that same Doctors' Commons. You shall go there one dayand
find them blundering through half the nautical terms in Young's
Dictionaryapropos of the "Nancy" having run down the "Sarah
Jane"or Mr. Peggotty and the Yarmouth 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 dayand find them deep in
the evidencepro and conrespecting a clergyman who has
misbehaved himself; and you shall find the judge in the nautical
casethe advocate in the clergyman's caseor contrariwise. They
are like actors: now a man's a judgeand now he is not a judge;
now he's one thingnow he's another; now he's something else
change and change about; but it's always a very pleasant
profitable little affair of private theatricalspresented to an
uncommonly select audience.'

'But advocates and proctors are not one and the same?' said Ia
little puzzled. 'Are they?'

'No' returned Steerforth'the advocates are civilians - men who
have taken a doctor's degree at college - which is the first reason
of my knowing anything about it. The proctors employ the
advocates. Both get very comfortable feesand altogether they
make a mighty snug little party. On the wholeI would recommend
you to take to Doctors' Commons kindlyDavid. They plume themselves
on their gentility thereI can tell youif that's any
satisfaction.'

I made allowance for Steerforth's light way of treating the
subjectandconsidering 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 decisionmaking no
scruple of telling me that it had occurred to heron her lately
visiting her own proctor in Doctors' Commons for the purpose of
settling her will in my favour.

'That's a laudable proceeding on the part of our auntat all
events' said Steerforthwhen I mentioned it; 'and one deserving
of all encouragement. Daisymy 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 at
Lincoln's Inn Fieldswhere there was a stone staircaseand 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 pleasantlysometimes recurring
to Doctors' Commonsand anticipating the distant days when I
should be a proctor therewhich Steerforth pictured in a variety
of humorous and whimsical lightsthat made us both merry. When we
came to our journey's endhe went homeengaging to call upon me
next day but one; and I drove to Lincoln's Inn Fieldswhere I
found my aunt upand waiting supper.

If I had been round the world since we partedwe could hardly have
been better pleased to meet again. My aunt cried outright as she
embraced me; and saidpretending to laughthat if my poor mother
had been alivethat silly little creature would have shed tears
she had no doubt.

'So you have left Mr. Dick behindaunt?' said I. 'I am sorry for


that. AhJanethow do you do?'


As Janet curtsiedhoping I was wellI observed my aunt's visage
lengthen very much.


'I am sorry for ittoo' said my auntrubbing her nose. 'I have
had no peace of mindTrotsince I have been here.'
Before I could ask whyshe told me.


'I am convinced' said my auntlaying her hand with melancholy
firmness on the table'that Dick's character is not a character to
keep the donkeys off. I am confident he wants strength of purpose.
I ought to have left Janet at homeinsteadand then my mind might
perhaps have been at ease. If ever there was a donkey trespassing
on my green' said my auntwith emphasis'there was one this
afternoon at four o'clock. A cold feeling came over me from head
to footand I know it was a donkey!'


I tried to comfort her on this pointbut she rejected consolation.


'It was a donkey' said my aunt; 'and it was the one with the
stumpy tail which that Murdering sister of a woman rodewhen she
came to my house.' This had beenever sincethe 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'sthat'
said my auntstriking the table'is the animal!'


Janet ventured to suggest that my aunt might be disturbing herself
unnecessarilyand that she believed the donkey in question was
then engaged in the sand-and-gravel line of businessand was not
available for purposes of trespass. But my aunt wouldn't hear of
it.


Supper was comfortably served and hotthough my aunt's rooms were
very high up - whether that she might have more stone stairs for
her moneyor might be nearer to the door in the roofI don't know


-and consisted of a roast fowla steakand some vegetablesto
all of which I did ample justiceand which were all excellent.
But my aunt had her own ideas concerning London provisionand 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 beefbut I don't believe it.
Nothing's genuine in the placein my opinionbut the dirt.'

'Don't you think the fowl may have come out of the countryaunt?'
I hinted.

'Certainly not' returned my aunt. 'It would be no pleasure to a
London tradesman to sell anything which was what he pretended it
was.'

I did not venture to controvert this opinionbut I made a good
supperwhich it greatly satisfied her to see me do. When the
table was clearedJanet assisted her to arrange her hairto put
on her nightcapwhich was of a smarter construction than usual
('in case of fire'my aunt said)and to fold her gown back over
her kneesthese being her usual preparations for warming herself
before going to bed. I then made heraccording to certain
established regulations from which no deviationhowever slight
could ever be permitteda glass of hot wine and waterand a slice
of toast cut into long thin strips. With these accompaniments we
were left alone to finish the eveningmy aunt sitting opposite to


me drinking her wine and water; soaking her strips of toast in it
one by onebefore eating them; and looking benignantly on mefrom
among the borders of her nightcap.

'WellTrot' she began'what do you think of the proctor plan?
Or have you not begun to think about it yet?'

'I have thought a good deal about itmy dear auntand 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 difficultyaunt.'

'Say what it isTrot' she returned.

'WhyI want to askauntas this seemsfrom what I understand
to be a limited professionwhether my entrance into it would not
be very expensive?'

'It will cost' returned my aunt'to article youjust a thousand
pounds.'

'Nowmy dear aunt' said Idrawing 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 educationand 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 outlayand 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 moneyand that it is
right that it should be so expended? I only ask youmy second
motherto consider. Are you certain?'

My aunt finished eating the piece of toast on which she was then
engagedlooking me full in the face all the while; and then
setting her glass on the chimney-pieceand folding her hands upon
her folded skirtsreplied as follows:

'Trotmy childif I have any object in lifeit is to provide for
your being a gooda sensibleand a happy man. I am bent upon it

-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 intellectexcept myself!'
She stopped for a moment to take my hand between hersand went on:

'It's in vainTrotto recall the pastunless it works some
influence upon the present. Perhaps I might have been better
friends with your poor father. Perhaps I might have been better
friends with that poor child your mothereven after your sister
Betsey Trotwood disappointed me. When you came to mea little
runaway boyall dusty and way-wornperhaps I thought so. From
that time until nowTrotyou have ever been a credit to me and a
pride and a pleasure. I have no other claim upon my means; at
least' - here to my surprise she hesitatedand was confused - 'no
I have no other claim upon my means - and you are my adopted child.
Only be a loving child to me in my ageand 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 beenthan 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 soand
of dismissing itwhich would have exalted her in my respect and
affectionif anything could.

'All is agreed and understood between usnowTrot' said my aunt
'and we need talk of this no more. Give me a kissand we'll go to
the Commons after breakfast tomorrow.'

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'sand 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-cartsand inquiring'if I heard the engines?' But towards
morning she slept betterand suffered me to do so too.

At about mid-daywe set out for the office of Messrs Spenlow and
Jorkinsin Doctors' Commons. My auntwho had this other general
opinion in reference to Londonthat every man she saw was a
pickpocketgave me her purse to carry for herwhich had ten
guineas in it and some silver.

We made a pause at the toy shop in Fleet Streetto see the giants
of Saint Dunstan's strike upon the bells - we had timed our going
so as to catch them at itat twelve o'clock - and then went on
towards Ludgate Hilland St. Paul's Churchyard. We were crossing
to the former placewhen I found that my aunt greatly accelerated
her speedand looked frightened. I observedat the same time
that a lowering ill-dressed man who had stopped and stared at us in
passinga little beforewas coming so close after us as to brush
against her.

'Trot! My dear Trot!' cried my auntin a terrified whisperand
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 shopand I'll soon get rid of this fellow.'

'Nonochild!' she returned. 'Don't speak to him for the world.
I entreatI order you!'

'Good Heavenaunt!' 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 door-waywhile this was passingand he
had stopped too.

'Don't look at him!' said my auntas I turned my head indignantly
'but get me a coachmy dearand wait for me in St. Paul's
Churchyard.'

'Wait for you?' I replied.

'Yes' rejoined my aunt. 'I must go alone. I must go with him.'

'With himaunt? This man?'

'I am in my senses' she replied'and I tell you I must. Get mea
coach!'

However much astonished I might beI was sensible that I had no


right to refuse compliance with such a peremptory command. I
hurried away a few pacesand called a hackney-chariot which was
passing empty. Almost before I could let down the stepsmy aunt
sprang inI don't know howand the man followed. She waved her
hand to me to go awayso earnestlythatall confounded as I was
I turned from them at once. In doing soI heard her say to the
coachman'Drive anywhere! Drive straight on!' and presently the
chariot passed megoing up the hill.

What Mr. Dick had told meand what I had supposed to be a delusion
of hisnow came into my mind. I could not doubt that this person
was the person of whom he had made such mysterious mentionthough
what the nature of his hold upon my aunt could possibly beI was
quite unable to imagine. After half an hour's cooling in the
churchyardI saw the chariot coming back. The driver stopped
beside meand 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 chariotand to tell the coachman to drive slowly up and
down a little while. She said no moreexcept'My dear child
never ask me what it wasand don't refer to it' until she had
perfectly regained her composurewhen she told me she was quite
herself nowand we might get out. On her giving me her purse to
pay the driverI found that all the guineas were goneand only
the loose silver remained.

Doctors' Commons was approached by a little low archway. Before we
had taken many paces down the street beyond itthe noise of the
city seemed to meltas if by magicinto 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 without the ceremony of knockingthree or
four clerks were at work as copyists. One of thesea little dry
mansitting by himselfwho wore a stiff brown wig that looked as
if it were made of gingerbreadrose to receive my auntand show
us into Mr. Spenlow's room.

'Mr. Spenlow's in Courtma'am' said the dry man; 'it's an Arches
day; but it's close byand I'll send for him directly.'

As we were left to look about us while Mr. Spenlow was fetchedI
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 colourand was as withered and pale
as an old pauper. There were a great many bundles of papers on it
some endorsed as Allegationsand some (to my surprise) as Libels
and some as being in the Consistory Courtand some in the Arches
Courtand some in the Prerogative Courtand some in the Admiralty
Courtand some in the Delegates' Court; giving me occasion to
wonder muchhow many Courts there might be in the grossand how
long it would take to understand them all. Besides thesethere
were sundry immense manuscript Books of Evidence taken on
affidavitstrongly boundand tied together in massive setsa set
to each causeas if every cause were a history in ten or twenty
volumes. All this looked tolerably expensiveI thoughtand gave
me an agreeable notion of a proctor's business. I was casting my
eyes with increasing complacency over these and many similar
objectswhen hasty footsteps were heard in the room outsideand
Mr. Spenlowin a black gown trimmed with white furcame hurrying
intaking off his hat as he came.

He was a little light-haired gentlemanwith undeniable bootsand
the stiffest of white cravats and shirt-collars. He was buttoned


upmighty trim and tightand must have taken a great deal of
pains with his whiskerswhich were accurately curled. His gold
watch-chain was so massivethat a fancy came across methat he
ought to have a sinewy golden armto draw it out withlike those
which are put up over the goldbeaters' shops. He was got up with
such careand was so stiffthat he could hardly bend himself;
being obligedwhen he glanced at some papers on his deskafter
sitting down in his chairto move his whole bodyfrom the bottom
of his spinelike Punch.

I had previously been presented by my auntand had been
courteously received. He now said:

'And soMr. Copperfieldyou think of entering into our
profession? I casually mentioned to Miss Trotwoodwhen I had the
pleasure of an interview with her the other day' - with another
inclination of his body - Punch again - 'that there was a vacancy
here. Miss Trotwood was good enough to mention that she had a
nephew who was her peculiar careand for whom she was seeking to
provide genteelly in life. That nephewI believeI have now the
pleasure of' - Punch again.
I bowed my acknowledgementsand saidmy aunt had mentioned to me
that there was that openingand that I believed I should like it
very much. That I was strongly inclined to like itand had taken
immediately to the proposal. That I could not absolutely pledge
myself to like ituntil I knew something more about it. That
although it was little else than a matter of formI presumed I
should have an opportunity of trying how I liked itbefore I bound
myself to it irrevocably.

'Oh surely! surely!' said Mr. Spenlow. 'We alwaysin this house
propose a month - an initiatory month. I should be happymyself
to propose two months - three - an indefinite periodin fact - but
I have a partner. Mr. Jorkins.'

'And the premiumsir' I returned'is a thousand pounds?'

'And the premiumStamp includedis a thousand pounds' said Mr.
Spenlow. 'As I have mentioned to Miss TrotwoodI am actuated by
no mercenary considerations; few men are less soI believe; but
Mr. Jorkins has his opinions on these subjectsand I am bound to
respect Mr. Jorkins's opinions. Mr. Jorkins thinks a thousand
pounds too littlein short.'

'I supposesir' said Istill desiring to spare my aunt'that it
is not the custom hereif an articled clerk were particularly
usefuland made himself a perfect master of his profession' - I
could not help blushingthis looked so like praising myself - 'I
suppose it is not the customin the later years of his timeto
allow him any -'

Mr. Spenlowby a great effortjust lifted his head far enough out
of his cravat to shake itand answeredanticipating the word
'salary':

'No. I will not say what consideration I might give to that point
myselfMr. Copperfieldif 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 himself in the background
and be constantly exhibited by name as the most obdurate and
ruthless of men. If a clerk wanted his salary raisedMr. Jorkins


wouldn't listen to such a proposition. If a client were slow to
settle his bill of costsMr. Jorkins was resolved to have it paid;
and however painful these things might be (and always were) to the
feelings of Mr. SpenlowMr. Jorkins would have his bond. The
heart and hand of the good angel Spenlow would have been always
openbut for the restraining demon Jorkins. As I have grown
olderI think I have had experience of some other houses doing
business on the principle of Spenlow and Jorkins!

It was settled that I should begin my month's probation as soon as
I pleasedand that my aunt need neither remain in town nor return
at its expirationas the articles of agreementof which I was to
be the subjectcould easily be sent to her at home for her
signature. When we had got so farMr. Spenlow offered to take me
into Court then and thereand show me what sort of place it was.
As I was willing enough to knowwe went out with this object
leaving my aunt behind; who would trust herselfshe saidin no
such placeand whoI thinkregarded 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 formed of grave
brick houseswhich I inferredfrom the Doctors' names upon the
doorsto be the official abiding-places of the learned advocates
of whom Steerforth had told me; and into a large dull roomnot
unlike a chapel to my thinkingon the left hand. The upper part
of this room was fenced off from the rest; and thereon the two
sides of a raised platform of the horse-shoe formsitting on easy
old-fashioned dining-room chairswere sundry gentlemen in red
gowns and grey wigswhom I found to be the Doctors aforesaid.
Blinking over a little desk like a pulpit-deskin the curve of the
horse-shoewas an old gentlemanwhomif I had seen him in an
aviaryI should certainly have taken for an owlbut whoI
learnedwas the presiding judge. In the space within the
horse-shoelower than thesethat is to sayon about the level of
the floorwere sundry other gentlemenof Mr. Spenlow's rankand
dressed like him in black gowns with white fur upon themsitting
at a long green table. Their cravats were in general stiffI
thoughtand their looks haughty; but in this last respect I
presently conceived I had done them an injusticefor when two or
three of them had to rise and answer a question of the presiding
dignitaryI never saw anything more sheepish. The public
represented by a boy with a comforterand a shabby-genteel man
secretly eating crumbs out of his coat pocketswas 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 Doctorswho was wandering slowly through a
perfect library of evidenceand stopping to put upfrom time to
timeat little roadside inns of argument on the journey.
AltogetherI have neveron any occasionmade one at such a
coseydoseyold-fashionedtime-forgottensleepy-headed little
family-party in all my life; and I felt it would be quite a
soothing opiate to belong to it in any character - except perhaps
as a suitor.

Very well satisfied with the dreamy nature of this retreatI
informed Mr. Spenlow that I had seen enough for that timeand we
rejoined my aunt; in company with whom I presently departed from
the Commonsfeeling very young when I went out of Spenlow and
Jorkins'son account of the clerks poking one another with their
pens to point me out.

We arrived at Lincoln's Inn Fields without any new adventures
except encountering an unlucky donkey in a costermonger's cartwho
suggested painful associations to my aunt. We had another long


talk about my planswhen we were safely housed; and as I knew she
was anxious to get homeandbetween firefoodand pickpockets
could never be considered at her ease for half-an-hour in London
I urged her not to be uncomfortable on my accountbut to leave me
to take care of myself.

'I have not been here a week tomorrowwithout considering that
toomy dear' she returned. 'There is a furnished little set of
chambers to be let in the AdelphiTrotwhich ought to suit you to
a marvel.'

With this brief introductionshe produced from her pocket an
advertisementcarefully cut out of a newspapersetting forth that
in Buckingham Street in the Adelphi there was to be let furnished
with a view of the rivera singularly desirableand compact set
of chambersforming a genteel residence for a young gentlemana
member of one of the Inns of Courtor otherwisewith immediate
possession. Terms moderateand could be taken for a month only
if required.

'Whythis is the very thingaunt!' said Iflushed with the
possible dignity of living in chambers.

'Then come' replied my auntimmediately 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 premisesand we rung the area bellwhich we supposed to
communicate with Mrs. Crupp. It was not until we had rung three or
four times that we could prevail on Mrs. Crupp to communicate with
usbut at last she appearedbeing a stout lady with a flounce of
flannel petticoat below a nankeen gown.

'Let us see these chambers of yoursif you pleasema'am' said my
aunt.

'For this gentleman?' said Mrs. Cruppfeeling in her pocket for
her keys.

'Yesfor my nephew' said my aunt.

'And a sweet set they is for sich!' said Mrs. Crupp.

So we went upstairs.

They were on the top of the house - a great point with my aunt
being near the fire-escape - and consisted of a little half-blind
entry where you could see hardly anythinga little stone-blind
pantry where you could see nothing at alla sitting-roomand a
bedroom. The furniture was rather fadedbut quite good enough for
me; andsure enoughthe river was outside the windows.

As I was delighted with the placemy aunt and Mrs. Crupp withdrew
into the pantry to discuss the termswhile I remained on the
sitting-room sofahardly daring to think it possible that I could
be destined to live in such a noble residence. After a single
combat of some duration they returnedand I sawto my joyboth
in Mrs. Crupp's countenance and in my aunt'sthat the deed was
done.

'Is it the last occupant's furniture?' inquired my aunt.

'Yesit isma'am' said Mrs. Crupp.


'What's become of him?' asked my aunt.

Mrs. Crupp was taken with a troublesome coughin the midst of
which she articulated with much difficulty. 'He was took ill here
ma'amand - ugh! ugh! ugh! dear me! - and he died!'

'Hey! What did he die of?' asked my aunt.

'Wellma'amhe died of drink' said Mrs. Cruppin confidence.
'And smoke.'

'Smoke? You don't mean chimneys?' said my aunt.

'Noma'am' returned Mrs. Crupp. 'Cigars and pipes.'

'That's not catchingTrotat any rate' remarked my auntturning
to me.

'Noindeed' said I.

In shortmy auntseeing how enraptured I was with the premises
took them for a monthwith leave to remain for twelve months when
that time was out. Mrs. Crupp was to find linenand 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 tomorrowand Mrs.
Crupp saidthank Heaven she had now found summun she could care
for!

On our way backmy aunt informed me how she confidently trusted
that the life I was now to lead would make me firm and
self-reliantwhich was all I wanted. She repeated this several
times next dayin the intervals of our arranging for the
transmission of my clothes and books from Mr. Wickfield's; relative
to whichand to all my late holidayI wrote a long letter to
Agnesof which my aunt took chargeas she was to leave on the
succeeding day. Not to lengthen these particularsI need only
addthat she made a handsome provision for all my possible wants
during my month of trial; that Steerforthto my great
disappointment and hers toodid 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 donkeyswith
Janet at her side; and that when the coach was goneI turned my
face to the Adelphipondering on the old days when I used to roam
about its subterranean archesand on the happy changes which had
brought me to the surface.

CHAPTER 24
MY FIRST DISSIPATION

It was a wonderfully fine thing to have that lofty castle to
myselfand to feelwhen I shut my outer doorlike Robinson
Crusoewhen he had got into his fortificationand pulled his
ladder up after him. It was a wonderfully fine thing to walk about
town with the key of my house in my pocketand to know that I
could ask any fellow to come homeand make quite sure of its being
inconvenient to nobodyif it were not so to me. It was a
wonderfully fine thing to let myself in and outand to come and go
without a word to anyoneand to ring Mrs. Crupp upgaspingfrom
the depths of the earthwhen I wanted her - and when she was
disposed to come. All thisI saywas wonderfully fine; but I


must saytoothat there were times when it was very dreary.

It was fine in the morningparticularly in the fine mornings. It
looked a very freshfree lifeby daylight: still fresherand
more freeby sunlight. But as the day declinedthe life seemed
to go down too. I don't know how it was; it seldom looked well by
candle-light. I wanted somebody to talk tothen. I missed Agnes.
I found a tremendous blankin the place of that smiling repository
of my confidence. Mrs. Crupp appeared to be a long way off. I
thought about my predecessorwho had died of drink and smoke; and
I could have wished he had been so good as to liveand not bother
me with his decease.

After two days and nightsI felt as if I had lived there for a
yearand yet I was not an hour olderbut was quite as much
tormented by my own youthfulness as ever.

Steerforth not yet appearingwhich induced me to apprehend that he
must be illI left the Commons early on the third dayand walked
out to Highgate. Mrs. Steerforth was very glad to see meand said
that he had gone away with one of his Oxford friends to see another
who lived near St. Albansbut that she expected him to return
tomorrow. I was so fond of himthat I felt quite jealous of his
Oxford friends.

As she pressed me to stay to dinnerI remainedand I believe we
talked about nothing but him all day. I told her how much the
people liked him at Yarmouthand what a delightful companion he
had been. Miss Dartle was full of hints and mysterious questions
but took a great interest in all our proceedings thereand said
'Was it really though?' and so forthso oftenthat she got
everything out of me she wanted to know. Her appearance was
exactly what I have described itwhen I first saw her; but the
society of the two ladies was so agreeableand came so natural to
methat I felt myself falling a little in love with her. I could
not help thinkingseveral times in the course of the eveningand
particularly when I walked home at nightwhat delightful company
she would be in Buckingham Street.

I was taking my coffee and roll in the morningbefore going to the
Commons - and I may observe in this place that it is surprising how
much coffee Mrs. Crupp usedand how weak it wasconsidering when
Steerforth himself walked into my unbounded joy.

'My dear Steerforth' cried I'I began to think I should never see
you again!'

'I was carried offby force of arms' said Steerforth'the very
next morning after I got home. WhyDaisywhat a rare old
bachelor you are here!'

I showed him over the establishmentnot omitting the pantrywith
no little prideand he commended it highly. 'I tell you whatold
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 for that
he would have to wait till doomsday.

'But you shall have some breakfast!' said Iwith my hand on the
bell-rope'and Mrs. Crupp shall make you some fresh coffeeand
I'll toast you some bacon in a bachelor's Dutch-oventhat I have
got here.'


'Nono!' said Steerforth. 'Don't ring! I can't! I am going to
breakfast with one of these fellows who is at the Piazza Hotelin
Covent Garden.'

'But you'll come back to dinner?' said I.

'I can'tupon my life. There's nothing I should like betterbut
I must remain with these two fellows. We are all three off
together tomorrow 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 thisfor it occurred to me
that I really ought to have a little house-warmingand that there
never could be a better opportunity. I had a new pride in my rooms
after his approval of themand burned with a desire to develop
their utmost resources. I therefore made him promise positively in
the names of his two friendsand we appointed six o'clock as the
dinner-hour.

When he was goneI rang for Mrs. Cruppand acquainted her with my
desperate design. Mrs. Crupp saidin the first placeof course
it was well known she couldn't be expected to waitbut she knew a
handy young manwho she thought could be prevailed upon to do it
and whose terms would be five shillingsand what I pleased. I
saidcertainly 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
bedroom candlethere never to desist from washing plateswould be
indispensable. I saidwhat would be the expense of this young
female? and Mrs. Crupp said she supposed eighteenpence would
neither make me nor break me. I said I supposed not; and THAT was
settled. Then Mrs. Crupp saidNow about the dinner.

It was a remarkable instance of want of forethought on the part of
the ironmonger who had made Mrs. Crupp's kitchen fireplacethat it
was capable of cooking nothing but chops and mashed potatoes. As
to a fish-kittleMrs. Crupp saidwell! would I only come and look
at the range? She couldn't say fairer than that. Would I come and
look at it? As I should not have been much the wiser if I HAD
looked at itI declinedand said'Never mind fish.' But Mrs.
Crupp saidDon't say that; oysters was inwhy not them? So THAT
was settled. Mrs. Crupp then said what she would recommend would
be this. A pair of hot roast fowls - from the pastry-cook's; a
dish of stewed beefwith vegetables - from the pastry-cook's; two
little corner thingsas a raised pie and a dish of kidneys - from
the pastrycook's; a tartand (if I liked) a shape of jelly - from
the pastrycook's. ThisMrs. Crupp saidwould leave her at full
liberty to concentrate her mind on the potatoesand to serve up
the cheese and celery as she could wish to see it done.

I acted on Mrs. Crupp's opinionand gave the order at the
pastry-cook's myself. Walking along the Strandafterwardsand
observing a hard mottled substance in the window of a ham and beef
shopwhich resembled marblebut was labelled 'Mock Turtle'I
went in and bought a slab of itwhich I have since seen reason to
believe would have sufficed for fifteen people. This preparation
Mrs. Cruppafter some difficultyconsented to warm up; and it
shrunk so much in a liquid statethat we found it what Steerforth


called 'rather a tight fit' for four.

These preparations happily completedI bought a little dessert in
Covent Garden Marketand gave a rather extensive order at a retail
wine-merchant's in that vicinity. When I came home in the
afternoonand saw the bottles drawn up in a square on the pantry
floorthey looked so numerous (though there were two missing
which made Mrs. Crupp very uncomfortable)that I was absolutely
frightened at them.

One of Steerforth's friends was named Graingerand the other
Markham. They were both very gay and lively fellows; Grainger
something older than Steerforth; Markhamyouthful-lookingand I
should say not more than twenty. I observed that the latter always
spoke of himself indefinitelyas 'a man'and seldom or never in
the first person singular.

'A man might get on very well hereMr. Copperfield' said Markham

-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.

'Upon my honour' returned Markham'town seems to sharpen a man's
appetite. A man is hungry all day long. A man is perpetually
eating.'

Being a little embarrassed at firstand feeling much too young to
presideI made Steerforth take the head of the table when dinner
was announcedand 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 wellthat there was no
pause in our festivity. I was not quite such good company during
dinner as I could have wished to befor my chair was opposite the
doorand my attention was distracted by observing that the handy
young man went out of the room very oftenand that his shadow
always presented itselfimmediately afterwardson the wall of the
entrywith a bottle at its mouth. The 'young gal' likewise
occasioned me some uneasiness: not so much by neglecting to wash
the platesas by breaking them. For being of an inquisitive
dispositionand unable to confine herself (as her positive
instructions were) to the pantryshe was constantly peering in at
usand constantly imagining herself detected; in which beliefshe
several times retired upon the plates (with which she had carefully
paved the floor)and did a great deal of destruction.

Thesehoweverwere small drawbacksand easily forgotten when the
cloth was clearedand the dessert put on the table; at which
period of the entertainment the handy young man was discovered to
be speechless. Giving him private directions to seek the society
of Mrs. Cruppand to remove the 'young gal' to the basement also
I abandoned myself to enjoyment.

I beganby being singularly cheerful and light-hearted; all sorts
of half-forgotten things to talk aboutcame rushing into my mind
and made me hold forth in a most unwonted manner. I laughed
heartily at my own jokesand 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 thatonce a weekuntil further notice; and madly took so
much snuff out of Grainger's boxthat I was obliged to go into the
pantryand have a private fit of sneezing ten minutes long.


I went onby passing the wine faster and faster yetand
continually starting up with a corkscrew to open more winelong
before any was needed. I proposed Steerforth's health. I said he
was my dearest friendthe protector of my boyhoodand the
companion of my prime. I said I was delighted to propose his
health. I said I owed him more obligations than I could ever
repayand held him in a higher admiration than I could ever
express. I finished by saying'I'll give you Steerforth! God
bless him! Hurrah!' We gave him three times threeand another
and a good one to finish with. I broke my glass in going round the
table to shake hands with himand I said (in two words)
'Steerforth - you'retheguidingstarofmyexistence.'

I went onby finding suddenly that somebody was in the middle of
a song. Markham was the singerand he sang 'When the heart of a
man is depressed with care'. He saidwhen he had sung ithe
would give us 'Woman!' I took objection to thatand I couldn't
allow it. I said it was not a respectful way of proposing the
toastand I would never permit that toast to be drunk in my house
otherwise than as 'The Ladies!' I was very high with himmainly I
think because I saw Steerforth and Grainger laughing at me - or at
him - 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 insultedthen. I
said he was right there - never under my roofwhere the Lares were
sacredand 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. I was smokingand
trying to suppress a rising tendency to shudder. Steerforth had
made a speech about mein the course of which I had been affected
almost to tears. I returned thanksand hoped the present company
would dine with me tomorrowand the day after - each day at five
o'clockthat 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 Trotwoodthe
best of her sex!

Somebody was leaning out of my bedroom windowrefreshing his
forehead against the cool stone of the parapetand feeling 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.' Nowsomebody was unsteadily
contemplating his features in the looking-glass. That was I too.
I was very pale in the looking-glass; my eyes had a vacant
appearance; and my hair - only my hairnothing else - looked
drunk.

Somebody said to me'Let us go to the theatreCopperfield!' There
was no bedroom before mebut again the jingling table covered with
glasses; the lamp; Grainger on my right handMarkham on my left
and Steerforth opposite - all sitting in a mistand a long way
off. The theatre? To be sure. The very thing. Come along! But
they must excuse me if I saw everybody out firstand turned the
lamp off - in case of fire.

Owing to some confusion in the darkthe door was gone. I was
feeling for it in the window-curtainswhen Steerforthlaughing
took me by the arm and led me out. We went downstairsone behind
another. Near the bottomsomebody felland rolled down.
Somebody else said it was Copperfield. I was angry at that false
reportuntilfinding myself on my back in the passageI began to
think there might be some foundation for it.


A very foggy nightwith great rings round the lamps in the
streets! There was an indistinct talk of its being wet. I
considered it frosty. Steerforth dusted me under a lamp-postand
put my hat into shapewhich somebody produced from somewhere in a
most extraordinary mannerfor I hadn't had it on before.
Steerforth then said'You are all rightCopperfieldare you
not?' and I told him'Neverberrer.'

A mansitting in a pigeon-hole-placelooked out of the fogand
took money from somebodyinquiring if I was one of the gentlemen
paid forand appearing rather doubtful (as I remember in the
glimpse I had of him) whether to take the money for me or not.
Shortly afterwardswe were very high up in a very hot theatre
looking down into a large pitthat seemed to me to smoke; the
people with whom it was crammed were so indistinct. There was a
great stagetoolooking very clean and smooth after the streets;
and there were people upon ittalking about something or other
but not at all intelligibly. There was an abundance of bright
lightsand there was musicand there were ladies down in the
boxesand 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 mannerwhen I tried to steady it.

On somebody's motionwe resolved to go downstairs to the
dress-boxeswhere the ladies were. A gentleman loungingfull
dressedon a sofawith an opera-glass in his handpassed before
my viewand also my own figure at full length in a glass. Then I
was being ushered into one of these boxesand found myself saying
something as I sat downand people about me crying 'Silence!' to
somebodyand ladies casting indignant glances at meand - what!
yes! - Agnessitting on the seat before mein the same boxwith
a lady and gentleman beside herwhom I didn't know. I see her
face nowbetter than I did thenI dare saywith its indelible
look of regret and wonder turned upon me.

'Agnes!' I saidthickly'Lorblessmer! Agnes!'

'Hush! Pray!' she answeredI could not conceive why. 'You
disturb the company. Look at the stage!'

I triedon her injunctionto fix itand to hear something of
what was going on therebut quite in vain. I looked at her again
by and byand saw her shrink into her cornerand put her gloved
hand to her forehead.

'Agnes!' I said. 'I'mafraidyou'renorwell.'

'Yesyes. Do not mind meTrotwood' she returned. 'Listen! Are
you going away soon?'

'Amigoarawaysoo?' I repeated.

'Yes.'

I had a stupid intention of replying that I was going to waitto
hand her downstairs. I suppose I expressed itsomehow; for after
she had looked at me attentively for a little whileshe appeared
to understandand replied in a low tone:

'I know you will do as I ask youif I tell you I am very earnest
in it. Go away nowTrotwoodfor my sakeand ask your friends to
take you home.'


She had so far improved mefor the timethat though I was angry
with herI felt ashamedand with a short 'Goori!' (which I
intended for 'Good night!') got up and went away. They followed
and I stepped at once out of the box-door into my bedroomwhere
only Steerforth was with mehelping me to undressand where I was
by turns telling him that Agnes was my sisterand adjuring him to
bring the corkscrewthat I might open another bottle of wine.

How somebodylying in my bedlay saying and doing all this over
againat cross purposesin a feverish dream all night - the bed
a rocking sea that was never still! Howas that somebody slowly
settled down into myselfdid I begin to parchand feel as if my
outer covering of skin were a hard board; my tongue the bottom of
an empty kettlefurred with long serviceand burning up over a
slow fire; the palms of my handshot plates of metal which no ice
could cool!

But the agony of mindthe remorseand shame I felt when I became
conscious next day! My horror of having committed a thousand
offences I had forgottenand which nothing could ever expiate - my
recollection of that indelible look which Agnes had given me - the
torturing impossibility of communicating with hernot knowing
Beast that I washow she came to be in Londonor where she stayed

-my disgust of the very sight of the room where the revel had been
held - my racking head - the smell of smokethe sight of glasses
the impossibility of going outor even getting up! Ohwhat a day
it was!
Ohwhat an eveningwhen I sat down by my fire to a basin of
mutton brothdimpled all over with fatand thought I was going
the way of my predecessorand should succeed to his dismal story
as well as to his chambersand had half a mind to rush express to
Dover and reveal all! What an eveningwhen Mrs. Cruppcoming in
to take away the broth-basinproduced one kidney on a cheese-plate
as the entire remains of yesterday's feastand I was really
inclined to fall upon her nankeen breast and sayin heartfelt
penitence'OhMrs. CruppMrs. Cruppnever mind the broken
meats! I am very miserable!' - only that I doubtedeven at that
passif Mrs. Crupp were quite the sort of woman to confide in!

CHAPTER 25
GOOD AND BAD ANGELS

I was going out at my door on the morning after that deplorable day
of headachesicknessand repentancewith an odd confusion in my
mind relative to the date of my dinner-partyas if a body of
Titans had taken an enormous lever and pushed the day before
yesterday some months backwhen I saw a ticket-porter coming
upstairswith a letter in his hand. He was taking his time about
his errandthen; but when he saw me on the top of the staircase
looking at him over the banistershe swung into a trotand came
up panting as if he had run himself into a state of exhaustion.

'T. CopperfieldEsquire' said the ticket-portertouching his hat
with his little cane.

I could scarcely lay claim to the name: I was so disturbed by the
conviction that the letter came from Agnes. HoweverI told him I
was T. CopperfieldEsquireand he believed itand gave me the
letterwhich he said required an answer. I shut him out on the
landing to wait for the answerand went into my chambers againin
such a nervous state that I was fain to lay the letter down on my


breakfast tableand familiarize myself with the outside of it a
littlebefore I could resolve to break the seal.

I foundwhen I did open itthat 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
agentMr. Waterbrookin Ely PlaceHolborn. Will you come and
see me todayat any time you like to appoint? Ever yours
affectionatelyAGNES. '

It took me such a long time to write an answer at all to my
satisfactionthat I don't know what the ticket-porter can have
thoughtunless he thought I was learning to write. I must have
written half-a-dozen answers at least. I began one'How can I
ever hopemy dear Agnesto efface from your remembrance the
disgusting impression' - there I didn't like itand then I tore it
up. I began another'Shakespeare has observedmy dear Agneshow
strange it is that a man should put an enemy into his mouth' - that
reminded me of Markhamand it got no farther. I even tried
poetry. I began one notein a six-syllable line'Ohdo not
remember' - but that associated itself with the fifth of November
and became an absurdity. After many attemptsI wrote'My dear
Agnes. Your letter is like youand what could I say of it that
would be higher praise than that? I will come at four o'clock.
Affectionately and sorrowfullyT.C.' With this missive (which I
was in twenty minds at once about recallingas soon as it was out
of my hands)the ticket-porter at last departed.

If the day were half as tremendous to any other professional
gentleman in Doctors' Commons as it was to meI sincerely believe
he made some expiation for his share in that rotten old
ecclesiastical cheese. Although I left the office at half past
threeand was prowling about the place of appointment within a few
minutes afterwardsthe appointed time was exceeded by a full
quarter of an houraccording to the clock of St. Andrew's
Holbornbefore I could muster up sufficient desperation to pull
the private bell-handle let into the left-hand door-post of Mr.
Waterbrook's house.

The professional business of Mr. Waterbrook's establishment was
done on the ground-floorand 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-roomand there sat Agnes
netting a purse.

She looked so quiet and goodand reminded me so strongly of my
airy fresh school days at Canterburyand the soddensmokystupid
wretch I had been the other nightthatnobody being byI yielded
to my self-reproach and shameand - in shortmade 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 doneor the most ridiculous.

'If it had been anyone but youAgnes' said Iturning 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 - its touch was like no other hand - upon my arm
for a moment; and I felt so befriended and comfortedthat I could
not help moving it to my lipsand gratefully kissing it.

'Sit down' said Agnescheerfully. 'Don't be unhappyTrotwood.
If you cannot confidently trust mewhom will you trust?'


'AhAgnes!' I returned. 'You are my good Angel!'

She smiled rather sadlyI thoughtand shook her head.

'YesAgnesmy good Angel! Always my good Angel!'

'If I wereindeedTrotwood' she returned'there is one thing
that I should set my heart on very much.'


I looked at her inquiringly; but already with a foreknowledge of
her meaning.


'On warning you' said Agneswith a steady glance'against your
bad Angel.'


'My dear Agnes' I began'if you mean Steerforth -'


'I doTrotwood' she returned.
'ThenAgnesyou wrong him very much. He my bad Angelor
anyone's! Heanything but a guidea supportand a friend to me!
My dear Agnes! Nowis it not unjustand unlike youto judge him
from what you saw of me the other night?'


'I do not judge him from what I saw of you the other night' she
quietly replied.


'From whatthen?'


'From many things - trifles in themselvesbut they do not seem to
me to be sowhen they are put together. I judge himpartly from
your account of himTrotwoodand your characterand the
influence he has over you.'


There was always something in her modest voice that seemed to touch
a chord within meanswering to that sound alone. It was always
earnest; but when it was very earnestas it was nowthere 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 Steerforthin spite of all my attachment to himdarkened
in that tone.


'It is very bold in me' said Agneslooking up again'who have
lived in such seclusionand can know so little of the worldto
give you my advice so confidentlyor even to have this strong
opinion. But I know in what it is engenderedTrotwood- in how
true a remembrance of our having grown up togetherand 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 someone else speaking to youand not I
when I caution you that you have made a dangerous friend.'


Again I looked at heragain I listened to her after she was
silentand again his imagethough it was still fixed in my heart
darkened.


'I am not so unreasonable as to expect' said Agnesresuming her
usual toneafter a little while'that you willor that you can
at oncechange 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
Trotwoodif you ever think of me - I mean' with a quiet smile
for I was going to interrupt herand she knew why'as often as
you think of me - to think of what I have said. Do you forgive me



for all this?'

'I will forgive youAgnes' I replied'when you come to do
Steerforth justiceand 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 smileand we were again as unreserved in our
mutual confidence as of old.

'And whenAgnes' said I'will you forgive me the other night?'

'When I recall it' said Agnes.

She would have dismissed the subject sobut I was too full of it
to allow thatand insisted on telling her how it happened that I
had disgraced myselfand what chain of accidental circumstances
had had the theatre for its final link. It was a great relief to
me to do thisand 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 Agnescalmly changing the conversation
as soon as I had concluded'that you are always to tell menot
only when you fall into troublebut when you fall in love. Who
has succeeded to Miss LarkinsTrotwood?'

'No oneAgnes.'

'SomeoneTrotwood' said Agneslaughingand holding up her
finger.

'NoAgnesupon my word! There is a ladycertainlyat Mrs.
Steerforth's housewho is very cleverand whom I like to talk to

-Miss Dartle - but I don't adore her.'
Agnes laughed again at her own penetrationand told me that if I
were faithful to her in my confidence she thought she should keep
a little register of my violent attachmentswith the date
durationand termination of eachlike the table of the reigns of
the kings and queensin 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 downstairsevery day' returned Agnes.
'He was in London a week before me. I am afraid on disagreeable
businessTrotwood.'

'On some business that makes you uneasyAgnesI see' said I.
'What can that be?'

Agnes laid aside her workand repliedfolding her hands upon one
anotherand 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 meanfawning fellowworm himself into such
promotion!' I criedindignantly. 'Have you made no remonstrance
about itAgnes? Consider what a connexion it is likely to be.
You must speak out. You must not allow your father to take such a
mad step. You must prevent itAgneswhile there's time.'


Still looking at meAgnes 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 was not long
after that - not more than two or three days - 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 partand his inability to conceal that it was forced
upon him. I felt very sorry.'

'Forced upon himAgnes! Who forces it upon him?'

'Uriah' she repliedafter a moment's hesitation'has made
himself indispensable to papa. He is subtle and watchful. He has
mastered papa's weaknessesfostered themand taken advantage of
themuntil - to say all that I mean in a wordTrotwood- until
papa is afraid of him.'

There was more that she might have said; more that she knewor
that she suspected; I clearly saw. I could not give her pain by
asking what it wasfor I knew that she withheld it from meto
spare her father. It had long been going on to thisI was
sensible: yesI could not but feelon the least reflectionthat
it had been going on to this for a long time. I remained silent.

'His ascendancy over papa' said Agnes'is very great. He
professes humility and gratitude - with truthperhaps: I hope so

-but his position is really one of powerand I fear he makes a
hard use of his power.'
I said he was a houndwhichat the momentwas a great
satisfaction to me.

'At the time I speak ofas the time when papa spoke to me'
pursued Agnes'he had told papa that he was going away; that he
was very sorryand unwilling to leavebut that he had better
prospects. Papa was very much depressed thenand more bowed down
by care than ever you or I have seen him; but he seemed relieved by
this expedient of the partnershipthough at the same time he
seemed hurt by it and ashamed of it.'

'And how did you receive itAgnes?'

'I didTrotwood' she replied'what I hope was right. Feeling
sure that it was necessary for papa's peace that the sacrifice
should be madeI entreated him to make it. I said it would
lighten the load of his life - I hope it will! - and that it would
give me increased opportunities of being his companion. Oh
Trotwood!' cried Agnesputting her hands before her faceas 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 alteredin his
devotion to me. I know how he has narrowed the circle of his
sympathies and dutiesin 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 lifeand
weakened his strength and energyby turning them always upon one
idea. If I could ever set this right! If I could ever work out
his restorationas 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 honours home from schooland I had seen
them there when we last spoke about her fatherand 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 sayin a foolishhelpless manner'PrayAgnesdon't!
Don'tmy dear sister!'

But Agnes was too superior to me in character and purposeas I
know well nowwhatever I might know or not know thento be long
in need of my entreaties. The beautifulcalm mannerwhich makes
her so different in my remembrance from everybody elsecame back
againas if a cloud had passed from a serene sky.

'We are not likely to remain alone much longer' said Agnes'and
while I have an opportunitylet me earnestly entreat you
Trotwoodto 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 itfor we know no
certain ill of him. In any casethink first of papa and me!'

Agnes had no time to say morefor the room door openedand Mrs.
Waterbrookwho was a large lady - or who wore a large dress: I
don't exactly know whichfor I don't know which was dress and
which was lady - came sailing in. I had a dim recollection of
having seen her at the theatreas if I had seen her in a pale
magic lantern; but she appeared to remember me perfectlyand still
to suspect me of being in a state of intoxication.

Finding by degreeshoweverthat I was soberand (I hope) that I
was a modest young gentlemanMrs. Waterbrook softened towards me
considerablyand inquiredfirstlyif I went much into the parks
and secondlyif I went much into society. On my replying to both
these questions in the negativeit occurred to me that I fell
again in her good opinion; but she concealed the fact gracefully
and invited me to dinner next day. I accepted the invitationand
took my leavemaking a call on Uriah in the office as I went out
and leaving a card for him in his absence.

When I went to dinner next dayand on the street door being
openedplunged into a vapour-bath of haunch of muttonI divined
that I was not the only guestfor I immediately identified the
ticket-porter in disguiseassisting the family servantand
waiting at the foot of the stairs to carry up my name. He looked
to the best of his abilitywhen he asked me for it confidentially
as if he had never seen me before; but well did I know himand
well did he know me. Conscience made cowards of us both.

I found Mr. Waterbrook to be a middle-aged gentlemanwith a short
throatand a good deal of shirt-collarwho only wanted a black
nose to be the portrait of a pug-dog. He told me he was happy to
have the honour of making my acquaintance; and when I had paid my
homage to Mrs. Waterbrookpresented mewith much ceremonyto a
very awful lady in a black velvet dressand a great black velvet
hatwhom I remember as looking like a near relation of Hamlet's say
his aunt.

Mrs. Henry Spiker was this lady's name; and her husband was there
too: so cold a manthat his headinstead of being greyseemed to
be sprinkled with hoar-frost. Immense deference was shown to the
Henry Spikersmale and female; which Agnes told me was on account
of Mr. Henry Spiker being solicitor to something Or to SomebodyI
forget what or whichremotely connected with the Treasury.

I found Uriah Heep among the companyin a suit of blackand in
deep humility. He told mewhen I shook hands with himthat he
was proud to be noticed by meand that he really felt obliged to


me for my condescension. I could have wished he had been less
obliged to mefor he hovered about me in his gratitude all the
rest of the evening; and whenever I said a word to Agneswas sure
with his shadowless eyes and cadaverous faceto be looking gauntly
down upon us from behind.

There were other guests - all iced for the occasionas it struck
melike the wine. But there was one who attracted my attention
before he came inon account of my hearing him announced as Mr.
Traddles! My mind flew back to Salem House; and could it be Tommy
I thoughtwho used to draw the skeletons!

I looked for Mr. Traddles with unusual interest. He was a sober
steady-looking young man of retiring mannerswith a comic head of
hairand eyes that were rather wide open; and he got into an
obscure corner so soonthat I had some difficulty in making him
out. At length I had a good view of himand either my vision
deceived meor it was the old unfortunate Tommy.

I made my way to Mr. Waterbrookand saidthat I believed I had
the pleasure of seeing an old schoolfellow there.

'Indeed!' said Mr. Waterbrooksurprised. 'You are too young to
have been at school with Mr. Henry Spiker?'

'OhI don't mean him!' I returned. 'I mean the gentleman named
Traddles.'

'Oh! Ayeaye! Indeed!' said my hostwith much diminished
interest. 'Possibly.'

'If it's really the same person' said Iglancing towards him'it
was at a place called Salem House where we were togetherand 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 coincidencethat
Traddles should be here at all: as Traddles was only invited this
morningwhen the place at tableintended to be occupied by Mrs.
Henry Spiker's brotherbecame vacantin consequence of his
indisposition. A very gentlemanly manMrs. Henry Spiker's
brotherMr. Copperfield.'

I murmured an assentwhich was full of feelingconsidering 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 - nobody's enemy but his
own.'

'Is he his own enemy?' said Isorry to hear this.

'Well' returned Mr. Waterbrookpursing up his mouthand playing
with his watch-chainin a comfortableprosperous sort of way. 'I
should say he was one of those men who stand in their own light.
YesI should say he would neverfor examplebe 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 writingplainly. I am able to throw


something in Traddles's wayin the course of the year; something

-for him - 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 spoonbut with a scaling-ladderand had
gone on mounting all the heights of life one after anotheruntil
now he lookedfrom the top of the fortificationswith the eye of
a philosopher and a patronon the people down in the trenches.

My reflections on this theme were still in progress when dinner was
announced. Mr. Waterbrook went down with Hamlet's aunt. Mr. Henry
Spiker took Mrs. Waterbrook. Agneswhom I should have liked to
take myselfwas given to a simpering fellow with weak legs.
UriahTraddlesand Ias the junior part of the companywent
down lasthow we could. I was not so vexed at losing Agnes as I
might have beensince it gave me an opportunity of making myself
known to Traddles on the stairswho greeted me with great fervour;
while Uriah writhed with such obtrusive satisfaction and
self-abasementthat I could gladly have pitched him over the
banisters.
Traddles and I were separated at tablebeing billeted in two
remote corners: he in the glare of a red velvet lady; Iin the
gloom of Hamlet's aunt. The dinner was very longand the
conversation was about the Aristocracy - and Blood. Mrs.
Waterbrook repeatedly told usthat if she had a weaknessit 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
genteelthat our scope was very limited. A Mr. and Mrs. Gulpidge
were of the partywho had something to do at second-hand (at
leastMr. Gulpidge had) with the law business of the Bank; and
what with the Bankand what with the Treasurywe were as
exclusive as the Court Circular. To mend the matterHamlet's aunt
had the family failing of indulging in soliloquyand held forth in
a desultory mannerby herselfon every topic that was introduced.
These were few enoughto be sure; but as we always fell back upon
Bloodshe had as wide a field for abstract speculation as her
nephew himself.

We might have been a party of Ogresthe conversation assumed such
a sanguine complexion.

'I confess I am of Mrs. Waterbrook's opinion' said Mr. Waterbrook
with his wine-glass at his eye. 'Other things are all very well in
their waybut 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 - of
all that sort of thingspeaking generally. There are some low
minds (not manyI am happy to believebut there are some) that
would prefer to do what I should call bow down before idols.
Positively Idols! Before serviceintellectand 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 chinand we sayThere 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 legswho had taken Agnes down
stated the question more decisively yetI thought.


'Ohyou knowdeuce take it' said this gentlemanlooking round
the board with an imbecile smile'we can't forego Bloodyou know.
We must have Bloodyou know. Some young fellowsyou knowmay be
a little behind their stationperhapsin point of education and
behaviourand may go a little wrongyou knowand get themselves
and other people into a variety of fixes - and all that - but deuce
take itit's delightful to reflect that they've got Blood in 'em!
MyselfI'd rather at any time be knocked down by a man who had got
Blood in himthan I'd be picked up by a man who hadn't!'

This sentimentas compressing the general question into a
nutshellgave the utmost satisfactionand brought the gentleman
into great notice until the ladies retired. After thatI observed
that Mr. Gulpidge and Mr. Henry Spikerwho had hitherto been very
distantentered into a defensive alliance against usthe common
enemyand exchanged a mysterious dialogue across the table for our
defeat and overthrow.

'That affair of the first bond for four thousand five hundred
pounds has not taken the course that was expectedSpiker' 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 eyebrowsand looked much concerned.

'When the question was referred to Lord - I needn't name him' said
Mr. Gulpidgechecking himself


'I understand' said Mr. Spiker'N.'

Mr. Gulpidge darkly nodded - 'was referred to himhis answer was
Money, or no release.'

'Lord bless my soul!' cried Mr. Spiker.

'Money, or no release,' repeated Mr. Gulpidgefirmly. 'The next
in reversion - you understand me?'

'K.' said Mr. Spikerwith an ominous look.

'- K. then positively refused to sign. He was attended at
Newmarket for that purposeand he point-blank refused to do it.'

Mr. Spiker was so interestedthat he became quite stony.

'So the matter rests at this hour' said Mr. Gulpidgethrowing
himself back in his chair. 'Our friend Waterbrook will excuse me
if I forbear to explain myself generallyon account of the
magnitude of the interests involved.'

Mr. Waterbrook was only too happyas it appeared to meto have
such interestsand such nameseven hinted atacross his table.
He assumed an expression of gloomy intelligence (though I am
persuaded he knew no more about the discussion than I did)and
highly approved of the discretion that had been observed. Mr.
Spikerafter the receipt of such a confidencenaturally desired
to favour his friend with a confidence of his own; therefore the
foregoing dialogue was succeeded by anotherin which it was Mr.
Gulpidge's turn to be surprisedand that by another in which the
surprise came round to Mr. Spiker's turn againand so onturn and
turn about. All this time wethe outsidersremained oppressed by


the tremendous interests involved in the conversation; and our host
regarded us with prideas the victims of a salutary awe and
astonishment.
I was very glad indeed to get upstairs to Agnesand to talk with
her in a cornerand to introduce Traddles to herwho was shybut
agreeableand the same good-natured creature still. As he was
obliged to leave earlyon account of going away next morning for
a monthI had not nearly so much conversation with him as I could
have wished; but we exchanged addressesand promised ourselves the
pleasure of another meeting when he should come back to town. He
was greatly interested to hear that I knew Steerforthand spoke of
him with such warmth that I made him tell Agnes what he thought of
him. But Agnes only looked at me the whileand 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 homeI was almost glad to hear that she was going away
within a few daysthough 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 herand hearing her singwas
such a delightful reminder to me of my happy life in the grave old
house she had made so beautifulthat I could have remained there
half the night; buthaving no excuse for staying any longerwhen
the lights of Mr. Waterbrook's society were all snuffed outI took
my leave very much against my inclination. I felt thenmore than
everthat she was my better Angel; and if I thought of her sweet
face and placid smileas though they had shone on me from some
removed beinglike an AngelI hope I thought no harm.

I have said that the company were all gone; but I ought to have
excepted Uriahwhom I don't include in that denominationand who
had never ceased to hover near us. He was close behind me when I
went downstairs. He was close beside mewhen I walked away from
the houseslowly 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 companybut in remembrance of
the entreaty Agnes had made to methat I asked him if he would
come home to my roomsand have some coffee.

'OhreallyMaster Copperfield' he rejoined - 'I beg your pardon
Mister Copperfieldbut the other comes so naturalI don't like
that you should put a constraint upon yourself to ask a numble
person like me to your ouse.'

'There is no constraint in the case' said I. 'Will you come?'

'I should like tovery much' replied Uriahwith a writhe.

'Wellthencome along!' said I.

I could not help being rather short with himbut he appeared not
to mind it. We went the nearest waywithout conversing much upon
the road; and he was so humble in respect of those scarecrow
glovesthat he was still putting them onand seemed to have made
no advance in that labourwhen we got to my place.

I led him up the dark stairsto prevent his knocking his head
against anythingand really his damp cold hand felt so like a frog
in minethat I was tempted to drop it and run away. Agnes and
hospitality prevailedhoweverand I conducted him to my fireside.
When I lighted my candleshe 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 (chieflyI believebecause it was not intended for the
purposebeing a shaving-potand because there was a patent
invention of great price mouldering away in the pantry)he
professed so much emotionthat I could joyfully have scalded him.


'OhreallyMaster Copperfield- I mean Mister Copperfield' said
Uriah'to see you waiting upon me is what I never could have
expected! Butone way and anotherso many things happen to me
which I never could have expectedI am surein my umble station
that it seems to rain blessings on my ed. You have heard
somethingI des-sayof a change in my expectationsMaster
Copperfield- I should sayMister Copperfield?'


As he sat on my sofawith his long knees drawn up under his
coffee-cuphis hat and gloves upon the ground close to himhis
spoon going softly round and roundhis shadowless red eyeswhich
looked as if they had scorched their lashes offturned towards me
without looking at methe disagreeable dints I have formerly
described in his nostrils coming and going with his breathand a
snaky undulation pervading his frame from his chin to his bootsI
decided in my own mind that I disliked him intensely. It made me
very uncomfortable to have him for a guestfor I was young then
and unused to disguise what I so strongly felt.


'You have heard somethingI des-sayof a change in my
expectationsMaster Copperfield- I should sayMister
Copperfield?' 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. Ohthank youMaster -
Mister Copperfield!'


I could have thrown my bootjack at him (it lay ready on the rug)
for having entrapped me into the disclosure of anything concerning
Agneshowever immaterial. But I only drank my coffee.


'What a prophet you have shown yourselfMister Copperfield!'
pursued Uriah. 'Dear mewhat a prophet you have proved yourself
to be! Don't you remember saying to me oncethat perhaps I should
be a partner in Mr. Wickfield's businessand perhaps it might be
Wickfield and Heep? You may not recollect it; but when a person is
umbleMaster Copperfielda person treasures such things up!'


'I recollect talking about it' said I'though I certainly did not
think it very likely then.'
'Oh! who would have thought it likelyMister Copperfield!'
returned Uriahenthusiastically. '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 satwith that carved grin on his facelooking at the fireas
I looked at him.


'But the umblest personsMaster Copperfield' he presently
resumed'may be the instruments of good. I am glad to think I
have been the instrument of good to Mr. Wickfieldand that I may
be more so. Oh what a worthy man he isMister Copperfieldbut
how imprudent he has been!'


'I am sorry to hear it' said I. I could not help addingrather
pointedly'on all accounts.'



'Decidedly soMister Copperfield' replied Uriah. 'On all
accounts. Miss Agnes's above all! You don't remember your own
eloquent expressionsMaster Copperfield; but I remember how you
said one day that everybody must admire herand how I thanked you
for it! You have forgot thatI have no doubtMaster
Copperfield?'

'No' said Idrily.

'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 breastand that you've not forgot it! Oh! - Would you
excuse me asking for a cup more coffee?'

Something in the emphasis he laid upon the kindling of those
sparksand something in the glance he directed at me as he said
ithad made me start as if I had seen him illuminated by a blaze
of light. Recalled by his requestpreferred in quite another tone
of voiceI did the honours of the shaving-pot; but I did them with
an unsteadiness of handa sudden sense of being no match for him
and a perplexed suspicious anxiety as to what he might be going to
say nextwhich I felt could not escape his observation.

He said nothing at all. He stirred his coffee round and roundhe
sipped ithe felt his chin softly with his grisly handhe looked
at the firehe looked about the roomhe gasped rather than smiled
at mehe writhed and undulated aboutin his deferential
servilityhe stirred and sipped againbut he left the renewal of
the conversation to me.

'SoMr. Wickfield' said Iat last'who is worth five hundred of
you - or me'; for my lifeI thinkI could not have helped
dividing that part of the sentence with an awkward jerk; 'has been
imprudenthas heMr. Heep?'

'Ohvery imprudent indeedMaster Copperfield' returned Uriah
sighing modestly. 'Ohvery much so! But I wish you'd call me
Uriahif you please. It's like old times.'

'Well! Uriah' said Ibolting it out with some difficulty.

'Thank you' he returnedwith fervour. 'Thank youMaster
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! Yestruly' said Uriah. 'Ah! Great imprudenceMaster
Copperfield. It's a topic that I wouldn't touch uponto any soul
but you. Even to you I can only touch upon itand no more. If
anyone else had been in my place during the last few yearsby this
time he would have had Mr. Wickfield (ohwhat a worthy man he is
Master Copperfieldtoo!) under his thumb. Un--der--his thumb'
said Uriahvery slowlyas he stretched out his cruel-looking hand
above my tableand pressed his own thumb upon ituntil it shook
and shook the room.

If I had been obliged to look at him with him splay foot on Mr.
Wickfield's headI think I could scarcely have hated him more.

'OhdearyesMaster Copperfield' he proceededin a soft voice
most remarkably contrasting with the action of his thumbwhich did
not diminish its hard pressure in the least degree'there's no


doubt of it. There would have been lossdisgraceI don't know
what at all. Mr. Wickfield knows it. I am the umble instrument of
umbly serving himand he puts me on an eminence I hardly could
have hoped to reach. How thankful should I be!' With his face
turned towards meas he finishedbut without looking at mehe
took his crooked thumb off the spot where he had planted itand
slowly and thoughtfully scraped his lank jaw with itas if he were
shaving himself.

I recollect well how indignantly my heart beatas I saw his crafty
facewith the appropriately red light of the fire upon it
preparing for something else.

'Master Copperfield' he began - 'but am I keeping you up?'

'You are not keeping me up. I generally go to bed late.'

'Thank youMaster Copperfield! I have risen from my umble station
since first you used to address meit is true; but I am umble
still. I hope I never shall be otherwise than umble. You will not
think the worse of my umblenessif I make a little confidence to
youMaster Copperfield? Will you?'

'Oh no' said Iwith an effort.

'Thank you!' He took out his pocket-handkerchiefand began wiping
the palms of his hands. 'Miss AgnesMaster Copperfield -'
'WellUriah?'

'Ohhow pleasant to be called Uriahspontaneously!' he cried; and
gave himself a jerklike a convulsive fish. 'You thought her
looking very beautiful tonightMaster Copperfield?'

'I thought her looking as she always does: superiorin all
respectsto everyone around her' I returned.

'Ohthank you! It's so true!' he cried. 'Ohthank you very much
for that!'

'Not at all' I saidloftily. 'There is no reason why you should
thank me.'

'Why thatMaster Copperfield' said Uriah'isin factthe
confidence that I am going to take the liberty of reposing. Umble
as I am' he wiped his hands harderand looked at them and at the
fire by turns'umble as my mother isand lowly as our poor but
honest roof has ever beenthe image of Miss Agnes (I don't mind
trusting you with my secretMaster Copperfieldfor I have always
overflowed towards you since the first moment I had the pleasure of
beholding you in a pony-shay) has been in my breast for years. Oh
Master Copperfieldwith 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 fireand running him through with it. It went from me with
a shocklike a ball fired from a rifle: but the image of Agnes
outraged by so much as a thought of this red-headed animal's
remained in my mind when I looked at himsitting all awry as if
his mean soul griped his bodyand made me giddy. He seemed to
swell and grow before my eyes; the room seemed full of the echoes
of his voice; and the strange feeling (to whichperhapsno one is
quite a stranger) that all this had occurred beforeat some
indefinite timeand 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
facedid more to bring back to my remembrance the entreaty of
Agnesin its full forcethan any effort I could have made. I
asked himwith a better appearance of composure than I could have
thought possible a minute beforewhether he had made his feelings
known to Agnes.

'Oh noMaster Copperfield!' he returned; 'oh dearno! Not to
anyone but you. You see I am only just emerging 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 himand keep him
straight. She's so much attached to her fatherMaster Copperfield
(ohwhat a lovely thing it is in a daughter!)that I think she
may comeon his accountto be kind to me.'

I fathomed the depth of the rascal's whole schemeand understood
why he laid it bare.

'If you'll have the goodness to keep my secretMaster
Copperfield' he pursued'and notin generalto go against me
I shall take it as a particular favour. 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
sayfor I am very umble still)you mightunbeknowngo against
me ratherwith my Agnes. I call her mineyou seeMaster
Copperfield. There's a song that saysI'd crowns resign, to call
her mine!I hope to do itone of these days.'

Dear Agnes! So much too loving and too good for anyone that I
could think ofwas it possible that she was reserved to be the
wife of such a wretch as this!

'There's no hurry at presentyou knowMaster Copperfield' Uriah
proceededin his slimy wayas I sat gazing at himwith this
thought in my mind. 'My Agnes is very young still; and mother and
me will have to work our way upwardsand make a good many new
arrangementsbefore it would be quite convenient. So I shall have
time gradually to make her familiar with my hopesas opportunities
offer. OhI'm so much obliged to you for this confidence! Oh
it's such a reliefyou can't thinkto know that you understand
our situationand are certain (as you wouldn't wish to make
unpleasantness in the family) not to go against me!'

He took the hand which I dared not withholdand having given it a
damp squeezereferred to his pale-faced watch.

'Dear me!' he said'it's past one. The moments slip away soin
the confidence of old timesMaster Copperfieldthat it's almost
half past one!'

I answered that I had thought it was later. Not that I had really
thought sobut because my conversational powers were effectually
scattered.

'Dear me!' he saidconsidering. 'The ouse that I am stopping at

-a sort of a private hotel and boarding ouseMaster Copperfield
near the New River ed - will have gone to bed these two hours.'
'I am sorry' I returned'that there is only one bed hereand
that I -'

'Ohdon't think of mentioning bedsMaster Copperfield!' he


rejoined ecstaticallydrawing up one leg. 'But would you have any
objections to my laying down before the fire?'

'If it comes to that' I said'pray take my bedand I'll lie down
before the fire.'

His repudiation of this offer was almost shrill enoughin the
excess of its surprise and humilityto have penetrated to the ears
of Mrs. Cruppthen sleepingI supposein a distant chamber
situated at about the level of low-water marksoothed in her
slumbers by the ticking of an incorrigible clockto which she
always referred me when we had any little difference on the score
of punctualityand which was never less than three-quarters of an
hour too slowand had always been put right in the morning by the
best authorities. As no arguments I could urgein my bewildered
conditionhad the least effect upon his modesty in inducing him to
accept my bedroomI was obliged to make the best arrangements I
couldfor his repose before the fire. The mattress of the sofa
(which was a great deal too short for his lank figure)the sofa
pillowsa blanketthe table-covera clean breakfast-clothand
a great-coatmade him a bed and coveringfor which he was more
than thankful. Having lent him a night-capwhich he put on at
onceand in which he made such an awful figurethat I have never
worn one sinceI 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 doand what ought I
to do; how I could come to no other conclusion than that the best
course for her peace was to do nothingand to keep to myself what
I had heard. If I went to sleep for a few momentsthe image of
Agnes with her tender eyesand of her father looking fondly on
heras I had so often seen him lookarose before me with
appealing facesand filled me with vague terrors. When I awoke
the recollection that Uriah was lying in the next roomsat heavy
on me like a waking nightmare; and oppressed me with a leaden
dreadas if I had had some meaner quality of devil for a lodger.

The poker got into my dozing thoughts besidesand wouldn't come
out. I thoughtbetween sleeping and wakingthat it was still red
hotand I had snatched it out of the fireand run him through the
body. I was so haunted at last by the ideathough I knew there
was nothing in itthat I stole into the next room to look at him.
There I saw himlying on his backwith his legs extending to I
don't know wheregurglings taking place in his throatstoppages
in his noseand his mouth open like a post-office. He was so much
worse in reality than in my distempered fancythat afterwards I
was attracted to him in very repulsionand could not help
wandering in and out every half-hour or soand taking another look
at him. Stillthe longlong night seemed heavy and hopeless as
everand no promise of day was in the murky sky.

When I saw him going downstairs early in the morning (forthank
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
CommonsI charged Mrs. Crupp with particular directions to leave
the windows openthat my sitting-room might be airedand purged
of his presence.

CHAPTER 26
I FALL INTO CAPTIVITY


I saw no more of Uriah Heepuntil the day when Agnes left town.
I was at the coach office to take leave of her and see her go; and
there was hereturning to Canterbury by the same conveyance. It
was some small satisfaction to me to observe his spare
short-waistedhigh-shoulderedmulberry-coloured great-coat
perched upin company with an umbrella like a small tenton the
edge of the back seat on the roofwhile Agnes wasof course
inside; but what I underwent in my efforts to be friendly with him
while Agnes looked onperhaps deserved that little recompense. At
the coach windowas at the dinner-partyhe hovered about us
without a moment's intermissionlike a great vulture: gorging
himself on every syllable that I said to Agnesor Agnes said to
me.

In the state of trouble into which his disclosure by my fire had
thrown meI 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 madeI entreated him to make it.' A miserable
foreboding that she would yield toand sustain herself bythe
same feeling in reference to any sacrifice for his sakehad
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 herself as the innocent cause of his errorsand 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-coloured great-coatfor I felt that in the very
difference between themin the self-denial of her pure soul and
the sordid baseness of histhe greatest danger lay. All this
doubtlesshe knew thoroughlyand hadin his cunningconsidered
well.

Yet I was so certain that the prospect of such a sacrifice afar
offmust destroy the happiness of Agnes; and I was so surefrom
her mannerof its being unseen by her thenand having cast no
shadow on her yet; that I could as soon have injured heras given
her any warning of what impended. Thus it was that we parted
without explanation: she waving her hand and smiling farewell from
the coach window; her evil genius writhing on the roofas 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 arrivalI was as miserable
as when I saw her going away. Whenever I fell into a thoughtful
statethis subject was sure to present itselfand all my
uneasiness was sure to be redoubled. Hardly a night passed without
my dreaming of it. It became a part of my lifeand as inseparable
from my life as my own head.

I had ample leisure to refine upon my uneasiness: for Steerforth
was at Oxfordas he wrote to meand when I was not at the
CommonsI 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 hisbut I think I was gladupon the wholethat he
could not come to London just then. I suspect the truth to be
that the influence of Agnes was upon meundisturbed by the sight
of him; and that it was the more powerful with mebecause she had
so large a share in my thoughts and interest.

In the meantimedays 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 eveningand the evenings longI could settle
down into a state of equable low spiritsand resign myself to
coffee; which I seemon looking backto have taken by the gallon
at about this period of my existence. At about this timetooI
made three discoveries: firstthat Mrs. Crupp was a martyr to a
curious disorder called 'the spazzums'which was generally
accompanied with inflammation of the noseand required to be
constantly treated with peppermint; secondlythat something
peculiar in the temperature of my pantrymade the brandy-bottles
burst; thirdlythat I was alone in the worldand much given to
record that circumstance in fragments of English versification.

On the day when I was articledno festivity took placebeyond my
having sandwiches and sherry into the office for the clerksand
going alone to the theatre at night. I went to see The Stranger
as a Doctors' Commons sort of playand was so dreadfully cut up
that I hardly knew myself in my own glass when I got home. Mr.
Spenlow remarkedon this occasionwhen we concluded our business
that he should have been happy to have seen me at his house at
Norwood to celebrate our becoming connectedbut for his domestic
arrangements being in some disorderon 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
daughterand expressed my acknowledgements.

Mr. Spenlow was as good as his word. In a week or twohe referred
to this engagementand saidthat if I would do him the favour to
come down next Saturdayand stay till Mondayhe would be
extremely happy. Of course I said I would do him the favour; and
he was to drive me down in his phaetonand to bring me back.

When the day arrivedmy very carpet-bag was an object of
veneration to the stipendiary clerksto 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 draughtafter the usual
custom of table-beer. The old clerk with the wigwhose name was
Mr. Tiffeyhad been down on business several times in the course
of his careerand had on each occasion penetrated to the
breakfast-parlour. He described it as an apartment of the most
sumptuous natureand said that he had drunk brown East India
sherry thereof a quality so precious as to make a man wink. We
had an adjourned cause in the Consistory that day - about
excommunicating a baker who had been objecting in a vestry to a
paving-rate - and as the evidence was just twice the length of
Robinson Crusoeaccording to a calculation I madeit was rather
late in the day before we finished. Howeverwe got him
excommunicated for six weeksand sentenced in no end of costs; and
then the baker's proctorand the judgeand the advocates on both
sides (who were all nearly related)went out of town togetherand
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 displayand it turned out some very
choice equipages then; though I always have consideredand always
shall considerthat in my time the great article of competition
there was starch: 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 pleasantgoing downand Mr. Spenlow gave me some
hints in reference to my profession. He said it was the genteelest


profession in the worldand must on no account be confounded with
the profession of a solicitor: being quite another sort of thing
infinitely more exclusiveless mechanicaland more profitable.
We took things much more easily in the Commons than they could be
taken anywhere elsehe observedand that set usas a privileged
classapart. He said it was impossible to conceal the
disagreeable factthat 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 repliedthat a good case of a disputed
willwhere there was a neat little estate of thirty or forty
thousand poundswasperhapsthe best of all. In such a casehe
saidnot only were there very pretty pickingsin the way of
arguments at every stage of the proceedingsand mountains upon
mountains of evidence on interrogatory and counter-interrogatory
(to say nothing of an appeal lyingfirst to the Delegatesand
then to the Lords)butthe costs being pretty sure to come out of
the estate at lastboth sides went at it in a lively and spirited
mannerand expense was no consideration. Thenhe launched into
a general eulogium on the Commons. What was to be particularly
admired (he said) in the Commonswas its compactness. It was the
most conveniently organized place in the world. It was the
complete idea of snugness. It lay in a nutshell. For example: You
brought a divorce caseor a restitution caseinto the Consistory.
Very good. You tried it in the Consistory. You made a quiet
little round game of itamong a family groupand you played it
out at leisure. Suppose you were not satisfied with the
Consistorywhat did you do then? Whyyou went into the Arches.
What was the Arches? The same courtin the same roomwith the
same barand the same practitionersbut another judgefor there
the Consistory judge could plead any court-day as an advocate.
Wellyou played your round game out again. Still you were not
satisfied. Very good. What did you do then? Whyyou went to the
Delegates. Who were the Delegates? Whythe Ecclesiastical
Delegates were the advocates without any businesswho had looked
on at the round game when it was playing in both courtsand had
seen the cards shuffledand cutand playedand had talked to all
the players about itand now came freshas judgesto settle the
matter to the satisfaction of everybody! Discontented people might
talk of corruption in the Commonscloseness in the Commonsand
the necessity of reforming the Commonssaid Mr. Spenlow solemnly
in conclusion; but when the price of wheat per bushel had been
highestthe Commons had been busiest; and a man might lay his hand
upon his heartand say this to the whole world- 'Touch the
Commonsand down comes the country!'

I listened to all this with attention; and thoughI must sayI
had my doubts whether the country was quite as much obliged to the
Commons as Mr. Spenlow made outI respectfully deferred to his
opinion. That about the price of wheat per bushelI modestly felt
was too much for my strengthand quite settled the question. I
have neverto this hourgot the better of that bushel of wheat.
It has reappeared to annihilate meall through my lifein
connexion with all kinds of subjects. I don't know nowexactly
what it has to do with meor what right it has to crush meon an
infinite variety of occasions; but whenever I see my old friend the
bushel brought in by the head and shoulders (as he always isI
observe)I give up a subject for lost.

This is a digression. I was not the man to touch the Commonsand
bring down the country. I submissively expressedby my silence
my acquiescence in all I had heard from my superior in years and


knowledge; and we talked about The Stranger and the Dramaand the
pairs of horsesuntil 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 gardenit was so
beautifully keptthat I was quite enchanted. There was a charming
lawnthere were clusters of treesand there were perspective
walks that I could just distinguish in the darkarched over with
trellis-workon which shrubs and flowers grew in the growing
season. 'Here Miss Spenlow walks by herself' I thought. 'Dear
me!'

We went into the housewhich was cheerfully lighted upand into
a hall where there were all sorts of hatscapsgreat-coats
plaidsgloveswhipsand walking-sticks. 'Where is 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 the identical
breakfast-roommade memorable by the brown East Indian sherry)
and I heard a voice say'Mr. Copperfieldmy daughter Doraand my
daughter Dora's confidential friend!' It wasno doubtMr.
Spenlow's voicebut I didn't know itand 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 Fairya SylphI don't
know what she was - anything that no one ever sawand 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 down
or looking back; I was goneheadlongbefore I had sense to say a
word to her.

'I' observed a well-remembered voicewhen I had bowed and
murmured something'have seen Mr. Copperfield before.'

The speaker was not Dora. No; the confidential friendMiss
Murdstone!

I don't think I was much astonished. To the best of my judgement
no capacity of astonishment was left in me. There was nothing
worth mentioning in the material worldbut Dora Spenlowto be
astonished about. I said'How do you doMiss Murdstone? I hope
you are well.' She answered'Very well.' I said'How is Mr.
Murdstone?' She replied'My brother is robustI am obliged to
you.'

Mr. SpenlowwhoI supposehad been surprised to see us recognize
each otherthen put in his word.

'I am glad to find' he said'Copperfieldthat you and Miss
Murdstone are already acquainted.'

'Mr. Copperfield and myself' said Miss Murdstonewith severe
composure'are connexions. 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 heranywhere. Which was true
enough.

'Miss Murdstone has had the goodness' said Mr. Spenlow to me'to
accept the office - if I may so describe it - of my daughter Dora's
confidential friend. My daughter Dora havingunhappilyno


motherMiss Murdstone is obliging enough to become her companion
and protector.'

A passing thought occurred to me that Miss Murdstonelike the
pocket instrument called a life-preserverwas not so much designed
for purposes of protection as of assault. But as I had none but
passing thoughts for any subject save DoraI glanced at her
directly afterwardsand was thinking that I sawin her prettily
pettish mannerthat she was not very much inclined to be
particularly confidential to her companion and protectorwhen a
bell rangwhich Mr. Spenlow said was the first dinner-belland so
carried me off to dress.

The idea of dressing one's selfor doing anything in the way of
actionin that state of lovewas a little too ridiculous. I
could only sit down before my firebiting the key of my
carpet-bagand think of the captivatinggirlishbright-eyed
lovely Dora. What a form she hadwhat a face she hadwhat a
gracefulvariableenchanting manner!

The bell rang again so soon that I made a mere scramble of my
dressinginstead of the careful operation I could have wished
under the circumstancesand went downstairs. There was some
company. Dora was talking to an old gentleman with a grey head.
Grey as he was - and a great-grandfather into the bargainfor he
said so - I was madly jealous of him.

What a state of mind I was in! I was jealous of everybody. 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 personwith a
highly polished bald headasked me across the dinner tableif
that were the first occasion of my seeing the groundsI could have
done anything to him that was savage and revengeful.

I don't remember who was thereexcept Dora. I have not the least
idea what we had for dinnerbesides Dora. My impression isthat
I dined off Doraentirelyand sent away half-a-dozen plates
untouched. I sat next to her. I talked to her. She had the most
delightful little voicethe gayest little laughthe pleasantest
and most fascinating little waysthat ever led a lost youth into
hopeless slavery. She was rather diminutive altogether. So much
the more preciousI thought.

When she went out of the room with Miss Murdstone (no other ladies
were of the party)I fell into a reverieonly disturbed 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
himbut I was wandering in a garden of Eden all the whilewith
Dora.

My apprehensions of being disparaged to the object of my engrossing
affection were revived when we went into the drawing-roomby the
grim and distant aspect of Miss Murdstone. But I was relieved of
them in an unexpected manner.

'David Copperfield' said Miss Murdstonebeckoning 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 itma'am' I returned.

'Far from it' assented Miss Murdstone. 'I do not wish to revive
the memory of past differencesor of past outrages. I have
received outrages from a person - a female I am sorry to sayfor
the credit of my sex - 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 betterif Miss Murdstone pleasednot to mention her.
I could not hear her disrespectfully mentionedI addedwithout
expressing my opinion in a decided tone.

Miss Murdstone shut her eyesand disdainfully inclined her head;
thenslowly opening her eyesresumed:

'David CopperfieldI shall not attempt to disguise the factthat
I formed an unfavourable opinion of you in your childhood. It may
have been a mistaken oneor you may have ceased to justify it.
That is not in question between us now. I belong to a family
remarkableI believefor some firmness; and I am not the creature
of circumstance or change. I may have my opinion of you. You may
have your opinion of me.'

I inclined my headin my turn.

'But it is not necessary' said Miss Murdstone'that these
opinions should come into collision here. Under existing
circumstancesit is as well on all accounts that they should not.
As the chances of life have brought us together againand may
bring us together on other occasionsI would saylet us meet here
as distant acquaintances. Family circumstances are a sufficient
reason for our only meeting on that footingand 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 cruellyand treated my mother with great unkindness. I
shall always think soas long as I live. But I quite agree in
what you propose.'

Miss Murdstone shut her eyes againand bent her head. Thenjust
touching the back of my hand with the tips of her coldstiff
fingersshe walked awayarranging the little fetters on her
wrists and round her neck; which seemed to be the same setin
exactly the same stateas when I had seen her last. These
reminded mein reference to Miss Murdstone's natureof the
fetters over a jail door; suggesting on the outsideto all
beholderswhat was to be expected within.

All I know of the rest of the evening isthat I heard the empress
of my heart sing enchanted ballads in the French language
generally to the effect thatwhatever was the matterwe ought
always to danceTa ra laTa ra la! accompanying herself on a
glorified instrumentresembling 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 awayshe 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 mindand got up in a crisis of feeble
infatuation.


It was a fine morningand earlyand I thought I would go and take
a stroll down one of those wire-arched walksand indulge my
passion by dwelling on her image. On my way through the hallI
encountered her little dogwho was called Jip - short for Gipsy.
I approached him tenderlyfor I loved even him; but he showed his
whole set of teethgot under a chair expressly to snarland
wouldn't hear of the least familiarity.

The garden was cool and solitary. I walked aboutwondering what
my feelings of happiness would beif I could ever become engaged
to this dear wonder. As to marriageand fortuneand all thatI
believe I was almost as innocently undesigning thenas when I
loved little Em'ly. To be allowed to call her 'Dora'to write to
herto dote upon and worship herto have reason to think that
when she was with other people she was yet mindful of meseemed to
me the summit of human ambition - 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 thisthat prevents
my having quite a contemptuous recollection of itlet me laugh as
I may.

I had not been walking longwhen I turned a cornerand met her.
I tingle again from head to foot as my recollection turns that
cornerand my pen shakes in my hand.

'You - are - out earlyMiss Spenlow' said I.

'It's so stupid at home' she replied'and Miss Murdstone is so
absurd! She talks such nonsense about its being necessary for the
day to be airedbefore I come out. Aired!' (She laughedherein
the most melodious manner.) 'On a Sunday morningwhen I don't
practiseI must do something. So I told papa last night I must
come out. Besidesit's the brightest time of the whole day.
Don't you think so?'

I hazarded a bold flightand said (not without stammering) that it
was very bright to me thenthough 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 beforein replying that I meant no
complimentbut 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 feelingsI added bashfully: to clench the explanation.

I never saw such curls - how could Ifor there never were such
curls! - as those she shook out to hide her blushes. As to the
straw hat and blue ribbons which was on the top of the curlsif I
could only have hung it up in my room in Buckingham Streetwhat a
priceless possession it would have been!

'You have just come home from Paris' said I.

'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 countenance. That she
should hope I would gothat she should think it possible I could
gowas insupportable. I depreciated Paris; I depreciated France.


I said I wouldn't leave Englandunder existing circumstancesfor
any earthly consideration. Nothing should induce me. In short
she was shaking the curls againwhen the little dog came running
along the walk to our relief.

He was mortally jealous of meand persisted in barking at me. She
took him up in her arms - oh my goodness! - and caressed himbut
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 nosewhile he winked his eyesand licked her hand
and still growled within himself like a little double-bass. At
length he was quiet - well he might be with her dimpled chin upon
his head! - and we walked away to look at a greenhouse.

'You are not very intimate with Miss Murdstoneare you?' said
Dora. -'My pet.'

(The two last words were to the dog. Ohif they had only been to
me!)

'No' I replied. 'Not at all so.'

'She is a tiresome creature' said Dorapouting. 'I can't think
what papa can have been aboutwhen he chose such a vexatious thing
to be my companion. Who wants a protector? I am sure I don't want
a protector. Jip can protect me a great deal better than Miss
Murdstone- can't youJipdear?'

He only winked lazilywhen she kissed his ball of a head.

'Papa calls her my confidential friendbut I am sure she is no
such thing - is sheJip? We are not going to confide in any such
cross peopleJip and I. We mean to bestow our confidence where we
likeand to find out our own friendsinstead of having them found
out for us - don't weJip?'

jip made a comfortable noisein answera little like a tea-kettle
when it sings. As for meevery word was a new heap of fetters
riveted above the last.

'It is very hardbecause we have not a kind Mamathat we are to
haveinsteada sulkygloomy old thing like Miss Murdstone
always following us about - isn't itJip? Never mindJip. We
won't be confidentialand we'll make ourselves as happy as we can
in spite of herand we'll tease herand not please her - won't
weJip?'

If it had lasted any longerI think I must have gone down on my
knees on the gravelwith the probability before me of grazing
themand of being presently ejected from the premises besides.
Butby good fortune the greenhouse was not far offand these
words brought us to it.

It contained quite a show of beautiful geraniums. We loitered
along in front of themand Dora often stopped to admire this one
or that oneand I stopped to admire the same oneand Dora
laughingheld the dog up childishlyto smell the flowers; and if
we were not all three in Fairylandcertainly I was. The scent of
a geranium leafat this daystrikes 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 ribbonsand a quantity of curls
and a little black dog being held upin two slender armsagainst
a bank of blossoms and bright leaves.


Miss Murdstone had been looking for us. She found us here; and
presented her uncongenial cheekthe little wrinkles in it filled
with hair powderto Dora to be kissed. Then she took Dora's arm
in hersand marched us into breakfast as if it were a soldier's
funeral.

How many cups of tea I drankbecause Dora made itI don't know.
ButI perfectly remember that I sat swilling tea until my whole
nervous systemif I had had any in those daysmust 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 singand the
congregation vanished. A sermon was delivered - about Doraof
course - and I am afraid that is all I know of the service.

We had a quiet day. No companya walka family dinner of four
and an evening of looking over books and pictures; Miss Murdstone
with a homily before herand her eye upon uskeeping guard
vigilantly. Ah! little did Mr. Spenlow imaginewhen he sat
opposite to me after dinner that daywith his pocket-handkerchief
over his headhow fervently I was embracing himin my fancyas
his son-in-law! Little did he thinkwhen I took leave of him at
nightthat he had just given his full consent to my being engaged
to Doraand that I was invoking blessings on his head!

We departed early in the morningfor we had a Salvage case coming
on in the Admiralty Courtrequiring a rather accurate knowledge of
the whole science of navigationin which (as we couldn't be
expected to know much about those matters in the Commons) the judge
had entreated two old Trinity Mastersfor charity's saketo come
and help him out. Dora was at the breakfast-table to make the tea
againhowever; and I had the melancholy pleasure of taking off my
hat to her in the phaetonas 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 mindas I listened to it; how I saw 'DORA' engraved
upon the blade of the silver oar which they lay upon the tableas
the emblem of that high jurisdiction; and how I felt when Mr.
Spenlow went home without me (I had had an insane hope that he
might take me back again)as if I were a mariner myselfand the
ship to which I 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 itselfand present in any visible
form the daydreams I have had in it about Dorait would reveal my
truth.

I don't mean the dreams that I dreamed on that day alonebut day
after dayfrom week to weekand term to term. I went therenot
to attend to what was going onbut to think about Dora. If ever
I bestowed a thought upon the casesas they dragged their slow
length before meit was only to wonderin the matrimonial cases
(remembering Dora)how it was that married people could ever be
otherwise than happy; andin the Prerogative casesto consider
if the money in question had been left to mewhat were the
foremost steps I should immediately have taken in regard to Dora.
Within the first week of my passionI bought four sumptuous
waistcoats - not for myself; I had no pride in them; for Dora - and
took to wearing straw-coloured kid gloves in the streetsand 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 feetthey would show what the state of my heart
wasin a most affecting manner.


And yetwretched cripple as I made myself by this act of homage to
DoraI 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 beatbut I pervaded London likewise. I walked
about the streets where the best shops for ladies wereI haunted
the Bazaar like an unquiet spiritI fagged through the Park again
and againlong after I was quite knocked up. Sometimesat long
intervals and on rare occasionsI saw her. Perhaps I saw her
glove waved in a carriage window; perhaps I met herwalked with
her and Miss Murdstone a little wayand spoke to her. In the
latter case I was always very miserable afterwardsto think that
I had said nothing to the purpose; or that she had no idea of the
extent of my devotionor that she cared nothing about me. I was
always looking outas may be supposedfor another invitation to
Mr. Spenlow's house. I was always being disappointedfor I got
none.

Mrs. Crupp must have been a woman of penetration; for when this
attachment was but a few weeks oldand I had not had the courage
to write more explicitly even to Agnesthan that I had been to Mr.
Spenlow's house'whose family' I added'consists of one
daughter'; - I say Mrs. Crupp must have been a woman of
penetrationforeven in that early stageshe found it out. She
came up to me one eveningwhen I was very lowto 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 flavoured with seven drops of the essence of cloveswhich was
the best remedy for her complaint; - orif I had not such a thing
by mewith a little brandywhich was the next best. It was not
she remarkedso palatable to herbut it was the next best. As I
had never even heard of the first remedyand always had the second
in the closetI gave Mrs. Crupp a glass of the secondwhich (that
I might have no suspicion of its being devoted to any improper use)
she began to take in my presence.

'Cheer upsir' 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 myself
but I smiled on Mrs. Cruppas benignly as was in my power.

'Comesir' said Mrs. Crupp. 'Excuse me. I know what it issir.
There's a lady in the case.'

'Mrs. Crupp?' I returnedreddening.

'Ohbless you! Keep a good heartsir!' said Mrs. Cruppnodding
encouragement. 'Never say diesir! If She don't smile upon you
there's a many as will. You are a young gentleman to be smiled on
Mr. Copperfulland you must learn your waluesir.'

Mrs. Crupp always called me Mr. Copperfull: firstlyno doubt
because it was not my name; and secondlyI am inclined to think
in some indistinct association with a washing-day.

'What makes you suppose there is any young lady in the caseMrs.
Crupp?' said I.

'Mr. Copperfull' said Mrs. Cruppwith a great deal of feeling
'I'm a mother myself.'

For some time Mrs. Crupp could only lay her hand upon her nankeen
bosomand fortify herself against returning pain with sips of her
medicine. At length she spoke again.


'When the present set were took for you by your dear auntMr.
Copperfull' said Mrs. Crupp'my remark wereI had now found
summun I could care for. "Thank Ev'in!" were the expressionI
have now found summun I can care for!- You don't eat enoughsir
nor yet drink.'

'Is that what you found your supposition onMrs. Crupp?' said I.

'Sir' said Mrs. Cruppin a tone approaching to severity'I've
laundressed other young gentlemen besides yourself. A young
gentleman may be over-careful of himselfor he may be
under-careful of himself. He may brush his hair too regularor
too un-regular. He may wear his boots much too large for himor
much too small. That is according as the young gentleman has his
original character formed. But let him go to which extreme he may
sirthere's a young lady in both of 'em.'

Mrs. Crupp shook her head in such a determined mannerthat I had
not an inch of vantage-ground left.

'It was but the gentleman which died here before yourself' said
Mrs. Crupp'that fell in love - with a barmaid - and had his
waistcoats took in directlythough much swelled by drinking.'

'Mrs. Crupp' said I'I must beg you not to connect the young lady
in my case with a barmaidor anything of that sortif you
please.'

'Mr. Copperfull' returned Mrs. Crupp'I'm a mother myselfand
not likely. I ask your pardonsirif I intrude. I should never
wish to intrude where I were not welcome. But you are a young
gentlemanMr. Copperfulland my adwice to you isto cheer up
sirto keep a good heartand to know your own walue. If you was
to take to somethingsir' said Mrs. Crupp'if you was to take to
skittlesnowwhich is healthyyou might find it divert your
mindand do you good.'

With these wordsMrs. Cruppaffecting to be very careful of the
brandy - which was all gone - thanked me with a majestic curtsey
and retired. As her figure disappeared into the gloom of the
entrythis counsel certainly presented itself to my mind in the
light of a slight liberty on Mrs. Crupp's part; butat the same
timeI was content to receive itin another point of viewas a
word to the wiseand a warning in future to keep my secret better.

CHAPTER 27
TOMMY TRADDLES

It may have been in consequence of Mrs. Crupp's adviceand
perhapsfor no better reason than because there was a certain
similarity in the sound of the word skittles and Traddlesthat it
came into my headnext dayto go and look after Traddles. The
time he had mentioned was more than outand he lived in a little
street near the Veterinary College at Camden Townwhich was
principally tenantedas one of our clerks who lived in that
direction informed meby gentlemen studentswho bought live
donkeysand made experiments on those quadrupeds in their private
apartments. Having obtained from this clerk a direction to the
academic grove in questionI set outthe same afternoonto visit
my old schoolfellow.


I found that the street was not as desirable a one as I could have
wished it to befor the sake of Traddles. The inhabitants
appeared to have a propensity to throw any little trifles they were
not in want ofinto the road: which not only made it rank and
sloppybut untidy tooon account of the cabbage-leaves. The
refuse was not wholly vegetable eitherfor I myself saw a shoea
doubled-up saucepana black bonnetand an umbrellain various
stages of decompositionas 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 indescribable character of
faded gentility that attached to the house I soughtand made it
unlike all the other houses in the street - though they were all
built on one monotonous patternand looked like the early copies
of a blundering boy who was learning to make housesand had not
yet got out of his cramped brick-and-mortar pothooks - reminded me
still more of Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. Happening to arrive at the
door as it was opened to the afternoon milkmanI was reminded of
Mr. and Mrs. Micawber more forcibly yet.


'Now' said the milkman to a very youthful servant girl. 'Has that
there little bill of mine been heerd on?'


'Ohmaster says he'll attend to it immediate' was the reply.


'Because' said the milkmangoing on as if he had received no
answerand speakingas I judged from his tonerather for the
edification of somebody within the housethan of the youthful
servant - an impression which was strengthened by his manner of
glaring down the passage - 'because that there little bill has been
running so longthat I begin to believe it's run away altogether
and never won't be heerd of. NowI'm not a going to stand ityou
know!' said the milkmanstill throwing his voice into the house
and glaring down the passage.


As to his dealing in the mild article of milkby the bythere
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 faintbut she seemed to
mefrom the action of her lipsagain to murmur that it would be
attended to immediate.


'I tell you what' said the milkmanlooking hard at her for the
first timeand taking her by the chin'are you fond of milk?'


'YesI likes it' she replied.
'Good' said the milkman. 'Then you won't have none tomorrow.
D'ye hear? Not a fragment of milk you won't have tomorrow.'


I thought she seemedupon the wholerelieved by the prospect of
having any today. The milkmanafter shaking his head at her
darklyreleased her chinand with anything rather than good-will
opened his canand deposited the usual quantity in the family jug.
This donehe went awaymutteringand uttered the cry of his
trade next doorin 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 affirmativeand again
the servant echoed it. Upon thisI walked inand in pursuance of
the servant's directions walked upstairs; consciousas I passed
the back parlour-doorthat I was surveyed by a mysterious eye
probably belonging to the mysterious voice.

When I got to the top of the stairs - the house was only a story
high above the ground floor - Traddles was on the landing to meet
me. He was delighted to see meand gave me welcomewith great
heartinessto his little room. It was in the front of the house
and extremely neatthough sparely furnished. It was his only
roomI saw; for there was a sofa-bedstead in itand his
blacking-brushes and blacking were among his books - on the top
shelfbehind a dictionary. His table was covered with papersand
he was hard at work in an old coat. I looked at nothingthat I
know ofbut I saw everythingeven to the prospect of a church
upon his china inkstandas I sat down - and thistoowas a
faculty confirmed in me in the old Micawber times. Various
ingenious arrangements he had madefor the disguise of his chest
of drawersand the accommodation of his bootshis shaving-glass
and so forthparticularly impressed themselves upon meas
evidences of the same Traddles who used to make models of
elephants' dens in writing-paper to put flies in; and to comfort
himself under ill usagewith 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 Ishaking hands with him againafter I had sat
down'I am delighted to see you.'

'I am delighted to see YOUCopperfield' 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 Placeand was sure you were thoroughly
glad to see methat I gave you this address instead of my address
at chambers.'
'Oh! You have chambers?' said I.

'WhyI have the fourth of a room and a passageand the fourth of
a clerk' returned Traddles. 'Three others and myself unite to
have a set of chambers - to look business-like - and we quarter the
clerk too. Half-a-crown a week he costs me.'

His old simple character and good temperand something of his old
unlucky fortune alsoI thoughtsmiled at me in the smile with
which he made this explanation.

'It's not because I have the least prideCopperfieldyou
understand' said Traddles'that I don't usually give my address
here. It's only on account of those who come to mewho might not
like to come here. For myselfI am fighting my way on in the
world against difficultiesand it would be ridiculous if I made a
pretence of doing anything else.'

'You are reading for the barMr. Waterbrook informed me?' said I.

'Whyyes' said Traddlesrubbing his hands slowly over one
another. 'I am reading for the bar. The fact isI have just
begun to keep my termsafter rather a long delay. It's some time
since I was articledbut the payment of that hundred pounds was a
great pull. A great pull!' said Traddleswith a winceas if he


had had a tooth out.

'Do you know what I can't help thinking ofTraddlesas I sit here
looking at you?' I asked him.

'No' said he.

'That sky-blue suit you used to wear.'

'Lordto be sure!' cried Traddleslaughing. 'Tight in the arms
and legsyou know? Dear me! Well! Those were happy times
weren't they?'

'I think our schoolmaster might have made them happierwithout
doing any harm to any of usI acknowledge' I returned.

'Perhaps he might' said Traddles. 'But dear methere was a good
deal of fun going on. Do you remember the nights in the bedroom?
When we used to have the suppers? And when you used to tell the
stories? Hahaha! And do you remember when I got caned for
crying about Mr. Mell? Old Creakle! I should like to see him
againtoo!'

'He was a brute to youTraddles' said Iindignantly; for his
good humour made me feel as if I had seen him beaten but yesterday.

'Do you think so?' returned Traddles. 'Really? Perhaps he was
rather. But it's all overa long while. Old Creakle!'

'You were brought up by an unclethen?' said I.

'Of course I was!' said Traddles. 'The one I was always going to
write to. And always didn'teh! Hahaha! YesI had an uncle
then. He died soon after I left school.'

'Indeed!'

'Yes. He was a retired - what do you call it! - draper cloth-
merchant - and had made me his heir. But he didn't like me
when I grew up.'

'Do you really mean that?' said I. He was so composedthat I
fancied he must have some other meaning.

'Oh dearyesCopperfield! I mean it' replied Traddles. 'It was
an unfortunate thingbut he didn't like me at all. He said I
wasn't at all what he expectedand so he married his housekeeper.'

'And what did you do?' I asked.

'I didn't do anything in particular' said Traddles. 'I lived with
themwaiting to be put out in the worlduntil his gout
unfortunately flew to his stomach - and so he diedand so she
married a young manand so I wasn't provided for.'

'Did you get nothingTraddlesafter all?'

'Oh dearyes!' said Traddles. 'I got fifty pounds. I had never
been brought up to any professionand at first I was at a loss
what to do for myself. HoweverI beganwith the assistance of
the son of a professional manwho had been to Salem House -
Yawlerwith 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 beganby means of his
assistanceto copy law writings. That didn't answer very well;
and then I began to state cases for themand make abstractsand
that sort of work. For I am a plodding kind of fellow
Copperfieldand 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 officeshowever - Mr.
Waterbrook's for one - and I got a good many jobs. I was fortunate
enoughtooto become acquainted with a person in the publishing
waywho was getting up an Encyclopaediaand he set me to work;
andindeed' (glancing at his table)'I am at work for him at this
minute. I am not a bad compilerCopperfield' 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 courseI nodded; and he went onwith the same sprightly
patience - I can find no better expression - as before.

'Soby little and littleand not living highI managed to scrape
up the hundred pounds at last' said Traddles; 'and thank Heaven
that's paid - though it was - though it certainly was' said
Traddleswincing again as if he had had another tooth out'a
pull. I am living by the sort of work I have mentionedstilland
I hopeone of these daysto get connected with some newspaper:
which would almost be the making of my fortune. NowCopperfield
you are so exactly what you used to bewith that agreeable face
and it's so pleasant to see youthat I sha'n't conceal anything.
Therefore you must know that I am engaged.'

Engaged! OhDora!

'She is a curate's daughter' said Traddles; 'one of tendown in
Devonshire. Yes!' For he saw me glanceinvoluntarilyat the
prospect on the inkstand. 'That's the church! You come round here
to the leftout of this gate' tracing his finger along the
inkstand'and exactly where I hold this penthere stands the
house - facingyou understandtowards the church.'

The delight with which he entered into these particularsdid not
fully present itself to me until afterwards; for my selfish
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 thereand I walked backand I had the
most delightful time! I dare say ours is likely to be a rather
long engagementbut 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 - any age you can mention - 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,' drawing 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 parlour window,' said Traddles, falling a little back from it
to survey it with the greater admiration, 'with a plant in it, and

-and there you are! This little round table with the marble top
(it's two feet ten in circumference), I bought. You want to lay a
book down, you know, or somebody comes to see you or your wife, and
wants a place to stand a cup of tea upon, and - and there you are
again!' said Traddles. 'It's an admirable piece of workmanship 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 Traddles, 'but
it's something. The table-cloths, and pillow-cases, and articles
of that kind, are what discourage me most, Copperfield. So does
the ironmongery - candle-boxes, and gridirons, and that sort of
necessaries - 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 Traddlescoming back to his chair; 'and
this is the end of my prosing about myselfI get on as well as I
can. I don't make muchbut I don't spend much. In generalI
board with the people downstairswho are very agreeable people
indeed. Both Mr. and Mrs. Micawber 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 meas if he wondered what I was talking about.

'Mr. and Mrs. Micawber!' I repeated. 'WhyI am intimately
acquainted with them!'

An opportune double knock at the doorwhich I knew well from old
experience in Windsor Terraceand which nobody but Mr. Micawber
could ever have knocked at that doorresolved 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 soover the
banister; and Mr. Micawbernot a bit changed - his tightshis
stickhis shirt-collarand his eye-glassall the same as ever came
into the room with a genteel and youthful air.

'I beg your pardonMr. Traddles' said Mr. Micawberwith the old
roll in his voiceas he checked himself in humming a soft tune.
'I was not aware that there was any individualalien to this
tenementin your sanctum.'

Mr. Micawber slightly bowed to meand pulled up his shirt-collar.

'How do you doMr. Micawber?' said I.

'Sir' said Mr. Micawber'you are exceedingly obliging. I am in
statu quo.'

'And Mrs. Micawber?' I pursued.

'Sir' said Mr. Micawber'she is alsothank Godin statu quo.'

'And the childrenMr. Micawber?'


'Sir' said Mr. Micawber'I rejoice to reply that they are
likewisein the enjoyment of salubrity.'

All this timeMr. Micawber had not known me in the leastthough
he had stood face to face with me. But nowseeing me smilehe
examined my features with more attentionfell backcried'Is it
possible! Have I the pleasure of again beholding Copperfield!' and
shook me by both hands with the utmost fervour.

'Good HeavenMr. Traddles!' said Mr. Micawber'to think that I
should find you acquainted with the friend of my youththe
companion of earlier days! My dear!' calling over the banisters to
Mrs. Micawberwhile Traddles looked (with reason) not a little
amazed at this description of me. 'Here is a gentleman in Mr.
Traddles's apartmentwhom he wishes to have the pleasure of
presenting to youmy love!'

Mr. Micawber immediately reappearedand shook hands with me again.

'And how is our good friend the DoctorCopperfield?' 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 shadowI may
figuratively sayof that religious edifice immortalized by
Chaucerwhich was anciently the resort of Pilgrims from the
remotest corners of - in short' said Mr. Micawber'in the
immediate neighbourhood of the Cathedral.'

I replied that it was. Mr. Micawber continued talking as volubly
as he could; but notI thoughtwithout showingby some marks of
concern in his countenancethat he was sensible of sounds in the
next roomas of Mrs. Micawber washing her handsand hurriedly
opening and shutting drawers that were uneasy in their action.

'You find usCopperfield' said Mr. Micawberwith one eye on
Traddles'at present establishedon what may be designated as a
small and unassuming scale; butyou are aware that I havein the
course of my careersurmounted difficultiesand conquered
obstacles. You are no stranger to the factthat there have been
periods of my lifewhen it has been requisite that I should pause
until certain expected events should turn up; when it has been
necessary that I should fall backbefore making what I trust I
shall not be accused of presumption in terming - a spring. The
present is one of those momentous stages in the life of man. You
find mefallen backFOR a spring; and I have every reason to
believe that a vigorous leap will shortly be the result.'

I was expressing my satisfactionwhen Mrs. Micawber came in; a
little more slatternly than she used to beor so she seemed now
to my unaccustomed eyesbut still with some preparation of herself
for companyand with a pair of brown gloves on.

'My dear' said Mr. Micawberleading her towards me'here is a
gentleman of the name of Copperfieldwho wishes to renew his
acquaintance with you.'

It would have been betteras it turned outto have led gently up
to this announcementfor Mrs. Micawberbeing in a delicate state
of healthwas overcome by itand was taken so unwellthat Mr.
Micawber was obligedin great trepidationto run down to the


water-butt in the backyardand draw a basinful to lave her brow
with. She presently revivedhoweverand was really pleased to
see me. We had half-an-hour's talkall together; and I asked her
about the twinswhoshe saidwere 'grown great creatures'; and
after Master and Miss Micawberwhom she described as 'absolute
giants'but they were not produced on that occasion.

Mr. Micawber was very anxious that I should stay to dinner.

I
should not have been averse to do sobut that I imagined I
detected troubleand calculation relative to the extent of the
cold meatin Mrs. Micawber's eye. I therefore pleaded another
engagement; and observing that Mrs. Micawber's spirits were
immediately lightenedI resisted all persuasion to forego it.

But I told Traddlesand Mr. and Mrs. Micawberthat before I could
think of leavingthey must appoint a day 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 purposethat suited us alland then
I took my leave.

Mr. Micawberunder pretence of showing me a nearer way than that
by which I had comeaccompanied me to the corner of the street;
being anxious (he explained to me) to say a few words to an old
friendin confidence.

'My dear Copperfield' said Mr. Micawber'I need hardly tell you
that to have beneath our roofunder existing circumstancesa mind
like that which gleams - if I may be allowed the expression - which
gleams - in your friend Traddlesis an unspeakable comfort. With
a washerwomanwho exposes hard-bake for sale in her
parlour-windowdwelling next doorand a Bow-street officer
residing over the wayyou may imagine that his society is a source
of consolation to myself and to Mrs. Micawber. I am at presentmy
dear Copperfieldengaged in the sale of corn upon commission. It
is not an avocation of a remunerative description - in other words
it does not pay - and some temporary embarrassments of a pecuniary
nature have been the consequence. I amhoweverdelighted to add
that I have now an immediate prospect of something turning up (I am
not at liberty to say in what direction)which I trust will enable
me to providepermanentlyboth for myself and for your friend
Traddlesin whom I have an unaffected interest. You mayperhaps
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 - in shortto
the infantine group. Mrs. Micawber's family have been so good as
to express their dissatisfaction at this state of things. I have
merely to observethat I am not aware that it is any business of
theirsand that I repel that exhibition of feeling with scornand
with defiance!'

Mr. Micawber then shook hands with me againand left me.

CHAPTER 28
Mr. MICAWBER'S GAUNTLET

Until the day arrived on which I was to entertain my newly-found
old friendsI lived principally on Dora and coffee. In my
love-lorn conditionmy 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 tookwas not in this respect attended with its
usual consequenceas the disappointment counteracted the fresh
air. I have my doubtstoofounded on the acute experience
acquired at this period of my lifewhether a sound enjoyment of
animal food can develop 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
vigour.

On the occasion of this domestic little partyI did not repeat my
former extensive preparations. I merely provided a pair of soles
a small leg of muttonand a pigeon-pie. Mrs. Crupp broke out into
rebellion on my first bashful hint in reference to the cooking of
the fish and jointand saidwith a dignified sense of injury
'No! Nosir! You will not ask me sich a thingfor you are
better acquainted with me than to suppose me capable of doing what
I cannot do with ampial satisfaction to my own feelings!' Butin
the enda compromise was effected; and Mrs. Crupp consented to
achieve this featon condition that I dined from home for a
fortnight afterwards.

And here I may remarkthat what I underwent from Mrs. Cruppin
consequence of the tyranny she established over mewas dreadful.
I never was so much afraid of anyone. We made a compromise of
everything. If I hesitatedshe was taken with that wonderful
disorder which was always lying in ambush in her systemreadyat
the shortest noticeto prey upon her vitals. If I rang the bell
impatientlyafter half-a-dozen unavailing modest pullsand she
appeared at last - which was not by any means to be relied upon she
would appear with a reproachful aspectsink breathless on a
chair near the doorlay her hand upon her nankeen bosomand
become so illthat I was gladat any sacrifice of brandy or
anything elseto get rid of her. If I objected to having my bed
made at five o'clock in the afternoon - which I do still think an
uncomfortable arrangement - one motion of her hand towards the same
nankeen region of wounded sensibility was enough to make me falter
an apology. In shortI would have done anything in an honourable
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-partyin
preference to re-engaging the handy young man; against whom I had
conceived a prejudicein consequence of meeting him in the Strand
one Sunday morningin a waistcoat remarkably 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 dishesand then withdraw to the landing-placebeyond the
outer door; where a habit of sniffing she had contracted would be
lost upon the guestsand where her retiring on the plates would be
a physical impossibility.

Having laid in the materials for a bowl of punchto be compounded
by Mr. Micawber; having provided a bottle of lavender-watertwo
wax-candlesa paper of mixed pinsand a pincushionto assist
Mrs. Micawber in her toilette at my dressing-table; having also
caused the fire in my bedroom to be lighted for Mrs. Micawber's
convenience; and having laid the cloth with my own handsI awaited
the result with composure.

At the appointed timemy three visitors arrived together. Mr.
Micawber with more shirt-collar than usualand a new ribbon to his
eye-glass; Mrs. Micawber with her cap in a whitey-brown paper
parcel; Traddles carrying the parceland supporting Mrs. Micawber
on his arm. They were all delighted with my residence. When I


conducted Mrs. Micawber to my dressing-tableand she saw the scale
on which it was prepared for hershe was in such rapturesthat
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 celibacyand Mrs. Micawber had not yet been
solicited to plight her faith at the Hymeneal altar.'

'He meanssolicited by himMr. Copperfield' said Mrs. Micawber
archly. 'He cannot answer for others.'

'My dear' returned Mr. Micawber with sudden seriousness'I have
no desire to answer for others. I am too well aware that whenin
the inscrutable decrees of Fateyou were reserved for meit is
possible you may have been reserved for onedestinedafter a
protracted struggleat length to fall a victim to pecuniary
involvements of a complicated nature. I understand your allusion
my love. I regret itbut I can bear it.'

'Micawber!' exclaimed Mrs. Micawberin tears. 'Have I deserved
this! Iwho never have deserted you; who never WILL desert you
Micawber!'
'My love' said Mr. Micawbermuch affected'you will forgiveand
our old and tried friend Copperfield willI am sureforgivethe
momentary laceration of a wounded spiritmade sensitive by a
recent collision with the Minion of Power - in other wordswith a
ribald Turncock attached to the water-works - and will pitynot
condemnits excesses.'

Mr. Micawber then embraced Mrs. Micawberand pressed my hand;
leaving me to infer from this broken allusion that his domestic
supply of water had been cut off that afternoonin consequence of
default in the payment of the company's rates.

To divert his thoughts from this melancholy subjectI informed Mr.
Micawber that I relied upon him for a bowl of punchand led him to
the lemons. His recent despondencynot to say despairwas gone
in a moment. I never saw a man so thoroughly enjoy himself amid
the fragrance of lemon-peel and sugarthe odour of burning rum
and the steam of boiling wateras Mr. Micawber did that afternoon.
It was wonderful to see his face shining at us out of a thin cloud
of these delicate fumesas he stirredand mixedand tastedand
looked as if he were makinginstead of puncha fortune for his
family down to the latest posterity. As to Mrs. MicawberI don't
know whether it was the effect of the capor the lavender-water
or the pinsor the fireor the wax-candlesbut she came out of
my roomcomparatively speakinglovely. And the lark was never
gayer than that excellent woman.

I suppose - I never ventured to inquirebut I suppose - that Mrs.
Cruppafter frying the soleswas taken ill. Because we broke
down at that point. The leg of mutton came up very red withinand
very pale without: besides having a foreign substance of a gritty
nature sprinkled over itas if if had had a fall into the ashes of
that remarkable kitchen fireplace. But we were not in condition to
judge of this fact from the appearance of the gravyforasmuch as
the 'young gal' had dropped it all upon the stairs - where it
remainedby the byin a long trainuntil it was worn out. The
pigeon-pie was not badbut it was a delusive pie: the crust being
like a disappointing headphrenologically speaking: full of lumps
and bumpswith nothing particular underneath. In shortthe
banquet was such a failure that I should have been quite unhappy about
the failureI meanfor I was always unhappy about Dora - if


I had not been relieved by the great good humour of my companyand
by a bright suggestion from Mr. Micawber.

'My dear friend Copperfield' said Mr. Micawber'accidents will
occur in the best-regulated families; and in families not regulated
by that pervading influence which sanctifies while it enhances the

-a - I would sayin shortby the influence of Womanin the
lofty character of Wifethey may be expected with confidenceand
must be borne with philosophy. If you will allow me to take the
liberty of remarking that there are few comestibles betterin
their waythan a Deviland that I believewith a little division
of labourwe could accomplish a good one if the young person in
attendance could produce a gridironI would put it to youthat
this little misfortune may be easily repaired.'
There was a gridiron in the pantryon which my morning rasher of
bacon was cooked. We had it inin a twinklingand immediately
applied ourselves to carrying Mr. Micawber's idea into effect. The
division of labour to which he had referred was this: - Traddles
cut the mutton into slices; Mr. Micawber (who could do anything of
this sort to perfection) covered them with peppermustardsalt
and cayenne; I put them on the gridironturned them with a fork
and took them offunder Mr. Micawber's direction; and Mrs.
Micawber heatedand continually stirredsome mushroom ketchup in
a little saucepan. When we had slices enough done to begin upon
we fell-towith our sleeves still tucked up at the wristmore
slices sputtering and blazing on the fireand our attention
divided between the mutton on our platesand the mutton then
preparing.

What with the novelty of this cookerythe excellence of itthe
bustle of itthe frequent starting up to look after itthe
frequent sitting down to dispose of it as the crisp slices came off
the gridiron hot and hotthe being so busyso flushed with the
fireso amusedand in the midst of such a tempting noise and
savourwe reduced the leg of mutton to the bone. My own appetite
came back miraculously. I am ashamed to record itbut I really
believe I forgot Dora for a little while. I am satisfied that Mr.
and Mrs. Micawber could not have enjoyed the feast moreif they
had sold a bed to provide it. Traddles laughed as heartilyalmost
the whole timeas he ate and worked. Indeed we all didall at
once; and I dare say there was never a greater success.

We were at the height of our enjoymentand were all busily
engagedin our several departmentsendeavouring to bring the last
batch of slices to a state of perfection that should crown the
feastwhen I was aware of a strange presence in the roomand my
eyes encountered those of the staid Littimerstanding hat in hand
before me.

'What's the matter?' I involuntarily asked.

'I beg your pardonsirI was directed to come in. Is my master
not heresir?'

'No.'

'Have you not seen himsir?'

'No; don't you come from him?'

'Not immediately sosir.'

'Did he tell you you would find him here?'


'Not exactly sosir. But I should think he might be here
tomorrowas he has not been here today.'
'Is he coming up from Oxford?'


'I begsir' he returned respectfully'that you will be seated
and allow me to do this.' With which he took the fork from my
unresisting handand bent over the gridironas if his whole
attention were concentrated on it.


We should not have been much discomposedI dare sayby the
appearance of Steerforth himselfbut we became in a moment the
meekest of the meek before his respectable serving-man. Mr.
Micawberhumming a tuneto show that he was quite at ease
subsided into his chairwith the handle of a hastily concealed
fork sticking out of the bosom of his coatas if he had stabbed
himself. Mrs. Micawber put on her brown glovesand assumed a
genteel languor. Traddles ran his greasy hands through his hair
and stood it bolt uprightand stared in confusion on the
table-cloth. As for meI 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 whereto put my establishment to
rights.


Meanwhile he took the mutton off the gridironand gravely handed
it round. We all took somebut our appreciation of it was gone
and we merely made a show of eating it. As we severally pushed
away our plateshe noiselessly removed themand set on the
cheese. He took that offtoowhen it was done with; cleared the
table; piled everything on the dumb-waiter; gave us our
wine-glasses; andof his own accordwheeled the dumb-waiter into
the pantry. All this was done in a perfect mannerand he never
raised his eyes from what he was about. Yet his very elbowswhen
he had his back towards meseemed to teem with the expression of
his fixed opinion that I was extremely young.


'Can I do anything moresir?'


I thanked him and saidNo; but would he take no dinner himself?


'NoneI am obliged to yousir.'


'Is Mr. Steerforth coming from Oxford?'


'I beg your pardonsir?'


'Is Mr. Steerforth coming from Oxford?'


'I should imagine that he might be here tomorrowsir. I rather
thought he might have been here todaysir. The mistake is mine
no doubtsir.'


'If you should see him first -' said I.


'If you'll excuse mesirI don't think I shall see him first.'


'In case you do' said I'pray say that I am sorry he was not here
todayas an old schoolfellow of his was here.'


'Indeedsir!' and he divided a bow between me and Traddleswith
a glance at the latter.


He was moving softly to the doorwhenin a forlorn hope of saying
something naturally - which I never couldto this man - I said:



'Oh! Littimer!'

'Sir!'

'Did you remain long at Yarmouththat time?'

'Not particularly sosir.'

'You saw the boat completed?'

'Yessir. 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 yetI suppose?'

'I really can't saysir. I think - but I really can't saysir.
I wish you good nightsir.'

He comprehended everybody presentin the respectful bow with which
he followed these wordsand disappeared. My visitors seemed to
breathe more freely when he was gone; but my own relief was very
greatfor besides the constraintarising from that extraordinary
sense of being at a disadvantage which I always had in this man's
presencemy conscience had embarrassed me with whispers that I had
mistrusted his masterand I could not repress a vague uneasy dread
that he might find it out. How was ithaving so little in reality
to concealthat I always DID feel as if this man were finding me
out?

Mr. Micawber roused me from this reflectionwhich was blended with
a certain remorseful apprehension of seeing Steerforth himselfby
bestowing many encomiums on the absent Littimer as a most
respectable fellowand a thoroughly admirable servant. Mr.
MicawberI may remarkhad taken his full share of the general
bowand had received it with infinite condescension.

'But punchmy dear Copperfield' said Mr. Micawbertasting it
'like time and tidewaits for no man. Ah! it is at the present
moment in high flavour. My lovewill you give me your opinion?'

Mrs. Micawber pronounced it excellent.

'Then I will drink' said Mr. Micawber'if my friend Copperfield
will permit me to take that social libertyto the days when my
friend Copperfield and myself were youngerand fought our way in
the world side by side. I may sayof myself and Copperfieldin
words we have sung together before nowthat

We twa hae run about the braes
And pu'd the gowans' fine

-in a figurative point of view - on several occasions. I am not
exactly aware' said Mr. Micawberwith the old roll in his voice
and the old indescribable air of saying something genteel'what
gowans may bebut I have no doubt that Copperfield and myself
would frequently have taken a pull at themif it had been
feasible.'
Mr. Micawberat the then present momenttook 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. Micawberclearing his throatand warming with
the punch and with the fire. 'My dearanother glass?'

Mrs. Micawber said it must be very little; but we couldn't allow
thatso it was a glassful.

'As we are quite confidential hereMr. Copperfield' said Mrs.
Micawbersipping her punch'Mr. Traddles being a part of our
domesticityI should much like to have your opinion on Mr.
Micawber's prospects. For corn' said Mrs. Micawber
argumentatively'as I have repeatedly said to Mr. Micawbermay be
gentlemanlybut it is not remunerative. Commission to the extent
of two and ninepence in a fortnight cannothowever limited our
ideasbe considered remunerative.'

We were all agreed upon that.

'Then' said Mrs. Micawberwho prided herself on taking a clear
view of thingsand keeping Mr. Micawber straight by her woman's
wisdomwhen he might otherwise go a little crooked'then I ask
myself this question. If corn is not to be relied uponwhat is?
Are coals to be relied upon? Not at all. We have turned our
attention to that experimenton the suggestion of my familyand
we find it fallacious.'

Mr. Micawberleaning back in his chair with his hands in his
pocketseyed us asideand nodded his headas much as to say that
the case was very clearly put.

'The articles of corn and coals' said Mrs. Micawberstill more
argumentatively'being equally out of the questionMr.
CopperfieldI naturally look round the worldand sayWhat is
there in which a person of Mr. Micawber's talent is likely to
succeed?And I exclude the doing anything on commissionbecause
commission is not a certainty. What is best suited to a person of
Mr. Micawber's peculiar temperament isI am convinceda
certainty.'

Traddles and I both expressedby a feeling murmurthat this great
discovery was no doubt true of Mr. Micawberand that it did him
much credit.

'I will not conceal from youmy dear Mr. Copperfield' said Mrs.
Micawber'that I have long felt the Brewing business to be
particularly adapted to Mr. Micawber. Look at Barclay and Perkins!
Look at TrumanHanburyand Buxton! It is on that extensive
footing that Mr. MicawberI know from my own knowledge of himis
calculated to shine; and the profitsI am toldare e-NOR-MOUS!
But if Mr. Micawber cannot get into those firms - which decline to
answer his letterswhen he offers his services even in an inferior
capacity - what is the use of dwelling upon that idea? None. I
may have a conviction that Mr. Micawber's manners -'

'Hem! Reallymy dear' interposed Mr. Micawber.

'My lovebe silent' said Mrs. Micawberlaying her brown glove on
his hand. 'I may have a convictionMr. Copperfieldthat Mr.
Micawber's manners peculiarly qualify him for the Banking business.
I may argue within myselfthat if I had a deposit at a
banking-housethe manners of Mr. Micawberas representing that


banking-housewould inspire confidenceand must extend the
connexion. But if the various banking-houses refuse to avail
themselves of Mr. Micawber's abilitiesor receive the offer of
them with contumelywhat is the use of dwelling upon THAT idea?
None. As to originating a banking-businessI may know that there
are members of my family whoif they chose to place their money in
Mr. Micawber's handsmight found an establishment of that
description. But if they do NOT choose to place their money in Mr.
Micawber's hands - which they don't - what is the use of that?
Again I contend that we are no farther advanced than we were
before.'

I shook my headand said'Not a bit.' Traddles also shook his
headand said'Not a bit.'

'What do I deduce from this?' Mrs. Micawber went on to saystill
with the same air of putting a case lucidly. 'What is the
conclusionmy dear Mr. Copperfieldto which I am irresistibly
brought? Am I wrong in sayingit is clear that we must live?'

I answered 'Not at all!' and Traddles answered 'Not at all!' and I
found myself afterwards sagely addingalonethat a person must
either live or die.

'Just so' returned Mrs. Micawber'It is precisely that. And the
fact ismy dear Mr. Copperfieldthat we can not live without
something widely different from existing circumstances shortly
turning up. Now I am convincedmyselfand this I have pointed
out to Mr. Micawber several times of latethat things cannot be
expected to turn up of themselves. We mustin a measureassist
to turn them up. I may be wrongbut I have formed that opinion.'

Both Traddles and I applauded it highly.

'Very well' said Mrs. Micawber. 'Then what do I recommend? Here
is Mr. Micawber with a variety of qualifications - with great
talent -'

'Reallymy love' said Mr. Micawber.

'Praymy dearallow me to conclude. Here is Mr. Micawberwith
a variety of qualificationswith great talent - I should saywith
geniusbut that may be the partiality of a wife -'

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 knownand boldly
challenge society to set it right. It appears to memy dear Mr.
Copperfield' said Mrs. Micawberforcibly'that what Mr. Micawber
has to dois to throw down the gauntlet to societyand sayin
effectShow 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 - 'in all the papers. It
appears to methat what Mr. Micawber has to doin justice to
himselfin justice to his familyand I will even go so far as to
say in justice to societyby which he has been hitherto
overlookedis to advertise in all the papers; to describe himself
plainly as so-and-sowith such and such qualifications and to put
it thus: "Now employ meon remunerative termsand address


post-paidto W. M.Post OfficeCamden Town."'

'This idea of Mrs. Micawber'smy dear Copperfield' said Mr.
Micawbermaking his shirt-collar meet in front of his chinand
glancing at me sideways'isin factthe Leap to which I alluded
when I last had the pleasure of seeing you.'

'Advertising is rather expensive' I remarkeddubiously.

'Exactly so!' said Mrs. Micawberpreserving the same logical air.
'Quite truemy 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 saidin justice
to himselfin justice to his familyand in justice to society) to
raise a certain sum of money - on a bill.'

Mr. Micawberleaning back in his chairtrifled with his eye-glass
and cast his eyes up at the ceiling; but I thought him observant of
Traddlestoowho was looking at the fire.

'If no member of my family' said Mrs. Micawber'is possessed of
sufficient natural feeling to negotiate that bill - I believe there
is a better business-term to express what I mean -'

Mr. Micawberwith his eyes still cast up at the ceilingsuggested
'Discount.'

'To discount that bill' said Mrs. Micawber'then my opinion is
that Mr. Micawber should go into the Cityshould take that bill
into the Money Marketand should dispose of it for what he can
get. If the individuals in the Money Market oblige Mr. Micawber to
sustain a great sacrificethat is between themselves and their
consciences. I view itsteadilyas an investment. I recommend
Mr. Micawbermy dear Mr. Copperfieldto do the same; to regard it
as an investment which is sure of returnand to make up his mind
to any sacrifice.'

I feltbut I am sure I don't know whythat this was self-denying
and devoted in Mrs. Micawberand I uttered a murmur to that
effect. Traddleswho took his tone from medid likewisestill
looking at the fire.

'I will not' said Mrs. Micawberfinishing her punchand
gathering her scarf about her shoulderspreparatory to her
withdrawal to my bedroom: 'I will not protract these remarks on the
subject of Mr. Micawber's pecuniary affairs. At your firesidemy
dear Mr. Copperfieldand in the presence of Mr. Traddleswho
though not so old a friendis quite one of ourselvesI could not
refrain from making you acquainted with the course I advise Mr.
Micawber to take. I feel that the time is arrived when Mr.
Micawber should exert himself and - I will add - assert himself
and it appears to me that these are the means. I am aware that I
am merely a femaleand that a masculine judgement is usually
considered more competent to the discussion of such questions;
still I must not forget thatwhen I lived at home with my papa and
mamamy papa was in the habit of sayingEmma's form is fragile,
but her grasp of a subject is inferior to none.That my papa was
too partialI well know; but that he was an observer of character
in some degreemy duty and my reason equally forbid me to doubt.'

With these wordsand resisting our entreaties that she would grace
the remaining circulation of the punch with her presenceMrs.
Micawber retired to my bedroom. And really I felt that she was a
noble woman - the sort of woman who might have been a Roman matron


and done all manner of heroic thingsin times of public trouble.

In the fervour of this impressionI congratulated Mr. Micawber on
the treasure he possessed. So did Traddles. Mr. Micawber extended
his hand to each of us in successionand then covered his face
with his pocket-handkerchiefwhich I think had more snuff upon it
than he was aware of. He then returned to the punchin the
highest state of exhilaration.

He was full of eloquence. He gave us to understand that in our
children we lived againand thatunder the pressure of pecuniary
difficultiesany 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 themand reassured her. As to her
familythey were totally unworthy of herand their sentiments
were utterly indifferent to himand they might - I quote his own
expression - go to the Devil.

Mr. Micawber then delivered a warm eulogy on Traddles. He said
Traddles's was a characterto the steady virtues of which he (Mr.
Micawber) could lay no claimbut whichhe thanked Heavenhe
could admire. He feelingly alluded to the young ladyunknown
whom Traddles had honoured with his affectionand who had
reciprocated that affection by honouring and blessing Traddles with
her affection. Mr. Micawber pledged her. So did I. Traddles
thanked us bothby sayingwith a simplicity and honesty I had
sense enough to be quite charmed with'I am very much obliged to
you indeed. And I do assure youshe's the dearest girl! -'

Mr. Micawber took an early opportunityafter thatof hinting
with the utmost delicacy and ceremonyat the state of MY
affections. Nothing but the serious assurance of his friend
Copperfield to the contraryhe observedcould deprive him of the
impression that his friend Copperfield loved and was beloved.
After feeling very hot and uncomfortable for some timeand after
a good deal of blushingstammeringand denyingI saidhaving my
glass in my hand'Well! I would give them D.!' which so excited
and gratified Mr. Micawberthat he ran with a glass of punch into
my bedroomin order that Mrs. Micawber might drink D.who drank
it with enthusiasmcrying from withinin a shrill voice'Hear
hear! My dear Mr. CopperfieldI am delighted. Hear!' and tapping
at the wallby way of applause.

Our conversationafterwardstook a more worldly turn; Mr.
Micawber telling us that he found Camden Town inconvenientand
that the first thing he contemplated doingwhen 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
Streetfronting Hyde Parkon which he had always had his eyebut
which he did not expect to attain immediatelyas it would require
a large establishment. There would probably be an intervalhe
explainedin which he should content himself with the upper part
of a houseover some respectable place of business - say in
Piccadilly- which would be a cheerful situation for Mrs.
Micawber; and whereby throwing out a bow-windowor carrying up
the roof another storyor making some little alteration of that
sortthey might livecomfortably and reputablyfor a few years.
Whatever was reserved for himhe expressly saidor wherever his
abode might bewe might rely on this - there would always be a
room for Traddlesand 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 detailsand to excuse it as
natural in one who was making entirely new arrangements in life.


Mrs. Micawbertapping at the wall again to know if tea were ready
broke up this particular phase of our friendly conversation. She
made tea for us in a most agreeable manner; andwhenever I went
near herin handing about the tea-cups and bread-and-butterasked
mein a whisperwhether D. was fairor darkor whether she was
shortor tall: or something of that kind; which I think I liked.
After teawe discussed a variety of topics before the fire; and
Mrs. Micawber was good enough to sing us (in a smallthinflat
voicewhich I remembered to have consideredwhen I first knew
herthe very table-beer of acoustics) the favourite ballads of
'The Dashing White Sergeant'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 usthat when he heard
her sing the first oneon the first occasion of his seeing her
beneath the parental roofshe had attracted his attention in an
extraordinary degree; but that when it came to Little Tafflinhe
had resolved to win that woman or perish in the attempt.


It was between ten and eleven o'clock when Mrs. Micawber rose to
replace her cap in the whitey-brown paper parceland to put on her
bonnet. Mr. Micawber took the opportunity of Traddles putting on
his great-coatto slip a letter into my handwith 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
downwhen Mr. Micawber was going firstleading Mrs. Micawberand
Traddles was following with the capto detain Traddles for a
moment on the top of the stairs.


'Traddles' said I'Mr. Micawber don't mean any harmpoor fellow:
butif I were youI wouldn't lend him anything.'


'My dear Copperfield' returned Traddlessmiling'I haven't got
anything to lend.'


'You have got a nameyou know' said I.


'Oh! You call THAT something to lend?' returned Traddleswith a
thoughtful look.


'Certainly.'


'Oh!' said Traddles. 'Yesto be sure! I am very much obliged to
youCopperfield; but - I am afraid I have lent him that already.'


'For the bill that is to be a certain investment?' I inquired.


'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 oneon 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 notthoughbecause
he told meonly the other daythat it was provided for. That was
Mr. Micawber's expressionProvided for.'


Mr. Micawber looking up at this juncture to where we were standing
I had only time to repeat my caution. Traddles thanked meand
descended. But I was much afraidwhen I observed the good-natured
manner in which he went down with the cap in his handand gave
Mrs. Micawber his armthat he would be carried into the Money
Market neck and heels.


I returned to my firesideand was musinghalf gravely and half
laughingon the character of Mr. Micawber and the old relations



between uswhen I heard a quick step ascending the stairs. At
firstI thought it was Traddles coming back for something Mrs.
Micawber had left behind; but as the step approachedI knew it
and felt my heart beat highand the blood rush to my facefor it
was Steerforth's.


I was never unmindful of Agnesand she never left that sanctuary
in my thoughts - if I may call it so - where I had placed her from
the first. But when he enteredand stood before me with his hand
outthe darkness that had fallen on him changed to lightand 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
benignantgentle angel in my life; I reproached myselfnot her
with having done him an injury; and I would have made him any
atonement if I had known what to makeand how to make it.


'WhyDaisyold boydumb-foundered!' laughed Steerforthshaking
my hand heartilyand throwing it gaily away. 'Have I detected you
in another feastyou Sybarite! These Doctors' Commons fellows are
the gayest men in townI believeand beat us sober Oxford people
all to nothing!' His bright glance went merrily round the roomas
he took the seat on the sofa opposite to mewhich Mrs. Micawber
had recently vacatedand stirred the fire into a blaze.


'I was so surprised at first' said Igiving him welcome with all
the cordiality I felt'that I had hardly breath to greet you with
Steerforth.'


'Wellthe sight of me is good for sore eyesas the Scotch say'
replied Steerforth'and so is the sight of youDaisyin full
bloom. How are youmy Bacchanal?'


'I am very well' said I; 'and not at all Bacchanalian tonight
though I confess to another party of three.'


'All of whom I met in the streettalking loud in your praise'
returned Steerforth. 'Who's our friend in the tights?'


I gave him the best idea I couldin a few wordsof Mr. Micawber.
He laughed heartily at my feeble portrait of that gentlemanand
said he was a man to knowand he must know him.
'But who do you suppose our other friend is?' said Iin my turn.


'Heaven knows' said Steerforth. 'Not a boreI hope? I thought
he looked a little like one.'


'Traddles!' I repliedtriumphantly.


'Who's he?' asked Steerforthin his careless way.


'Don't you remember Traddles? Traddles in our room at Salem
House?'


'Oh! That fellow!' said Steerforthbeating a lump of coal on the
top of the firewith the poker. 'Is he as soft as ever? And
where the deuce did you pick him up?'


I extolled Traddles in replyas highly as I could; for I felt that
Steerforth rather slighted him. Steerforthdismissing the subject
with a light nodand a smileand the remark that he would be glad
to see the old fellow toofor he had always been an odd fish
inquired if I could give him anything to eat? During most of this
short dialoguewhen he had not been speaking in a wild vivacious
mannerhe 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-pieand so forth.

'WhyDaisyhere's a supper for a king!' he exclaimedstarting
out of his silence with a burstand taking his seat at the table.
'I shall do it justicefor I have come from Yarmouth.'

'I thought you came from Oxford?' I returned.

'Not I' said Steerforth. 'I have been seafaring - better
employed.'

'Littimer was here todayto inquire for you' I remarked'and I
understood him that you were at Oxford; thoughnow I think of it
he certainly did not say so.'

'Littimer is a greater fool than I thought himto have been
inquiring for me at all' said Steerforthjovially pouring out a
glass of wineand drinking to me. 'As to understanding himyou
are a cleverer fellow than most of usDaisyif you can do that.'

'That's trueindeed' said Imoving my chair to the table. 'So
you have been at YarmouthSteerforth!' interested to know all
about it. 'Have you been there long?'

'No' he returned. 'An escapade of a week or so.'

'And how are they all? Of courselittle Emily is not married
yet?'

'Not yet. Going to beI believe - in so many weeksor monthsor
something or other. I have not seen much of 'em. By the by'; he
laid down his knife and forkwhich he had been using with great
diligenceand began feeling in his pockets; 'I have a letter for
you.'

'From whom?'

'Whyfrom your old nurse' he returnedtaking some papers out of
his breast pocket. "'J. SteerforthEsquiredebtorto The
Willing Mind"; that's not it. Patienceand we'll find it
presently. Old what's-his-name's in a bad wayand it's about
thatI believe.'

'Barkisdo you mean?'

'Yes!' still feeling in his pocketsand looking over their
contents: 'it's all over with poor BarkisI am afraid. I saw a
little apothecary there - surgeonor whatever he is - who brought
your worship into the world. He was mighty learned about the case
to me; but the upshot of his opinion wasthat the carrier was
making his last journey rather fast. - Put your hand into the
breast pocket of my great-coat on the chair yonderand 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 usualand brief.
It informed me of her husband's hopeless stateand hinted at his
being 'a little nearer' than heretoforeand consequently more
difficult to manage for his own comfort. It said nothing of her
weariness and watchingand praised him highly. It was written


with a plainunaffectedhomely piety that I knew to be genuine
and ended with 'my duty to my ever darling' - meaning myself.

While I deciphered itSteerforth continued to eat and drink.

'It's a bad job' he saidwhen I had done; 'but the sun sets every
dayand people die every minuteand we mustn't be scared by the
common lot. If we failed to hold our ownbecause that equal foot
at all men's doors was heard knocking somewhereevery object in
this world would slip from us. No! Ride on! Rough-shod if need
besmooth-shod if that will dobut ride on! Ride on over all
obstaclesand win the race!'

'And win what race?' said I.

'The race that one has started in' said he. 'Ride on!'

I noticedI rememberas he pausedlooking at me with his
handsome head a little thrown backand his glass raised in his
handthatthough the freshness of the sea-wind was on his face
and it was ruddythere were traces in itmade since I last saw
itas if he had applied himself to some habitual strain of the
fervent energy whichwhen rousedwas so passionately roused
within him. I had it in my thoughts to remonstrate with him upon
his desperate way of pursuing any fancy that he took - such as this
buffeting of rough seasand braving of hard weatherfor example

-when my mind glanced off to the immediate subject of our
conversation againand pursued that instead.
'I tell you whatSteerforth' said I'if your high spirits will
listen to me -'

'They are potent spiritsand will do whatever you like' he
answeredmoving from the table to the fireside again.

'Then I tell you whatSteerforth. I think I will go down and see
my old nurse. It is not that I can do her any goodor render her
any real service; but she is so attached to me that my visit will
have as much effect on heras if I could do both. She will take
it so kindly that it will be a comfort and support to her. It is
no great effort to makeI am surefor such a friend as she has
been to me. Wouldn't you go a day's journeyif you were in my
place?'

His face was thoughtfuland he sat considering a little before he
answeredin 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 tonight. I have not seen
my mother this long timeand it lies upon my consciencefor it's
something to be loved as she loves her prodigal son. - Bah!
Nonsense! - You mean to go tomorrowI suppose?' he saidholding
me out at arm's lengthwith a hand on each of my shoulders.

'YesI think so.'

'Wellthendon't go till next day. I wanted you to come and stay
a few days with us. Here I amon purpose to bid youand you fly
off to Yarmouth!'

'You are a nice fellow to talk of flying offSteerforthwho are
always running wild on some unknown expedition or other!'


He looked at me for a moment without speakingand then rejoined
still holding me as beforeand giving me a shake:

'Come! Say the next dayand pass as much of tomorrow as you can
with us! Who knows when we may meet againelse? Come! Say the
next day! I want you to stand between Rosa Dartle and meand keep
us asunder.'

'Would you love each other too muchwithout me?'

'Yes; or hate' laughed Steerforth; 'no matter which. Come! Say
the next day!'

I said the next day; and he put on his great-coat and lighted his
cigarand set off to walk home. Finding him in this intentionI
put on my own great-coat (but did not light my own cigarhaving
had enough of that for one while) and walked with him as far as the
open road: a dull roadthenat night. He was in great spirits
all the way; and when we partedand I looked after him going so
gallantly and airily homewardI thought of his saying'Ride on
over all obstaclesand win the race!' and wishedfor the first
timethat he had some worthy race to run.

I was undressing in my own roomwhen Mr. Micawber's letter tumbled
on the floor. Thus reminded of itI 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 thatwhen Mr. Micawber was at any
particularly desperate crisishe used a sort of legal phraseology
which he seemed to think equivalent to winding up his affairs.

'SIR - for I dare not say my dear Copperfield

'It is expedient that I should inform you that the undersigned is
Crushed. Some flickering efforts to spare you the premature
knowledge of his calamitous positionyou may observe in him this
day; but hope has sunk beneath the horizonand the undersigned is
Crushed.

'The present communication is penned within the personal range (I
cannot call it the society) of an individualin a state closely
bordering on intoxicationemployed by a broker. That individual
is in legal possession of the premisesunder a distress for rent.
His inventory includesnot only the chattels and effects of every
description belonging to the undersignedas yearly tenant of this
habitationbut also those appertaining to Mr. Thomas Traddles
lodgera member of the Honourable Society of the Inner Temple.

'If any drop of gloom were wanting in the overflowing cupwhich is
now "commended" (in the language of an immortal Writer) to the lips
of the undersignedit would be found in the factthat a friendly
acceptance granted to the undersignedby the before-mentioned Mr.
Thomas Traddlesfor the sum Of 23l 4s 9 1/2d is over dueand is
NOT provided for. Alsoin the fact that the living
responsibilities clinging to the undersigned willin the course of
naturebe increased by the sum of one more helpless victim; whose
miserable appearance may be looked for - in round numbers - at the
expiration of a period not exceeding six lunar months from the
present date.

'After premising thus muchit would be a work of supererogation to
addthat dust and ashes are for ever scattered


'On
'The
'Head
'Of
'WILKINS MICAWBER.'

Poor Traddles! I knew enough of Mr. Micawber by this timeto
foresee that he might be expected to recover the blow; but my
night's rest was sorely distressed by thoughts of Traddlesand of
the curate's daughterwho was one of tendown in Devonshireand
who was such a dear girland who would wait for Traddles (ominous
praise!) until she was sixtyor any age that could be mentioned.

CHAPTER 29
I VISIT STEERFORTH AT HIS HOMEAGAIN

I mentioned to Mr. Spenlow in the morningthat I wanted leave of
absence for a short time; and as I was not in the receipt of any
salaryand consequently was not obnoxious to the implacable
Jorkinsthere was no difficulty about it. I took that
opportunitywith my voice sticking in my throatand my sight
failing as I uttered the wordsto express my hope that Miss
Spenlow was quite well; to which Mr. Spenlow repliedwith no more
emotion than if he had been speaking of an ordinary human being
that he was much obliged to meand she was very well.

We articled clerksas germs of the patrician order of proctors
were treated with so much considerationthat I was almost my own
master at all times. As I did not carehoweverto get to
Highgate before one or two o'clock in the dayand as we had
another little excommunication case in court that morningwhich
was called The office of the judge promoted by Tipkins against
Bullock for his soul's correctionI passed an hour or two in
attendance on it with Mr. Spenlow very agreeably. It arose out of
a scuffle between two churchwardensone of whom was alleged to
have pushed the other against a pump; the handle of which pump
projecting into a school-housewhich school-house was under a
gable of the church-roofmade the push an ecclesiastical offence.
It was an amusing case; and sent me up to Highgateon the box of
the stage-coachthinking about the Commonsand what Mr. Spenlow
had said about touching the Commons and bringing down the country.

Mrs. Steerforth was pleased to see meand so was Rosa Dartle. I
was agreeably surprised to find that Littimer was not thereand
that we were attended by a modest little parlour-maidwith blue
ribbons in her capwhose eye it was much more pleasantand much
less disconcertingto catch by accidentthan the eye of that
respectable man. But what I particularly observedbefore I had
been half-an-hour in the housewas the close and attentive watch
Miss Dartle kept upon me; and the lurking manner in which she
seemed to compare my face with Steerforth'sand Steerforth's with
mineand to lie in wait for something to come out between the two.
So surely as I looked towards herdid I see that eager visage
with its gaunt black eyes and searching browintent on mine; or
passing suddenly from mine to Steerforth's; or comprehending both
of us at once. In this lynx-like scrutiny she was so far from
faltering when she saw I observed itthat at such a time she only
fixed her piercing look upon me with a more intent expression
still. Blameless as I wasand knew that I wasin reference to
any wrong she could possibly suspect me ofI shrunk before her


strange eyesquite unable to endure their hungry lustre.

All dayshe seemed to pervade the whole house. If I talked to
Steerforth in his roomI heard her dress rustle in the little
gallery outside. When he and I engaged in some of our old
exercises on the lawn behind the houseI saw her face pass from
window to windowlike a wandering lightuntil it fixed itself in
oneand watched us. When we all four went out walking in the
afternoonshe closed her thin hand on my arm like a springto
keep me backwhile 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 reallythough?'

I replied that I liked it well enoughbut that I certainly could
not claim so much for it.

'Oh! I am glad to know thatbecause 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 excitement
and all that?' said she. 'Ah! very true! But isn't it
a little - Eh? - for him; I don't mean you?'

A quick glance of her eye towards the spot where Steerforth was
walkingwith his mother leaning on his armshowed me whom she
meant; but beyond thatI was quite lost. And I looked soI have
no doubt.

'Don't it - I don't say that it doesmind I want to know - don't
it rather engross him? Don't it make himperhapsa little more
remiss than usual in his visits to his blindly-doting - eh?' With
another quick glance at themand 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 medon't suppose that I think
anything! I am not suspicious. I only ask a question. I don't
state any opinion. I want to found an opinion on what you tell me.
Thenit's not so? Well! I am very glad to know it.'

'It certainly is not the fact' said Iperplexed'that I am
accountable for Steerforth's having been away from home longer than
usual - if he has been: which I really don't know at this moment
unless I understand it from you. I have not seen him this long
whileuntil last night.'

'No?'

'IndeedMiss Dartleno!'

As she looked full at meI saw her face grow sharper and paler
and the marks of the old wound lengthen out until it cut through
the disfigured lipand deep into the nether lipand slanted down
the face. There was something positively awful to me in thisand
in the brightness of her eyesas she saidlooking fixedly at me:


'What is he doing?'

I repeated the wordsmore to myself than herbeing so amazed.

'What is he doing?' she saidwith 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 inscrutable falsehood in his eyes?
If you are honourable and faithfulI don't ask you to betray your
friend. I ask you only to tell meis it angeris it hatredis
it prideis it restlessnessis it some wild fancyis it love
what is itthat is leading him?'

'Miss Dartle' I returned'how shall I tell youso that you will
believe methat I know of nothing in Steerforth different 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 mea twitching or throbbing
from which I could not dissociate the idea of paincame 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 - a hand so thin and delicatethat when I had seen her
hold it up before the fire to shade her faceI had compared it in
my thoughts to fine porcelain - and sayingin a quickfierce
passionate way'I swear you to secrecy about this!' said not a
word more.

Mrs. Steerforth was particularly happy in her son's societyand
Steerforth wason this occasionparticularly attentive and
respectful to her. It was very interesting to me to see them
togethernot only on account of their mutual affectionbut
because of the strong personal resemblance between themand the
manner in which what was haughty or impetuous in him was softened
by age and sexin herto a gracious dignity. I thoughtmore
than oncethat it was well no serious cause of division had ever
come between them; or two such natures - I ought rather to express
ittwo such shades of the same nature - might have been harder to
reconcile than the two extremest opposites in creation. The idea
did not originate in my own discernmentI am bound to confessbut
in a speech of Rosa Dartle's.

She said at dinner:

'Ohbut do tell methoughsomebodybecause I have been thinking
about it all dayand I want to know.'

'You want to know whatRosa?' returned Mrs. Steerforth. 'Pray
prayRosado not be mysterious.'

'Mysterious!' she cried. 'Oh! really? Do you consider me so?'

'Do I constantly entreat you' said Mrs. Steerforth'to speak
plainlyin your own natural manner?'

'Oh! then this is not my natural manner?' she rejoined. 'Now you
must really bear with mebecause I ask for information. We never
know ourselves.'

'It has become a second nature' said Mrs. Steerforthwithout any
displeasure; 'but I remember- and so must youI think- when
your manner was differentRosa; when it was not so guardedand
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 Iimperceptiblyhave changedI wonder! Wellthat's
very odd! I must study to regain my former self.'

'I wish you would' said Mrs. Steerforthwith a smile.

'Oh! I really willyou know!' she answered. 'I will learn
frankness from - let me see - from James.'

'You cannot learn franknessRosa' said Mrs. Steerforth quickly for
there was always some effect of sarcasm in what Rosa Dartle
saidthough it was saidas this wasin the most unconscious
manner in the world - 'in a better school.'

'That I am sure of' she answeredwith uncommon fervour. 'If I am
sure of anythingof courseyou knowI am sure of that.'

Mrs. Steerforth appeared to me to regret having been a little
nettled; for she presently saidin a kind tone:

'Wellmy dear Rosawe have not heard what it is that you want to
be satisfied about?'

'That I want to be satisfied about?' she repliedwith provoking
coldness. 'Oh! It was only whether peoplewho are like each
other in their moral constitution - is that the phrase?'

'It's as good a phrase as another' said Steerforth.

'Thank you: - whether peoplewho are like each other in their
moral constitutionare in greater danger than people not so
circumstancedsupposing any serious cause of variance to arise
between themof being divided angrily and deeply?'

'I should say yes' said Steerforth.

'Should you?' she retorted. 'Dear me! Supposing thenfor
instance - any unlikely thing will do for a supposition - that you
and your mother were to have a serious quarrel.'

'My dear Rosa' interposed Mrs. Steerforthlaughing
good-naturedly'suggest some other supposition! James and I know
our duty to each other betterI pray Heaven!'

'Oh!' said Miss Dartlenodding her head thoughtfully. 'To be
sure. That would prevent it? Whyof course it would. Exactly.
NowI am glad I have been so foolish as to put the casefor it is
so very good to know that your duty to each other would 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 thereafterwhen all the
irremediable past was rendered plain. During the whole of this
daybut especially from this period of itSteerforth exerted
himself with his utmost skilland that was with his utmost ease
to charm this singular creature into a pleasant and pleased
companion. That he should succeedwas no matter of surprise to
me. That she should struggle against the fascinating influence of
his delightful art - delightful nature I thought it then - did not
surprise me either; 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 trymore and
more faintlybut always angrilyas if she condemned a weakness in


herselfto resist the captivating power that he possessed; and
finallyI saw her sharp glance softenand her smile become quite
gentleand I ceased to be afraid of her as I had really been all
dayand we all sat about the firetalking and laughing together
with as little reserve as if we had been children.

Whether it was because we had sat there so longor because
Steerforth was resolved not to lose the advantage he had gainedI
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
Steerforthsoftlyat the drawing-room door'and nobody but my
mother has heard her do thatI believethese three years.' He
said it with a curious smilewhich was gone directly; and we went
into the room and found her alone.

'Don't get up' said Steerforth (which she had already done)' my
dear Rosadon't! Be kind for onceand 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
Daisytooloves 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 heror the chair from which she had risenbut
sat himself near the harp. She stood beside it for some little
whilein a curious waygoing through the motion of playing it
with her right handbut not sounding it. At length she sat down
and drew it to her with one sudden actionand played and sang.

I don't know what it wasin her touch or voicethat made that
song the most unearthly I have ever heard in my lifeor can
imagine. There was something fearful in the reality of it. It was
as if it had never been writtenor set to musicbut sprung out of
passion within her; which found imperfect utterance in the low
sounds of her voiceand crouched again when all was still. I was
dumb when she leaned beside the harp againplaying itbut not
sounding itwith her right hand.

A minute moreand this had roused me from my trance: - Steerforth
had left his seatand gone to herand had put his arm laughingly
about herand had said'ComeRosafor the future we will love
each other very much!' And she had struck himand had thrown him
off with the fury of a wild catand had burst out of the room.

'What is the matter with Rosa?' said Mrs. Steerforthcoming in.

'She has been an angelmother' returned Steerforth'for a little
while; and has run into the opposite extremesinceby way of
compensation.'

'You should be careful not to irritate herJames. Her temper has
been souredrememberand ought not to be tried.'

Rosa did not come back; and no other mention was made of heruntil
I went with Steerforth into his room to say Good night. Then he
laughed about herand 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
expressionand asked if he could guess what it was that she had
taken so much amissso suddenly.

'OhHeaven knows' said Steerforth. 'Anything you like - or


nothing! I told you she took everythingherself includedto a
grindstoneand sharpened it. She is an edge-tooland 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 stoodholding me outwith a
hand on each of my shouldersas he had done in my own room.

'Daisy' he saidwith a smile - 'for though that's not the name
your godfathers and godmothers gave youit's the name I like best
to call you by - and I wishI wishI wishyou could give it to
me!'

'Why so I canif I choose' said I.

'Daisyif anything should ever separate usyou must think of me
at my bestold boy. Come! Let us make that bargain. Think of me
at my bestif circumstances should ever part us!'

'You have no best to meSteerforth' said I'and no worst. You
are always equally lovedand cherished in my heart.'

So much compunction for having ever wronged himeven by a
shapeless thoughtdid I feel within methat the confession of
having done so was rising to my lips. But for the reluctance I had
to betray the confidence of Agnesbut for my uncertainty how to
approach the subject with no risk of doing soit would have
reached them before he said'God bless youDaisyand good
night!' In my doubtit did NOT reach them; and we shook handsand
we parted.

I was up with the dull dawnandhaving dressed as quietly as I
couldlooked into his room. He was fast asleep; lyingeasily
with his head upon his armas I had often seen him lie at school.

The time came in its seasonand that was very soonwhen I almost
wondered that nothing troubled his reposeas I looked at him. But
he slept - let me think of him so again - as I had often seen him
sleep at school; and thusin this silent hourI left him.

-Never moreoh God forgive youSteerforth! to touch that passive
hand in love and friendship. Nevernever more!
CHAPTER 30
A LOSS

I got down to Yarmouth in the eveningand went to the inn. I knew
that Peggotty's spare room - my room - was likely to have
occupation enough in a little whileif that great Visitorbefore
whose presence all the living must give placewere not already in
the house; so I betook myself to the innand dined thereand
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'sI found
the shutters upbut the shop door standing open. As I could
obtain a perspective view of Mr. Omer insidesmoking his pipe by
the parlour doorI enteredand asked him how he was.


'Whybless my life and soul!' said Mr. Omer'how do you find
yourself? Take a seat. - Smoke not disagreeableI hope?'

'By no means' said I. 'I like it - in somebody else's pipe.'

'Whatnot in your owneh?' Mr. Omer returnedlaughing. 'All the
bettersir. Bad habit for a young man. Take a seat. I smoke
myselffor the asthma.'

Mr. Omer had made room for meand placed a chair. He now sat down
again very much out of breathgasping at his pipe as if it
contained a supply of that necessarywithout which he must perish.

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

Mr. Omer looked at mewith a steady countenanceand shook his
head.

'Do you know how he is tonight?' I asked.

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

The difficulty had not occurred to me; though I had had my
apprehensions toowhen I went inof hearing the old tune. On its
being mentionedI recognized ithoweverand said as much.

'Yesyesyou understand' said Mr. Omernodding his head. 'We
dursn't do it. Bless youit would be a shock that the generality
of parties mightn't recoverto say "Omer and Joram's compliments
and how do you find yourself this morning?" - or this afternoon as
it may be.'

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

'It's one of the things that cut the trade off from attentions they
could often wish to show' said Mr. Omer. 'Take myself. If I have
known Barkis a yearto move to as he went byI have known him
forty years. But I can't go and sayhow is he?'

I felt it was rather hard on Mr. Omerand I told him so.

'I'm not more self-interestedI hopethan another man' said Mr.
Omer. 'Look at me! My wind may fail me at any momentand it
ain't likely thatto my own knowledgeI'd be self-interested
under such circumstances. I say it ain't likelyin a man who
knows his wind will gowhen it DOES goas 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 goesno doubtto all
callings. What I wish isthat parties was brought up
stronger-minded.'

Mr. Omerwith a very complacent and amiable facetook several
puffs in silence; and then saidresuming his first point:

'Accordingly we're obleegedin ascertaining how Barkis goes onto
limit ourselves to Em'ly. She knows what our real objects areand


she don't have any more alarms or suspicions about usthan if we
was so many lambs. Minnie and Joram have just stepped down to the
housein fact (she's thereafter hourshelping her aunt a bit)
to ask her how he is tonight; and if you was to please to wait till
they come backthey'd give you full partic'lers. Will you take
something? A glass of srub and waternow? I smoke on srub and
watermyself' said Mr. Omertaking up his glass'because it's
considered softening to the passagesby which this troublesome
breath of mine gets into action. ButLord bless you' said Mr.
Omerhuskily'it ain't the passages that's out of order! "Give
me breath enough said I to my daughter Minnie, and I'll find
passagesmy dear."'

He really had no breath to spareand it was very alarming to see
him laugh. When he was again in a condition to be talked toI
thanked him for the proffered refreshmentwhich I declinedas I
had just had dinner; andobserving that I would waitsince he was
so good as to invite meuntil his daughter and his son-in-law came
backI inquired how little Emily was?

'Wellsir' said Mr. Omerremoving his pipethat he might rub
his chin: 'I tell you trulyI shall be glad when her marriage has
taken place.'

'Why so?' I inquired.

'Wellshe's unsettled at present' said Mr. Omer. 'It ain't that
she's not as pretty as everfor she's prettier - I do assure you
she is prettier. It ain't that she don't work as well as everfor
she does. She WAS worth any sixand she IS worth any six. But
somehow she wants heart. If you understand' said Mr. Omerafter
rubbing his chin againand smoking a little'what I mean in a
general way by the expressionA long pull, and a strong pull, and
a pull altogether, my hearties, hurrah!I should say to youthat
that was - in a general way - what I miss in Em'ly.'

Mr. Omer's face and manner went for so muchthat I could
conscientiously nod my headas divining his meaning. My quickness
of apprehension seemed to please himand he went on:
'Now I consider this is principally on account of her being in an
unsettled stateyou see. We have talked it over a good dealher
uncle and myselfand her sweetheart and myselfafter business;
and I consider it is principally on account of her being unsettled.
You must always recollect of Em'ly' said Mr. Omershaking his
head gently'that she's a most extraordinary affectionate little
thing. The proverb saysYou can't make a silk purse out of a
sow's ear.WellI 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
boatsirthat stone and marble couldn't beat.'

'I am sure she has!' said I.

'To see the clinging of that pretty little thing to her uncle'
said Mr. Omer; 'to see the way she holds on to himtighter and
tighterand closer and closerevery dayis to see a sight. Now
you knowthere's a struggle going on when that's the case. Why
should it be made a longer one than is needful?'

I listened attentively to the good old fellowand acquiescedwith
all my heartin what he said.

'ThereforeI mentioned to them' said Mr. Omerin a comfortable
easy-going tone'this. I saidNow, 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 supposed; Omer and Joram can run their
pen through what remains; and she's free when you wish. If she
likes to make any little arrangement, afterwards, in the way of
doing any little thing for us at home, very well. If she don't,
very well still. We're no losers, anyhow.For - don't you see'
said Mr. Omertouching me with his pipe'it ain't likely that a
man so short of breath as myselfand a grandfather toowould go
and strain points with a little bit of a blue-eyed blossomlike
her?'

'Not at allI am certain' said I.

'Not at all! You're right!' said Mr. Omer. 'Wellsirher cousin

-you know it's a cousin she's going to be married to?'
'Oh yes' I replied. 'I know him well.'

'Of course you do' said Mr. Omer. 'Wellsir! Her cousin being
as it appearsin good workand well to dothanked me in a very
manly sort of manner for this (conducting himself altogetherI
must sayin 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 throughas
neat and complete as a doll's parlour; and but for Barkis's illness
having taken this bad turnpoor fellowthey would have been man
and wife - I dare sayby this time. As it isthere's a
postponement.'

'And EmilyMr. Omer?' I inquired. 'Has she become more settled?'

'Why thatyou know' he returnedrubbing his double chin again
'can't naturally be expected. The prospect of the change and
separationand all thatisas one may sayclose to her and far
away from herboth at once. Barkis's death needn't put it off
muchbut his lingering might. Anywayit's an uncertain state of
mattersyou see.'

'I see' said I.

'Consequently' pursued Mr. Omer'Em'ly's still a little downand
a little fluttered; perhapsupon the wholeshe's more so than she
was. Every day she seems to get fonder and fonder of her uncle
and more loth to part from all of us. A kind word from me brings
the tears into her eyes; and if you was to see her with my daughter
Minnie's little girlyou'd never forget it. Bless my heart
alive!' said Mr. Omerpondering'how she loves that child!'

Having so favourable an opportunityit occurred to me to ask Mr.
Omerbefore our conversation should be interrupted by the return
of his daughter and her husbandwhether he knew anything of
Martha.

'Ah!' he rejoinedshaking his headand looking very much
dejected. 'No good. A sad storysirhowever 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 - for she'd take me up
directly - but I never did. None of us ever did.'

Mr. Omerhearing his daughter's footstep before I heard it
touched me with his pipeand shut up one eyeas a caution. She
and her husband came in immediately afterwards.

Their report wasthat Mr. Barkis was 'as bad as bad could be';


that he was quite unconscious; and that Mr. Chillip had mournfully
said in the kitchenon going away just nowthat the College of
Physiciansthe College of Surgeonsand Apothecaries' Hallif
they were all called in togethercouldn't help him. He was past
both CollegesMr. Chillip saidand the Hall could only poison
him.

Hearing thisand learning that Mr. Peggotty was thereI
determined to go to the house at once. I bade good night to Mr.
Omerand to Mr. and Mrs. Joram; and directed my steps thither
with a solemn feelingwhich 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
Peggottytoowhen she came down; and I have seen it since; and I
thinkin the expectation of that dread surpriseall other changes
and surprises dwindle into nothing.

I shook hands with Mr. Peggottyand passed into the kitchenwhile
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; listeningbetween whilesfor any sound in
the room above. I had not thought of it on the occasion of my last
visitbut how strange it was to menowto miss Mr. Barkis out of
the kitchen!

'This is very kind of youMas'r Davy' said Mr. Peggotty.

'It's oncommon kind' said Ham.

'Em'lymy dear' cried Mr. Peggotty. 'See here! Here's Mas'r
Davy come! Whatcheer uppretty! Not a wured to Mas'r Davy?'

There was a trembling upon herthat I can see now. The coldness
of her hand when I touched itI can feel yet. Its only sign of
animation was to shrink from mine; and then she glided from the
chairand creeping to the other side of her unclebowed herself
silently and trembling stillupon his breast.

'It's such a loving art' said Mr. Peggottysmoothing her rich
hair with his great hard hand'that it can't abear the sorrer of
this. It's nat'ral in young folkMas'r Davywhen they're new to
these here trialsand timidlike my little bird- it's nat'ral.'

She clung the closer to himbut neither lifted up her facenor
spoke a word.

'It's getting latemy 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? Ehmy pretty?'

The sound of her voice had not reached mebut he bent his head as
if he listened to herand then said:

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


'Em'ly's in the right in thatMas'r Davy!' said Ham. 'Lookee
here! As Em'ly wishes of itand as she's hurried and frightened
likebesidesI'll leave her till morning. Let me stay too!'

'Nono' said Mr. Peggotty. 'You doen't ought - a married man
like you - or what's as good - to take and hull away a day's work.
And you doen't ought to watch and work both. That won't do. You
go home and turn in. You ain't afeerd of Em'ly not being took good
care onI know.'
Ham yielded to this persuasionand took his hat to go. Even when
he kissed her. - and I never saw him approach herbut I felt that
nature had given him the soul of a gentleman - she seemed to cling
closer to her uncleeven to the avoidance of her chosen husband.
I shut the door after himthat it might cause no disturbance of
the quiet that prevailed; and when I turned backI found Mr.
Peggotty still talking to her.

'NowI'm a going upstairs 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
firethe whilemy dearand warm those mortal cold hands. You
doen't need to be so fearsomeand take on so much. What? You'll
go along with me? - Well! come along with me - come! If her uncle
was turned out of house and homeand forced to lay down in a dyke
Mas'r Davy' said Mr. Peggottywith no less pride than before
'it's my belief she'd go along with himnow! But there'll be
someone elsesoon- someone elsesoonEm'ly!'

Afterwardswhen I went upstairsas I passed the door of my little
chamberwhich was darkI had an indistinct impression of her
being within itcast down upon the floor. Butwhether it was
really sheor whether it was a confusion of the shadows in the
roomI don't know now.

I had leisure to thinkbefore the kitchen fireof pretty little
Emily's dread of death - whichadded to what Mr. Omer had told me
I took to be the cause of her being so unlike herself - and I had
leisurebefore Peggotty came downeven to think more leniently of
the weakness of it: as I sat counting the ticking of the clockand
deepening my sense of the solemn hush around me. Peggotty took me
in her armsand 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 upstairssobbing that Mr.
Barkis had always liked me and admired me; that he had often talked
of mebefore he fell into a stupor; and that she believedin case
of his coming to himself againhe would brighten up at sight of
meif he could brighten up at any earthly thing.

The probability of his ever doing soappeared to mewhen I saw
himto be very small. He was lying with his head and shoulders
out of bedin an uncomfortable attitudehalf resting on the box
which had cost him so much pain and trouble. I learnedthatwhen
he was past creeping out of bed to open itand past assuring
himself of its safety by means of the divining rod I had seen him
usehe had required to have it placed on the chair at the
bed-sidewhere he had ever since embraced itnight and day. His
arm lay on it now. Time and the world were slipping from beneath
himbut the box was there; and the last words he had uttered were
(in an explanatory tone) 'Old clothes!'

'Barkismy dear!' said Peggottyalmost cheerfully: bending over
himwhile her brother and I stood at the bed's foot. 'Here's my
dear boy - my dear boyMaster Davywho brought us together
Barkis! That you sent messages byyou know! Won't you speak to
Master Davy?'


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

'He's a going out with the tide' said Mr. Peggotty to mebehind
his hand.

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

'People can't diealong the coast' said Mr. Peggotty'except
when the tide's pretty nigh out. They can't be bornunless it's
pretty nigh in - not properly borntill flood. He's a going out
with the tide. It's ebb at half-arter threeslack water half an
hour. If he lives till it turnshe'll hold his own till past the
floodand go out with the next tide.'

We remained therewatching hima long time - hours. What
mysterious influence my presence had upon him in that state of his
sensesI shall not pretend to say; but when he at last began to
wander feeblyit is certain he was muttering about driving me to
school.

'He's coming to himself' said Peggotty.

Mr. Peggotty touched meand whispered with much awe and reverence.
'They are both a-going out fast.'

'Barkismy 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 mewhen he tried to
stretch out his armand said to medistinctlywith a pleasant
smile:

'Barkis is willin'!'

Andit being low waterhe went out with the tide.

CHAPTER 31
A GREATER LOSS

It was not difficult for meon Peggotty's solicitationto resolve
to stay where I wasuntil after the remains of the poor carrier
should have made their last journey to Blunderstone. She had long
ago boughtout of her own savingsa 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 companyand doing all I could for her (little
enough at the utmost)I was as gratefulI rejoice to thinkas
even now I could wish myself to have been. But I am afraid I had
a supreme satisfactionof a personal and professional naturein
taking charge of Mr. Barkis's willand expounding its contents.

I may claim the merit of having originated the suggestion that the
will should be looked for in the box. After some searchit was


found in the boxat the bottom of a horse's nose-bag; wherein
(besides hay) there was discovered an old gold watchwith chain
and sealswhich Mr. Barkis had worn on his wedding-dayand which
had never been seen before or since; a silver tobacco-stopperin
the form of a leg; an imitation lemonfull of minute cups and
saucerswhich I have some idea Mr. Barkis must have purchased to
present to me when I was a childand afterwards found himself
unable to part with; eighty-seven guineas and a halfin guineas
and half-guineas; two hundred and ten poundsin perfectly clean
Bank notes; certain receipts for Bank of England stock; an old
horseshoea bad shillinga piece of camphorand an oyster-shell.
From the circumstance of the latter article having been much
polishedand displaying prismatic colours on the insideI
conclude that Mr. Barkis had some general ideas about pearlswhich
never resolved themselves into anything definite.

For years and yearsMr. Barkis had carried this boxon all his
journeysevery day. That it might the better escape noticehe
had invented a fiction that it belonged to 'Mr. Blackboy'and was
'to be left with Barkis till called for'; a fable he had
elaborately written on the lidin characters now scarcely legible.

He had hoardedall these yearsI foundto 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 deceasethe principal to be equally divided
between Peggottylittle Emilyand meor the survivor or
survivors of usshare and share alike. All the rest he died
possessed ofhe bequeathed to Peggotty; whom he left residuary
legateeand sole executrix of that his last will and testament.

I felt myself quite a proctor when I read this document aloud with
all possible ceremonyand set forth its provisionsany number of
timesto 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 attentionpronounced it perfectly formal in all
respectsmade a pencil-mark or so in the marginand thought it
rather extraordinary that I knew so much.

In this abstruse pursuit; in making an account for Peggottyof all
the property into which she had come; in arranging all the affairs
in an orderly manner; and in being her referee and adviser on every
pointto our joint delight; I passed the week before the funeral.
I did not see little Emily in that intervalbut they told me she
was to be quietly married in a fortnight.

I did not attend the funeral in characterif I may venture to say
so. I mean I was not dressed up in a black coat and a streamerto
frighten the birds; but I walked over to Blunderstone early in the
morningand was in the churchyard when it cameattended only by
Peggotty and her brother. The mad gentleman looked onout of my
little window; Mr. Chillip's baby wagged its heavy headand rolled
its goggle eyesat the clergymanover its nurse's shoulder; Mr.
Omer breathed short in the background; no one else was there; and
it was very quiet. We walked about the churchyard for an hour
after all was over; and pulled some young leaves from the tree
above my mother's grave.

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

It is no worsebecause I write of it. It would be no betterif


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 dayon the business
of the will. Little Emily was passing that day at Mr. Omer's. We
were all to meet in the old boathouse that night. Ham would bring
Emily at the usual hour. I would walk back at my leisure. The
brother and sister would return as they had comeand be expecting
uswhen the day closed inat the fireside.

I parted from them at the wicket-gatewhere visionary Strap had
rested with Roderick Random's knapsack in the days of yore; and
instead of going straight backwalked a little distance on the
road to Lowestoft. Then I turnedand walked back towards
Yarmouth. I stayed to dine at a decent alehousesome 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 timeand it was a wild night; but there was a moon behind the
cloudsand it was not dark.

I was soon within sight of Mr. Peggotty's houseand of the light
within it shining through the window. A little floundering across
the sandwhich was heavybrought me to the doorand 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 brightthe ashes were thrown upthe locker was ready
for little Emily in her old place. In her own old place sat
Peggottyonce morelooking (but for her dress) as if she had
never left it. She had fallen backalreadyon the society of the
work-box with St. Paul's upon the lidthe yard-measure in the
cottageand the bit of wax-candle; and there they all werejust
as if they had never been disturbed. Mrs. Gummidge appeared to be
fretting a littlein her old corner; and consequently looked quite
naturaltoo.

'You're first of the lotMas'r Davy!' said Mr. Peggotty with a
happy face. 'Doen't keep in that coatsirif it's wet.'

'Thank youMr. Peggotty' said Igiving him my outer coat to hang
up. 'It's quite dry.'

'So 'tis!' said Mr. Peggottyfeeling my shoulders. 'As a chip!
Sit ye downsir. It ain't o' no use saying welcome to youbut
you're welcomekind and hearty.'

'Thank youMr. PeggottyI am sure of that. WellPeggotty!' said
Igiving her a kiss. 'And how are youold woman?'

'Haha!' laughed Mr. Peggottysitting down beside usand rubbing
his hands in his sense of relief from recent troubleand in the
genuine heartiness of his nature; 'there's not a woman in the
wureldsir - as I tell her - that need to feel more easy in her
mind than her! She done her dooty by the departedand the
departed know'd it; and the departed done what was right by heras
she done what was right by the departed; - and - and - and it's all
right!'

Mrs. Gummidge groaned.

'Cheer upmy pritty mawther!' said Mr. Peggotty. (But he shook
his head aside at usevidently sensible of the tendency of the
late occurrences to recall the memory of the old one.) 'Doen't be
down! Cheer upfor your own selfon'y a little bitand see if


a good deal more doen't come nat'ral!'

'Not to meDan'l' returned Mrs. Gummidge. 'Nothink's nat'ral to
me but to be lone and lorn.'

'Nono' said Mr. Peggottysoothing her sorrows.

'YesyesDan'l!' said Mrs. Gummidge. 'I ain't a person to live
with them as has had money left. Thinks go too contrary with me.
I had better be a riddance.'

'Whyhow 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 nowthan ever I did?'

'I know'd I was never wanted before!' cried Mrs. Gummidgewith a
pitiable whimper'and now I'm told so! How could I expect to be
wantedbeing so lone and lornand so contrary!'

Mr. Peggotty seemed very much shocked at himself for having made a
speech capable of this unfeeling constructionbut was prevented
from replyingby Peggotty's pulling his sleeveand shaking her
head. After looking at Mrs. Gummidge for some momentsin sore
distress of mindhe glanced at the Dutch clockrosesnuffed the
candleand put it in the window.

'Theer!'said Mr. Peggottycheerily.'Theer we areMissis
Gummidge!' Mrs. Gummidge slightly groaned. 'Lighted upaccordin'
to custom! You're a wonderin' what that's fursir! Wellit's
fur our little Em'ly. You seethe path ain't over light or
cheerful arter dark; and when I'm here at the hour as she's a
comin' homeI puts the light in the winder. Thatyou see' said
Mr. Peggottybending over me with great glee'meets two objects.
She sayssays Em'lyTheer's home!she says. And likewisesays
Em'lyMy uncle's theer!Fur if I ain't theerI never have no
light showed.'

'You're a baby!' said Peggotty; very fond of him for itif she
thought so.

'Well' returned Mr. Peggottystanding with his legs pretty wide
apartand rubbing his hands up and down them in his comfortable
satisfactionas he looked alternately at us and at the fire. 'I
doen't know but I am. Notyou seeto look at.'

'Not azackly' observed Peggotty.

'No' laughed Mr. Peggotty'not to look atbut to - to consider
onyou know. I doen't carebless you! Now I tell you. When I
go a looking and looking about that theer pritty house of our
Em'ly'sI'm - I'm Gormed' said Mr. Peggottywith sudden emphasis

-'theer! I can't say more - if I doen't feel as if the littlest
things was hera'most. I takes 'em up and I put 'em downand I
touches of 'em as delicate as if they was our Em'ly. So 'tis with
her little bonnets and that. I couldn't see one on 'em rough used
a purpose - not fur the whole wureld. There's a babby fur youin
the form of a great Sea Porkypine!' said Mr. Peggottyrelieving
his earnestness with a roar of laughter.
Peggotty and I both laughedbut not so loud.

'It's my opinionyou see' said Mr. Peggottywith a delighted
faceafter some further rubbing of his legs'as this is along of
my havin' played with her so muchand made believe as we was


Turksand Frenchand sharksand every wariety of forinners bless
youyes; and lions and whalesand I doen't know what all!

-when she warn't no higher than my knee. I've got into the way on
ityou know. Whythis here candlenow!' said Mr. Peggotty
gleefully holding out his hand towards it'I know wery well that
arter she's married and goneI shall put that candle theerjust
the same as now. I know wery well that when I'm here o' nights
(and where else should I livebless your artswhatever fortun' I
come into!) and she ain't here or I ain't theerI shall put the
candle in the winderand sit afore the firepretending I'm
expecting of herlike I'm a doing now. THERE'S a babby for you'
said Mr. Peggottywith another roar'in the form of a Sea
Porkypine! Whyat the present minutewhen I see the candle
sparkle upI says to myselfShe's a looking at it! Em'ly's a
coming!THERE'S a babby for youin the form of a Sea Porkypine!
Right for all that' said Mr. Peggottystopping in his roarand
smiting his hands together; 'fur here she is!'
It was only Ham. The night should have turned more wet since I
came infor he had a large sou'wester hat onslouched over his
face.

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

Ham made a motion with his headas if she were outside. Mr.
Peggotty took the light from the windowtrimmed itput it on the
tableand was busily stirring the firewhen Hamwho had not
movedsaid:

'Mas'r Davywill you come out a minuteand see what Em'ly and me
has got to show you?'

We went out. As I passed him at the doorI sawto my
astonishment and frightthat he was deadly pale. He pushed me
hastily into the open airand closed the door upon us. Only upon
us two.

'Ham! what's the matter?'

'Mas'r Davy! -' Ohfor his broken hearthow dreadfully he wept!

I was paralysed by the sight of such grief. I don't know what I
thoughtor what I dreaded. I could only look at him.

'Ham! Poor good fellow! For Heaven's saketell me what's the
matter!'

'My loveMas'r Davy - the pride and hope of my art - her that I'd
have died forand would die for now - she's gone!'

'Gone!'

'Em'ly's run away! OhMas'r Davythink HOW she's run awaywhen
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 skythe quivering of his
clasped handsthe agony of his figureremain associated with the
lonely wastein my remembranceto this hour. It is always night
thereand he is the only object in the scene.

'You're a scholar' he saidhurriedly'and know what's right and
best. What am I to sayindoors? How am I ever to break it to
himMas'r Davy?'


I saw the door moveand instinctively tried to hold the latch on
the outsideto 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 usif I were to live five hundred
years.

I remember a great wail and cryand the women hanging about him
and we all standing in the room; I with a paper in my handwhich
Ham had given me; Mr. Peggottywith his vest torn openhis hair
wildhis face and lips quite whiteand blood trickling down his
bosom (it had sprung from his mouthI think)looking fixedly at
me.

'Read itsir' he saidin a low shivering voice. 'Slowplease.
I doen't know as I can understand.'

In the midst of the silence of deathI read thusfrom a blotted
letter:

'"When youwho love me so much better than I ever have deserved
even when my mind was innocentsee thisI shall be far away."'

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

'"When I leave my dear home - my dear home - ohmy dear home! - in
the morning'

the letter bore date on the previous night:

'- it will be never to come backunless he brings me back a lady.
This will be found at nightmany hours afterinstead of me. Oh
if you knew how my heart is torn. If even youthat I have wronged
so muchthat never can forgive mecould only know what I suffer!
I am too wicked to write about myself! Ohtake comfort in
thinking that I am so bad. Ohfor mercy's saketell uncle that
I never loved him half so dear as now. Ohdon't remember how
affectionate and kind you have all been to me - don't remember we
were ever to be married - but try to think as if I died when I was
littleand was buried somewhere. Pray Heaven that I am going away
fromhave 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 uncleand be true to youand worthy of you
and know no shame but me. God bless all! I'll pray for all
oftenon my knees. If he don't bring me back a ladyand I don't
pray for my own selfI'll pray for all. My parting love to uncle.
My last tearsand my last thanksfor uncle!"'

That was all.

He stoodlong after I had ceased to readstill looking at me. At
length I ventured to take his handand to entreat himas well as
I couldto endeavour to get some command of himself. He replied
'I thankeesirI thankee!' without moving.

Ham spoke to him. Mr. Peggotty was so far sensible of HIS
afflictionthat he wrung his hand; butotherwisehe remained in
the same stateand no one dared to disturb him.


Slowlyat lasthe moved his eyes from my faceas if he were
waking from a visionand cast them round the room. Then he said
in a low voice:

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

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

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

'Mas'r Davy!' implored Ham. 'Go out a bitand let me tell him
what I must. You doen't ought to hear itsir.'

I felt the shock again. I sank down in a chairand tried to utter
some reply; but my tongue was fetteredand 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 servant about
hereat odd times. There's been a gen'lm'n too. Both of 'em
belonged to one another.'

Mr. Peggotty stood fixed as beforebut now looking at him.

'The servant' pursued Ham'was seen along with - our poor girl last
night. He's been in hiding about herethis week or over. He
was thought to have gonebut he was hiding. Doen't stayMas'r
Davydoen't!'

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

'A strange chay and hosses was outside townthis morningon the
Norwich roada'most afore the day broke' Ham went on. 'The
servant went to itand come from itand went to it again. When
he went to it againEm'ly was nigh him. The t'other was inside.
He's the man.'

'For the Lord's love' said Mr. Peggottyfalling backand putting
out his handas if to keep off what he dreaded. 'Doen't tell me
his name's Steerforth!'

'Mas'r Davy' exclaimed Hamin a broken voice'it ain't no fault
of yourn - and I am far from laying of it to you - but his name is
Steerforthand he's a damned villain!'

Mr. Peggotty uttered no cryand shed no tearand moved no more
until he seemed to wake againall at onceand pulled down his
rough coat from its peg in a corner.

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

Ham asked him whither he was going.

'I'm a going to seek my niece. I'm a going to seek my Em'ly. I'm
a goingfirstto stave in that theer boatand sink it where I
would have drownded himas I'm a living soulif I had had one
thought of what was in him! As he sat afore me' he saidwildly
holding out his clenched right hand'as he sat afore meface to
facestrike me down deadbut I'd have drownded himand thought
it right! - I'm a going to seek my niece.'


'Where?' cried Haminterposing 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 shameand bring her back. No
one stop me! I tell you I'm a going to seek my niece!'

'Nono!' cried Mrs. Gummidgecoming between themin a fit of
crying. 'NonoDan'lnot as you are now. Seek her in a little
whilemy lone lorn Dan'land that'll be but right! but not as you
are now. Sit ye downand give me your forgiveness for having ever
been a worrit to youDan'l - what have my contraries ever been to
this! - and let us speak a word about them times when she was first
an orphanand when Ham was tooand when I was a poor widder
womanand you took me in. It'll soften your poor heartDan'l'
laying her head upon his shoulder'and you'll bear your sorrow
better; for you know the promiseDan'lAs you have done it unto
one of the least of these, you have done it unto me- and that can
never fail under this roofthat's been our shelter for so many
many year!'

He was quite passive now; and when I heard him cryingthe impulse
that had been upon me to go down upon my kneesand ask their
pardon for the desolation I had causedand curse Steer- forth
yielded to a better feelingMy overcharged heart found the same
reliefand I cried too.

CHAPTER 32
THE BEGINNING OF A LONG JOURNEY

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

YesSteerforthlong removed from the scenes of this poor history!
My sorrow may bear involuntary witness against you at the judgement
Throne; but my angry thoughts or my reproaches never willI know!

The news of what had happened soon spread through the town;
insomuch that as I passed along the streets next morningI
overheard the people speaking of it at their doors. Many were hard
upon hersome few were hard upon himbut towards her second
father and her lover there was but one sentiment. Among all kinds
of people a respect for them in their distress prevailedwhich was
full of gentleness and delicacy. The seafaring men kept apart


when those two were seen earlywalking with slow steps on the
beach; and stood in knotstalking compassionately among
themselves.

It was on the beachclose down by the seathat I found them. It
would have been easy to perceive that they had not slept all last
nighteven if Peggotty had failed to tell me of their still
sitting just as I left themwhen 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 itselfthen lying beneath a dark sky
waveless - yet with a heavy roll upon itas if it breathed in its
rest - and touchedon the horizonwith a strip of silvery light
from the unseen sun.

'We have had a mort of talksir' said Mr. Peggotty to mewhen 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 Hamthen looking out to sea upon the
distant lightand a frightful thought came into my mind - not that
his face was angryfor it was not; I recall nothing but an
expression of stern determination in it - that if ever he
encountered Steerforthhe would kill him.

'My dooty heresir' said Mr. Peggotty'is done. I'm a going to
seek my -' he stoppedand went on in a firmer voice: 'I'm a going
to seek her. That's my dooty evermore.'

He shook his head when I asked him where he would seek herand
inquired if I were going to London tomorrow? I told him I had not
gone todayfearing 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 yousir' he rejoined'if you're agreeable
tomorrow.'

We walked againfor a whilein silence.

'Ham'he presently resumed'he'll hold to his present workand go
and live along with my sister. The old boat yonder -'

'Will you desert the old boatMr. Peggotty?' I gently interposed.

'My stationMas'r Davy' he returned'ain't there no longer; and
if ever a boat founderedsince there was darkness on the face of
the deepthat one's gone down. But nosirno; I doen't mean as
it should be deserted. Fur from that.'

We walked again for a whileas beforeuntil he explained:

'My wishes issiras it shall lookday and nightwinter and
summeras it has always lookedsince she fust know'd it. If ever
she should come a wandering backI wouldn't have the old place
seem to cast her offyou understandbut seem to tempt her to draw
nigher to 'tand to peep inmaybelike a ghostout of the wind
and rainthrough the old winderat the old seat by the fire.
ThenmaybeMas'r Davyseein' none but Missis Gummidge thereshe
might take heart to creep intrembling; and might come to be laid
down in her old bedand rest her weary head where it was once so
gay.'

I could not speak to him in replythough I tried.


'Every night' said Mr. Peggotty'as reg'lar as the night comes
the candle must be stood in its old pane of glassthat if ever she
should see itit may seem to say "Come backmy childcome back!"
If ever there's a knockHam (partic'ler a soft knock)arter dark
at your aunt's doordoen't you go nigh it. Let it be her - not
you - that sees my fallen child!'


He walked a little in front of usand kept before us for some
minutes. During this intervalI glanced at Ham againand
observing the same expression on his faceand his eyes still
directed to the distant lightI touched his arm.


Twice I called him by his namein the tone in which I might have
tried to rouse a sleeperbefore he heeded me. When I at last
inquired on what his thoughts were so benthe replied:


'On what's afore meMas'r Davy; and over yon.'
'On the life before youdo you mean?' He had pointed confusedly
out to sea.


'AyMas'r Davy. I doen't rightly know how 'tisbut from over yon
there seemed to me to come - the end of it like' looking at me as
if he were wakingbut with the same determined face.


'What end?' I askedpossessed by my former fear.


'I doen't know'he saidthoughtfully; 'I was calling to mind that
the beginning of it all did take place here - and then the end
come. But it's gone! Mas'r Davy' he added; answeringas I
thinkmy look; 'you han't no call to be afeerd of me: but I'm
kiender muddled; I don't fare to feel no matters' - which was as
much as to say that he was not himselfand quite confounded.


Mr. Peggotty stopping for us to join him: we did soand said no
more. The remembrance of thisin connexion with my former
thoughthoweverhaunted me at intervalseven until the
inexorable end came at its appointed time.


We insensibly approached the old boatand entered. Mrs. Gummidge
no longer moping in her especial cornerwas busy preparing
breakfast. She took Mr. Peggotty's hatand placed his seat for
himand spoke so comfortably and softlythat I hardly knew her.


'Dan'lmy good man' said she'you must eat and drinkand keep
up your strengthfor without it you'll do nowt. Trythat's a
dear soul! An if I disturb you with my clicketten' she meant her
chattering'tell me soDan'land I won't.'


When she had served us allshe withdrew to the windowwhere she
sedulously employed herself in repairing some shirts and other
clothes belonging to Mr. Peggottyand neatly folding and packing
them in an old oilskin bagsuch as sailors carry. Meanwhileshe
continued talkingin the same quiet manner:


'All times and seasonsyou knowDan'l' said Mrs. Gummidge'I
shall be allus hereand everythink will look accordin' to your
wishes. I'm a poor scholarbut I shall write to youodd times
when you're awayand send my letters to Mas'r Davy. Maybe you'll
write to me tooDan'lodd timesand tell me how you fare to feel
upon your lone lorn journies.'


'You'll be a solitary woman heerI'm afeerd!' said Mr. Peggotty.


'NonoDan'l' she returned'I shan't be that. Doen't you mind



me. I shall have enough to do to keep a Beein for you' (Mrs.
Gummidge meant a home)'again you come back - to keep a Beein here
for any that may hap to come backDan'l. In the fine timeI
shall set outside the door as I used to do. If any should come
nighthey shall see the old widder woman true to 'ema long way
off.'

What a change in Mrs. Gummidge in a little time! She was another
woman. She was so devotedshe had such a quick perception of what
it would be well to sayand what it would be well to leave unsaid;
she was so forgetful of herselfand so regardful of the sorrow
about herthat I held her in a sort of veneration. The work she
did that day! There were many things to be brought up from the
beach and stored in the outhouse - as oarsnetssailscordage
sparslobster-potsbags of ballastand the like; and though
there was abundance of assistance renderedthere being not a pair
of working hands on all that shore but would have laboured hard for
Mr. Peggottyand been well paid in being asked to do ityet she
persistedall day longin toiling under weights that she was
quite unequal toand fagging to and fro on all sorts of
unnecessary errands. As to deploring her misfortunesshe appeared
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 falteror a tear to escape from her
eyesthe whole day throughuntil twilight; when she and I and Mr.
Peggotty being alone togetherand he having fallen asleep in
perfect exhaustionshe broke into a half-suppressed fit of sobbing
and cryingand taking me to the doorsaid'Ever bless youMas'r
Davybe a friend to himpoor dear!' Thenshe immediately ran out
of the house to wash her facein order that she might sit quietly
beside himand be found at work therewhen he should awake. In
short I left herwhen I went away at nightthe prop and staff of
Mr. Peggotty's affliction; and I could not meditate enough upon the
lesson that I read in Mrs. Gummidgeand the new experience she
unfolded to me.

It was between nine and ten o'clock whenstrolling in a melancholy
manner through the townI stopped at Mr. Omer's door. Mr. Omer
had taken it so much to hearthis daughter told methat he had
been very low and poorly all dayand had gone to bed without his
pipe.

'A deceitfulbad-hearted girl' said Mrs. Joram. 'There was no
good in herever!'

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

'YesI do!' cried Mrs. Joramangrily.

'Nono' said I.

Mrs. Joram tossed her headendeavouring to be very stern and
cross; but she could not command her softer selfand began to cry.
I was youngto be sure; but I thought much the better of her for
this sympathyand fancied it became heras a virtuous wife and
mothervery well indeed.

'What will she ever do!' sobbed Minnie. 'Where will she go! What
will become of her! Ohhow could she be so cruelto herself and
him!'

I remembered the time when Minnie was a young and pretty girl; and


I was glad she remembered it tooso feelingly.

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

Mrs. Joram was so unhappy that her husband came out to take care of
her. Leaving them togetherI went home to Peggotty's; more
melancholy myselfif possiblethan I had been yet.

That good creature - I mean Peggotty - all untired by her late
anxieties and sleepless nightswas at her brother'swhere she
meant to stay till morning. An old womanwho had been employed
about the house for some weeks pastwhile Peggotty had been unable
to attend to itwas the house's only other occupant besides
myself. As I had no occasion for her servicesI sent her to bed
by no means against her willand sat down before the kitchen fire
a little whileto think about all this.

I was blending it with the deathbed of the late Mr. Barkisand was
driving out with the tide towards the distance at which Ham had
looked so singularly in the morningwhen I was recalled from my
wanderings by a knock at the door. There was a knocker upon the
doorbut it was not that which made the sound. The tap was from
a handand low down upon the dooras 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
downto my amazementon nothing but a great umbrella that
appeared to be walking about of itself. But presently I discovered
underneath itMiss Mowcher.

I might not have been prepared to give the little creature a very
kind receptionifon her removing the umbrellawhich her utmost
efforts were unable to shut upshe 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 faceas she turned it up to
minewas so earnest; and when I relieved her of the umbrella
(which would have been an inconvenient one for the Irish Giant)
she wrung her little hands in such an afflicted manner; that I
rather inclined towards her.

'Miss Mowcher!' said Iafter glancing up and down the empty
streetwithout distinctly knowing what I expected to see besides;
'how do you come here? What is the matter?'
She motioned to me with her short right armto shut the umbrella
for her; and passing me hurriedlywent into the kitchen. When I
had closed the doorand followedwith the umbrella in my handI
found her sitting on the corner of the fender - it was a low iron
onewith two flat bars at top to stand plates upon - in the shadow
of the boilerswaying herself backwards and forwardsand chafing
her hands upon her knees like a person in pain.

Quite alarmed at being the only recipient of this untimely visit
and the only spectator of this portentous behaviourI exclaimed
again'Pray tell meMiss Mowcherwhat is the matter! are you
ill?'


'My dear young soul' returned Miss Mowchersqueezing her hands
upon her heart one over the other. 'I am ill hereI am very ill.
To think that it should come to thiswhen I might have known it
and perhaps prevented itif I hadn't been a thoughtless fool!'

Again her large bonnet (very disproportionate to the figure) went
backwards and forwardsin her swaying of her little body to and
fro; while a most gigantic bonnet rockedin unison with itupon
the wall.

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

'Yesit's always so!' she said. 'They are all surprisedthese
inconsiderate young peoplefairly and full grownto see any
natural feeling in a little thing like me! They make a plaything
of meuse me for their amusementthrow me away when they are
tiredand wonder that I feel more than a toy horse or a wooden
soldier! Yesyesthat's the way. The old way!'

'It may bewith others' I returned'but I do assure you it is
not with me. Perhaps I ought not to be at all surprised to see you
as you are now: I know so little of you. I saidwithout
considerationwhat I thought.'

'What can I do?' returned the little womanstanding upand
holding out her arms to show herself. 'See! What I ammy father
was; and my sister is; and my brother is. I have worked for sister
and brother these many years - hardMr. Copperfield - all day. I
must live. I do no harm. If there are people so unreflecting or
so cruelas to make a jest of mewhat is left for me to do but to
make a jest of myselfthemand everything? If I do sofor the
timewhose fault is that? Mine?'

No. Not Miss Mowcher'sI perceived.

'If I had shown myself a sensitive dwarf to your false friend'
pursued the little womanshaking her head at mewith reproachful
earnestness'how much of his help or good will do you think I
should ever have had? If little Mowcher (who had no handyoung
gentlemanin the making of herself) addressed herself to himor
the like of himbecause of her misfortuneswhen do you suppose
her small voice would have been heard? Little Mowcher would have
as much need to liveif 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 againand took out her
handkerchiefand wiped her eyes.

'Be thankful for meif you have a kind heartas I think you
have' she said'that while I know well what I amI can be
cheerful and endure it all. I am thankful for myselfat any rate
that I can find my tiny way through the worldwithout being
beholden to anyone; and that in return for all that is thrown at
mein folly or vanityas I go alongI can throw bubbles back.
If I don't brood over all I wantit is the better for meand not
the worse for anyone. If I am a plaything for you giantsbe
gentle with me.'

Miss Mowcher replaced her handkerchief in her pocketlooking at me
with very intent expression all the whileand pursued:

'I saw you in the street just now. You may suppose I am not able


to walk as fast as youwith my short legs and short breathand I
couldn't overtake you; but I guessed where you cameand came after
you. I have been here beforetodaybut the good woman wasn't at
home.'

'Do you know her?' I demanded.

'I know of herand 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 unfortunate girlthat time when
I saw you both at the inn?'

The great bonnet on Miss Mowcher's headand the greater bonnet on
the wallbegan to go backwards and forwards again when she asked
this question.

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

'May the Father of all Evil confound him' said the little woman
holding up her forefinger between me and her sparkling eyes'and
ten times more confound that wicked servant; but I believed it was
YOU who had a boyish passion for her!'

'I?' I repeated.

'Childchild! In the name of blind ill-fortune' cried Miss
Mowcherwringing her hands impatientlyas she went to and fro
again upon the fender'why did you praise her soand blushand
look disturbed? '

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

'What did I know?' said Miss Mowchertaking out her handkerchief
againand giving one little stamp on the ground wheneverat short
intervalsshe applied it to her eyes with both hands at once. 'He
was crossing you and wheedling youI saw; and you were soft wax in
his handsI saw. Had I left the room a minutewhen his man told
me that "Young Innocence" (so he called youand you may call him
Old Guiltall the days of your life) had set his heart upon her
and she was giddy and liked himbut his master was resolved that
no harm should come of it - more for your sake than for hers - and
that that was their business here? How could I BUT believe him?
I saw Steerforth soothe and please you by his praise of her! You
were the first to mention her name. You owned to an old admiration
of her. You were hot and coldand red and whiteall at once when
I spoke to you of her. What could I think - what DID I think - but
that you were a young libertine in everything but experienceand
had fallen into hands that had experience enoughand 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 fenderand trotting up and down the kitchen with
her two short arms distressfully lifted up'because I am a sharp
little thing - I need beto get through the world at all! - and
they deceived me altogetherand I gave the poor unfortunate girl
a letterwhich I fully believe was the beginning of her ever
speaking to Littimerwho was left behind on purpose!'

I stood amazed at the revelation of all this perfidylooking at
Miss Mowcher as she walked up and down the kitchen until she was
out of breath: when she sat upon the fender againanddrying her
face with her handkerchiefshook her head for a long timewithout
otherwise movingand without breaking silence.


'My country rounds' she added at length'brought me to Norwich
Mr. Copperfieldthe night before last. What I happened to find
thereabout their secret way of coming and goingwithout you which
was strange - led to my suspecting something wrong. I got
into the coach from London last nightas it came through Norwich
and was here this morning. Ohohoh! too late!'

Poor little Mowcher turned so chilly after all her crying and
frettingthat she turned round on the fenderputting her poor
little wet feet in among the ashes to warm themand sat looking at
the firelike a large doll. I sat in a chair on the other side of
the hearthlost in unhappy reflectionsand looking at the fire
tooand sometimes at her.

'I must go' she said at lastrising as she spoke. 'It's late.
You don't mistrust me?'

Meeting her sharp glancewhich was as sharp as ever when she asked
meI could not on that short challenge answer noquite frankly.

'Come!' said sheaccepting the offer of my hand to help her over
the fenderand looking wistfully up into my face'you know you
wouldn't mistrust meif 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 saidnodding. 'Take a word of advice
even from three foot nothing. Try not to associate bodily defects
with mentalmy good friendexcept for a solid reason.'

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

'Nowmind!' she exclaimedturning back on her way to the door
and looking shrewdly at mewith her forefinger up again.- 'I have
some reason to suspectfrom what I have heard - my ears are always
open; I can't afford to spare what powers I have - that they are
gone abroad. But if ever they returnif ever any one of them
returnswhile I am aliveI am more likely than anothergoing
about as I doto find it out soon. Whatever I knowyou shall
know. If ever I can do anything to serve the poor betrayed girl
I will do it faithfullyplease Heaven! And Littimer had better
have a bloodhound at his backthan little Mowcher!'

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

'Trust me no morebut trust me no lessthan you would trust a
full-sized woman' said the little creaturetouching me
appealingly on the wrist. 'If ever you see me againunlike what
I am nowand like what I was when you first saw meobserve what
company I am in. Call to mind that I am a very helpless and
defenceless little thing. Think of me at home with my brother like
myself and sister like myselfwhen my day's work is done. Perhaps
you won'tthenbe very hard upon meor surprised if I can be
distressed and serious. Good night!'

I gave Miss Mowcher my handwith a very different opinion of her
from that which I had hitherto entertainedand opened the door to
let her out. It was not a trifling business to get the great


umbrella upand properly balanced in her grasp; but at last I
successfully accomplished thisand saw it go bobbing down the
street through the rainwithout the least appearance of having
anybody underneath itexcept when a heavier fall than usual from
some over-charged water-spout sent it toppling overon one side
and discovered Miss Mowcher struggling violently to get it right.
After making one or two sallies to her reliefwhich were rendered
futile by the umbrella's hopping on againlike an immense bird
before I could reach itI came inwent to bedand 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 officewhere Mrs.
Gummidge and Ham were waiting to take leave of us.

'Mas'r Davy' Ham whispereddrawing me asidewhile 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 laston and offall the rest of
his daystake my wured for 'tunless he finds what he's a seeking
of. I am sure you'll be a friend to himMas'r Davy?'

'Trust meI will indeed' said Ishaking hands with Ham
earnestly.

'Thankee. Thankeevery kindsir. One thing furder. I'm in good
employyou knowMas'r Davyand I han't no way now of spending
what I gets. Money's of no use to me no moreexcept to live. If
you can lay it out for himI shall do my work with a better art.
Though as to thatsir' and he spoke very steadily and mildly
'you're not to think but I shall work at all timeslike a manand
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 comewhen he would cease to lead the lonely
life he naturally contemplated now.

'Nosir' he saidshaking his head'all that's past and over
with mesir. No one can never fill the place that's empty. But
you'll bear in mind about the moneyas theer's at all times some
laying by for him?'

Reminding him of the factthat Mr. Peggotty derived a steady
though certainly a very moderate income from the bequest of his
late brother-in-lawI promised to do so. We then took leave of
each other. I cannot leave him even nowwithout remembering with
a pangat once his modest fortitude and his great sorrow.

As to Mrs. Gummidgeif I were to endeavour to describe how she ran
down the street by the side of the coachseeing nothing but Mr.
Peggotty on the roofthrough the tears she tried to repressand
dashing herself against the people who were coming in the opposite
directionI should enter on a task of some difficulty. Therefore
I had better leave her sitting on a baker's door-stepout of
breathwith no shape at all remaining in her bonnetand one of
her shoes offlying on the pavement at a considerable distance.

When we got to our journey's endour first pursuit was to look
about for a little lodging for Peggottywhere her brother could
have a bed. We were so fortunate as to find oneof a very clean
and cheap descriptionover a chandler's shoponly two streets
removed from me. When we had engaged this domicileI bought some
cold meat at an eating-houseand took my fellow-travellers home to
tea; a proceedingI regret to statewhich did not meet with Mrs.


Crupp's approvalbut quite the contrary. I ought to observe
howeverin explanation of that lady's state of mindthat she was
much offended by Peggotty's tucking up her widow's gown before she
had been ten minutes in the placeand setting to work to dust my
bedroom. This Mrs. Crupp regarded in the light of a libertyand
a libertyshe saidwas 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 wasthat he purposed first
seeing Mrs. Steerforth. As I felt bound to assist him in thisand
also to mediate between them; with the view of sparing the mother's
feelings as much as possibleI wrote to her that night. I told
her as mildly as I could what his wrong wasand what my own share
in his injury. I said he was a man in very common lifebut of a
most gentle and upright character; and that I ventured to express
a hope that she would not refuse to see him in his heavy trouble.
I mentioned two o'clock in the afternoon as the hour of our coming
and I sent the letter myself by the first coach in the morning.


At the appointed timewe stood at the door - the door of that
house where I had beena few days sinceso happy: where my
youthful confidence and warmth of heart had been yielded up so
freely: which was closed against me henceforth: which was now a
wastea ruin.


No Littimer appeared. The pleasanter face which had replaced his
on the occasion of my last visitanswered to our summonsand went
before us to the drawing-room. Mrs. Steerforth was sitting there.
Rosa Dartle glidedas we went infrom another part of the room
and stood behind her chair.


I sawdirectlyin his mother's facethat she knew from himself
what he had done. It was very pale; and bore the traces of deeper
emotion than my letter aloneweakened by the doubts her fondness
would have raised upon itwould have been likely to create. I
thought her more like him than ever I had thought her; and I felt
rather than sawthat the resemblance was not lost on my companion.


She sat upright in her arm-chairwith a statelyimmovable
passionless airthat 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 saidin a low
voice'I shouldn't feel it nat'ralma'amto sit down in this
house. I'd sooner stand.' And this was succeeded by another
silencewhich she broke thus:


'I knowwith deep regretwhat has brought you here. What do you
want of me? What do you ask me to do?'


He put his hat under his armand feeling in his breast for Emily's
lettertook it outunfolded itand gave it to her.
'Please to read thatma'am. That's my niece's hand!'


She read itin the same stately and impassive way- untouched by
its contentsas far as I could see- and returned it to him.


'"Unless he brings me back a lady' said Mr. Peggotty, tracing out
that part with his finger. 'I come to know, ma'am, whether he will
keep his wured?'



'No,' she returned.

'Why not?' said Mr. Peggotty.

'It is impossible. He would disgrace himself. You cannot fail to
know that she is far below him.'

'Raise her up!' said Mr. Peggotty.

'She is uneducated and ignorant.'

'Maybe she's not; maybe she is,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'I think not,
ma'am; but I'm no judge of them things. Teach her better!'

'Since you oblige me to speak more plainly, which I am very
unwilling to do, her humble connexions would render such a thing
impossible, if nothing else did.'

'Hark to this, ma'am,' he returned, slowly and quietly. 'You know
what it is to love your child. So do I. If she was a hundred
times my child, I couldn't love her more. You doen't know what it
is to lose your child. I do. All the heaps of riches in the
wureld would be nowt to me (if they was mine) to buy her back!
But, save her from this disgrace, and she shall never be disgraced
by us. Not one of us that she's growed up among, not one of us
that's lived along with her and had her for their all in all, these
many year, will ever look upon her pritty face again. We'll be
content to let her be; we'll be content to think of her, far off,
as if she was underneath another sun and sky; we'll be content to
trust her to her husband, - to her little children, p'raps, - and
bide the time when all of us shall be alike in quality afore our
God!'

The rugged eloquence with which he spoke, was not devoid of all
effect. She still preserved her proud manner, but there was a
touch of softness in her voice, as she answered:

'I justify nothing. I make no counter-accusations. But I am sorry
to repeat, it is impossible. Such a marriage would irretrievably
blight my son's career, and ruin his prospects. Nothing is more
certain than that it never can take place, and never will. If
there is any other compensation -'

'I am looking at the likeness of the face,' interrupted Mr.
Peggotty, with a steady but a kindling eye, 'that has looked at me,
in my home, at my fireside, in my boat - wheer not? - smiling and
friendly, when it was so treacherous, that I go half wild when I
think of it. If the likeness of that face don't turn to burning
fire, at the thought of offering money to me for my child's blight
and ruin, it's as bad. I doen't know, being a lady's, but what
it's worse.'

She changed now, in a moment. An angry flush overspread her
features; and she said, in an intolerant manner, grasping the
arm-chair tightly with her hands:

'What compensation can you make to ME for opening such a pit
between me and my son? What is your love to mine? What is your
separation to ours?'

Miss Dartle softly touched her, and bent down her head to whisper,
but she would not hear a word.

'No, Rosa, not a word! Let the man listen to what I say! My son,


who has been the object of my life, to whom its every thought has
been devoted, whom I have gratified from a child in every wish,
from whom I have had no separate existence since his birth, - to
take up in a moment with a miserable girl, and avoid me! To repay
my confidence with systematic deception, for her sake, and quit me
for her! To set this wretched fancy, against his mother's claims
upon his duty, love, respect, gratitude - claims that every day and
hour of his life should have strengthened into ties that nothing
could be proof against! Is this no injury?'

Again Rosa Dartle tried to soothe her; again ineffectually.

'I say, Rosa, not a word! If he can stake his all upon the
lightest object, I can stake my all upon a greater purpose. Let
him go where he will, with the means that my love has secured to
him! Does he think to reduce me by long absence? He knows his
mother very little if he does. Let him put away his whim now, and
he is welcome back. Let him not put her away now, and he never
shall come near me, living or dying, while I can raise my hand to
make a sign against it, unless, being rid of her for ever, he comes
humbly to me and begs for my forgiveness. This is my right. This
is the acknowledgement I WILL HAVE. This is the separation that
there is between us! And is this,' she added, looking at her
visitor with the proud intolerant air with which she had begun, 'no
injury?'

While I heard and saw the mother as she said these words, I seemed
to hear and see the son, defying them. All that I had ever seen in
him of an unyielding, wilful spirit, I saw in her. All the
understanding that I had now of his misdirected energy, became an
understanding of her character too, and a perception that it was,
in its strongest springs, the same.

She now observed to me, aloud, resuming her former restraint, that
it was useless to hear more, or to say more, and that she begged to
put an end to the interview. She rose with an air of dignity to
leave the room, when Mr. Peggotty signified that it was needless.

'Doen't fear me being any hindrance to you, I have no more to say,
ma'am,' he remarked, as he moved towards the door. 'I come beer
with no hope, and I take away no hope. I have done what I thowt
should be done, but I never looked fur any good to come of my
stan'ning where I do. This has been too evil a house fur me and
mine, fur me to be in my right senses and expect it.'

With this, we departed; leaving her standing by her elbow-chair, a
picture of a noble presence and a handsome face.

We had, on our way out, to cross a paved hall, with glass sides and
roof, over which a vine was trained. Its leaves and shoots were
green then, and the day being sunny, a pair of glass doors leading
to the garden were thrown open. Rosa Dartle, entering this way
with a noiseless step, when we were close to them, addressed
herself to me:

'You do well,' she said, 'indeed, to bring this fellow here!'

Such a concentration of rage and scorn as darkened her face, and
flashed in her jet-black eyes, I could not have thought
compressible even into that face. The scar made by the hammer was,
as usual in this excited state of her features, strongly marked.
When the throbbing I had seen before, came into it as I looked at
her, she absolutely lifted up her hand, and struck it.


'This is a fellow,' she said, 'to champion and bring here, is he
not? You are a true man!'

'Miss Dartle,' I returned, 'you are surely not so unjust as to
condemn ME!'

'Why do you bring division between these two mad creatures?' she
returned. 'Don't you know that they are both mad with their own
self-will and pride?'

'Is it my doing?' I returned.

'Is it your doing!' she retorted. 'Why do you bring this man
here?'

'He is a deeply-injured man, Miss Dartle,' I replied. 'You may not
know it.'

'I know that James Steerforth,' she said, with her hand on her
bosom, as if to prevent the storm that was raging there, from being
loud, 'has a false, corrupt heart, and is a traitor. But what need
I know or care about this fellow, and his common niece?'

'Miss Dartle,' I returned, 'you deepen the injury. It is
sufficient already. I will only say, at parting, that you do him
a great wrong.'

'I do him no wrong,' she returned. 'They are a depraved, worthless
set. I would have her whipped!'

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

'Oh, shame, Miss Dartle! shame!' I said indignantly. 'How can you
bear to trample on his undeserved affliction!'

'I would trample on them all,' she answered. 'I would have his
house pulled down. I would have her branded on the face, dressed
in rags, and cast out in the streets to starve. If I had the power
to sit in judgement on her, I would see it done. See it done? I
would do it! I detest her. If I ever could reproach her with her
infamous condition, I would go anywhere to do so. If I could hunt
her to her grave, I would. If there was any word of comfort that
would be a solace to her in her dying hour, and only I possessed
it, I wouldn't part with it for Life itself.'

The mere vehemence of her words can convey, I am sensible, but a
weak impression of the passion by which she was possessed, and
which made itself articulate in her whole figure, though her voice,
instead of being raised, was lower than usual. No description I
could give of her would do justice to my recollection of her, or to
her entire deliverance of herself to her anger. I have seen
passion in many forms, but I have never seen it in such a form as
that.

When I joined Mr. Peggotty, he was walking slowly and thoughtfully
down the hill. He told me, as soon as I came up with him, that
having now discharged his mind of what he had purposed doing in
London, he meant 'to set out on his travels', that night. I asked
him where he meant to go? He only answered, 'I'm a going, sir, to
seek my niece.'

We went back to the little lodging over the chandler's shop, and
there I found an opportunity of repeating to Peggotty what he had
said to me. She informed me, in return, that he had said the same


to her that morning. She knew no more than I did, where he was
going, but she thought he had some project shaped out in his mind.

I did not like to leave him, under such circumstances, and we all
three dined together off a beefsteak pie - which was one of the
many good things for which Peggotty was famous - and which was
curiously flavoured on this occasion, I recollect well, by a
miscellaneous taste of tea, coffee, butter, bacon, cheese, new
loaves, firewood, candles, and walnut ketchup, continually
ascending from the shop. After dinner we sat for an hour or so
near the window, without talking much; and then Mr. Peggotty got
up, and brought his oilskin bag and his stout stick, and laid them
on the table.

He accepted, from his sister's stock of ready money, a small sum on
account of his legacy; barely enough, I should have thought, to
keep him for a month. He promised to communicate with me, when
anything befell him; and he slung his bag about him, took his hat
and stick, and bade us both 'Good-bye!'

'All good attend you, dear old woman,' he said, embracing Peggotty,
'and you too, Mas'r Davy!' shaking hands with me. 'I'm a-going to
seek her, fur and wide. If she should come home while I'm away but
ah, that ain't like to be! - or if I should bring her back, my
meaning is, that she and me shall live and die where no one can't
reproach her. If any hurt should come to me, remember that the
last words I left for her was, My unchanged love is with my
darling childand I forgive her!"'

He said this solemnlybare-headed; thenputting on his hathe
went down the stairsand away. We followed to the door. It was
a warmdusty eveningjust the time whenin the great main
thoroughfare out of which that by-way turnedthere was a temporary
lull in the eternal tread of feet upon the pavementand a strong
red sunshine. He turnedaloneat the corner of our shady street
into a glow of lightin which we lost him.

Rarely did that hour of the evening comerarely did I wake at
nightrarely did I look up at the moonor starsor watch the
falling rainor hear the windbut I thought of his solitary
figure toiling onpoor pilgrimand recalled the words:

'I'm a going to seek herfur and wide. If any hurt should come to
meremember that the last words I left for her wasMy unchanged
love is with my darling child, and I forgive her!'

CHAPTER 33
BLISSFUL

All this timeI had gone on loving Doraharder than ever. Her
idea was my refuge in disappointment and distressand made some
amends to meeven for the loss of my friend. The more I pitied
myselfor pitied othersthe more I sought for consolation in the
image of Dora. The greater the accumulation of deceit and trouble
in the worldthe 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 fromor in what degree she was related to a higher order
of beings; but I am quite sure I should have scouted the notion of
her being simply humanlike any other young ladywith indignation
and contempt.


If I may so express itI was steeped in Dora. I was not merely
over head and ears in love with herbut I was saturated through
and through. Enough love might have been wrung out of me
metaphorically speakingto drown anybody in; and yet there would
have remained enough within meand all over meto pervade my
entire existence.

The first thing I didon my own accountwhen I came backwas to
take a night-walk to Norwoodandlike the subject of a venerable
riddle of my childhoodto go 'round and round the housewithout
ever touching the house'thinking about Dora. I believe the theme
of this incomprehensible conundrum was the moon. No matter what it
wasIthe moon-struck slave of Doraperambulated round and round
the house and garden for two hourslooking through crevices in the
palingsgetting my chin by dint of violent exertion above the
rusty nails on the topblowing kisses at the lights in the
windowsand romantically calling on the nightat intervalsto
shield my Dora - I don't exactly know what fromI suppose from
fire. Perhaps from miceto which she had a great objection.

My love was so much in my mind and it was so natural to me to
confide in Peggottywhen I found her again by my side of an
evening with the old set of industrial implementsbusily making
the tour of my wardrobethat I imparted to herin a sufficiently
roundabout waymy great secret. Peggotty was strongly interested
but I could not get her into my view of the case at all. She was
audaciously prejudiced in my favourand quite unable to understand
why I should have any misgivingsor 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 expectfor gracious sake!'

I observedhoweverthat Mr. Spenlow's proctorial gown and stiff
cravat took Peggotty down a littleand inspired her with a greater
reverence for the man who was gradually becoming more and more
etherealized in my eyes every dayand about whom a reflected
radiance seemed to me to beam when he sat erect in Court among his
paperslike a little lighthouse in a sea of stationery. And by
the byit used to be uncommonly strange to me to considerI
rememberas I sat in Court toohow those dim old judges and
doctors wouldn't have cared for Doraif they had known her; how
they wouldn't have gone out of their senses with raptureif
marriage with Dora had been proposed to them; how Dora might have
sungand played upon that glorified guitaruntil she led me to
the verge of madnessyet not have tempted one of those slow-goers
an inch out of his road!

I despised themto a man. Frozen-out old gardeners in the
flower-beds of the heartI 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 itthan the bar of a
public-house.

Taking the management of Peggotty's affairs into my own handswith
no little prideI proved the willand came to a settlement with
the Legacy Duty-officeand took her to the Bankand soon got
everything into an orderly train. We varied the legal character of
these proceedings by going to see some perspiring Wax-workin
Fleet Street (meltedI should hopethese twenty years); and by
visiting Miss Linwood's Exhibitionwhich I remember as a Mausoleum
of needleworkfavourable 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 enjoyunder existing circumstances: exceptI


thinkSt. Paul'swhichfrom her long attachment to her work-box
became a rival of the picture on the lidand wasin some
particularsvanquishedshe consideredby that work of art.

Peggotty's businesswhich was what we used to call 'common-form
business' in the Commons (and very light and lucrative the
common-form business was)being settledI took her down to the
office one morning to pay her bill. Mr. Spenlow had stepped out
old Tiffey saidto get a gentleman sworn for a marriage licence;
but as I knew he would be back directlyour place lying close to
the Surrogate'sand to the Vicar-General's office tooI told
Peggotty to wait.

We were a little like undertakersin the Commonsas regarded
Probate transactions; generally making it a rule to look more or
less cut upwhen we had to deal with clients in mourning. In a
similar feeling of delicacywe were always blithe and
light-hearted with the licence clients. Therefore I hinted to
Peggotty that she would find Mr. Spenlow much recovered from the
shock of Mr. Barkis's decease; and indeed he came in like a
bridegroom.

But neither Peggotty nor I had eyes for himwhen we sawin
company with himMr. Murdstone. He was very little changed. His
hair looked as thickand was certainly as blackas ever; and his
glance was as little to be trusted as of old.

'AhCopperfield?' said Mr. Spenlow. 'You know this gentlemanI
believe?'

I made my gentleman a distant bowand Peggotty barely recognized
him. He wasat firstsomewhat disconcerted to meet us two
together; but quickly decided what to doand came up to me.

'I hope' he said'that you are doing well?'

'It can hardly be interesting to you' said I. 'Yesif you wish
to know.'

We looked at each otherand he addressed himself to Peggotty.

'And you' said he. 'I am sorry to observe that you have lost your
husband.'

'It's not the first loss I have had in my lifeMr. Murdstone'
replied Peggottytrembling from head to foot. 'I am glad to hope
that there is nobody to blame for this one- nobody to answer for
it.'

'Ha!' said he; 'that's a comfortable reflection. You have done
your duty?'

'I have not worn anybody's life away' said Peggotty'I am
thankful to think! NoMr. MurdstoneI have not worrited and
frightened any sweet creetur to an early grave!'

He eyed her gloomily - remorsefully I thought - for an instant; and
saidturning his head towards mebut looking at my feet instead
of my face:

'We are not likely to encounter soon again; - a source of
satisfaction to us bothno doubtfor such meetings as this can
never be agreeable. I do not expect that youwho always rebelled
against my just authorityexerted for your benefit and


reformationshould owe me any good-will now. There is an
antipathy between us -'

'An old oneI believe?' said Iinterrupting him.

He smiledand 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 dialoguewhich had been carried on in a low
voicein a corner of the outer officeby passing into Mr.
Spenlow's roomand saying aloudin his smoothest manner:

'Gentlemen of Mr. Spenlow's profession are accustomed to family
differencesand know how complicated and difficult they always
are!' With thathe paid the money for his licence; andreceiving
it neatly folded from Mr. Spenlowtogether with a shake of the
handand a polite wish for his happiness and the lady'swent out
of the office.

I might have had more difficulty in constraining myself to be
silent under his wordsif I had had less difficulty in impressing
upon Peggotty (who was only angry on my accountgood creature!)
that we were not in a place for recriminationand that I besought
her to hold her peace. She was so unusually rousedthat I was
glad to compound for an affectionate hugelicited by this revival
in her mind of our old injuriesand to make the best I could of
itbefore Mr. Spenlow and the clerks.

Mr. Spenlow did not appear to know what the connexion between Mr.
Murdstone and myself was; which I was glad offor I could not bear
to acknowledge himeven in my own breastremembering what I did
of the history of my poor mother. Mr. Spenlow seemed to thinkif
he thought anything about the matterthat my aunt was the leader
of the state party in our familyand that there was a rebel party
commanded by somebody else - so I gathered at least from what he
saidwhile we were waiting for Mr. Tiffey to make out Peggotty's
bill of costs.

'Miss Trotwood' he remarked'is very firmno doubtand not
likely to give way to opposition. I have an admiration for her
characterand I may congratulate youCopperfieldon being on the
right side. Differences between relations are much to be deplored

-but they are extremely general - and the great thing isto be on
the right side': meaningI take iton the side of the moneyed
interest.
'Rather a good marriage thisI believe?' said Mr. Spenlow.

I explained that I knew nothing about it.

'Indeed!' he said. 'Speaking from the few words Mr. Murdstone
dropped - as a man frequently does on these occasions - and from
what Miss Murdstone let fallI should say it was rather a good
marriage.'

'Do you mean that there is moneysir?' 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 latelythat I should think
they had been waiting for that.'

'Lord deliver her!' said Peggotty. So very emphatically and
unexpectedlythat we were all three discomposed; until Tiffey came
in with the bill.

Old Tiffey soon appearedhoweverand handed it to Mr. Spenlowto
look over. Mr. Spenlowsettling his chin in his cravat and
rubbing it softlywent over the items with a deprecatory air - as
if it were all Jorkins's doing - and handed it back to Tiffey with
a bland sigh.

'Yes' he said. 'That's right. Quite right. I should have been
extremely happyCopperfieldto have limited these charges to the
actual expenditure out of pocketbut it is an irksome incident in
my professional lifethat I am not at liberty to consult my own
wishes. I have a partner - Mr. Jorkins.'

As he said this with a gentle melancholywhich was the next thing
to making no charge at allI expressed my acknowledgements on
Peggotty's behalfand paid Tiffey in banknotes. Peggotty then
retired to her lodgingand Mr. Spenlow and I went into Court
where we had a divorce-suit coming onunder an ingenious little
statute (repealed nowI believebut in virtue of which I have
seen several marriages annulled)of which the merits were these.
The husbandwhose name was Thomas Benjaminhad taken out his
marriage licence as Thomas only; suppressing the Benjaminin case
he should not find himself as comfortable as he expected. NOT
finding himself as comfortable as he expectedor being a little
fatigued with his wifepoor fellowhe now came forwardby a
friendafter being married a year or twoand declared that his
name was Thomas Benjaminand therefore he was not married at all.
Which the Court confirmedto his great satisfaction.

I must say that I had my doubts about the strict justice of this
and was not even frightened out of them by the bushel of wheat
which reconciles all anomalies. But Mr. Spenlow argued the matter
with me. He saidLook at the worldthere was good and evil in
that; look at the ecclesiastical lawthere 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 littleif we got up early in the
morningand took off our coats to the work; but I confessed that
I thought we might improve the Commons. Mr. Spenlow replied that
he would particularly advise me to dismiss that idea from my mind
as not being worthy of my gentlemanly character; but that he would
be glad to hear from me of what improvement I thought the Commons
susceptible?

Taking that part of the Commons which happened to be nearest to us

-for our man was unmarried by this timeand we were out of Court
and strolling past the Prerogative Office - I submitted that I
thought the Prerogative Office rather a queerly managed
institution. Mr. Spenlow inquired in what respect? I replied
with all due deference to his experience (but with more deference
I am afraidto his being Dora's father)that perhaps it was a
little nonsensical that the Registry of that Courtcontaining the
original wills of all persons leaving effects within the immense
province of Canterburyfor three whole centuriesshould be an
accidental buildingnever designed for the purposeleased by the

registrars for their Own private emolumentunsafenot even
ascertained to be fire-proofchoked with the important documents
it heldand positivelyfrom the roof to the basementa mercenary
speculation of the registrarswho took great fees from the public
and crammed the public's wills away anyhow and anywherehaving no
other object than to get rid of them cheaply. Thatperhapsit
was a little unreasonable that these registrars in the receipt of
profits amounting to eight or nine thousand pounds a year (to say
nothing of the profits of the deputy registrarsand clerks of
seats)should not be obliged to spend a little of that moneyin
finding a reasonably safe place for the important documents which
all classes of people were compelled to hand over to themwhether
they would or no. Thatperhapsit was a little unjustthat all
the great offices in this great office should be magnificent
sinecureswhile the unfortunate working-clerks in the cold dark
room upstairs were the worst rewardedand the least considered
mendoing important servicesin London. That perhaps it was a
little indecent that the principal registrar of allwhose duty it
was to find the publicconstantly resorting to this placeall
needful accommodationshould be an enormous sinecurist in virtue
of that post (and might bebesidesa clergymana pluralistthe
holder of a staff in a cathedraland what not)- while the public
was put to the inconvenience of which we had a specimen every
afternoon when the office was busyand which we knew to be quite
monstrous. Thatperhapsin shortthis Prerogative Office of the
diocese of Canterbury was altogether such a pestilent joband such
a pernicious absurditythat but for its being squeezed away in a
corner of St. Paul's Churchyardwhich few people knewit must
have been turned completely inside outand upside downlong ago.

Mr. Spenlow smiled as I became modestly warm on the subjectand
then argued this question with me as he had argued the other. He
saidwhat was it after all? It was a question of feeling. If the
public felt that their wills were in safe keepingand took it for
granted that the office was not to be made betterwho 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
wasthe insertion of the wedge. Under the Prerogative Officethe
country had been glorious. Insert the wedge into the Prerogative
Officeand the country would cease to be glorious. He considered
it the principle of a gentleman to take things as he found them;
and he had no doubt the Prerogative Office would last our time. I
deferred to his opinionthough I had great doubts of it myself.
I find he was righthowever; for it has not only lasted to the
present momentbut has done so in the teeth of a great
parliamentary report made (not too willingly) eighteen years ago
when all these objections of mine were set forth in detailand
when the existing stowage for wills was described as equal to the
accumulation of only two years and a half more. What they have
done with them since; whether they have lost manyor whether they
sell anynow and thento the butter shops; I don't know. I am
glad mine is not thereand I hope it may not go thereyet awhile.

I have set all this downin my present blissful chapterbecause
here it comes into its natural place. Mr. Spenlow and I falling
into this conversationprolonged it and our saunter to and fro
until we diverged into general topics. And so it came aboutin
the endthat Mr. Spenlow told me this day week was Dora's
birthdayand he would be glad if I would come down and join a
little picnic on the occasion. I went out of my senses
immediately; became a mere driveller next dayon receipt of a
little lace-edged sheet of note-paper'Favoured by papa. To
remind'; and passed the intervening period in a state of dotage.


I think I committed every possible absurdity in the way of
preparation for this blessed event. I turn hot when I remember the
cravat I bought. My boots might be placed in any collection of
instruments of torture. I providedand sent down by the Norwood
coach the night beforea delicate little hamperamounting in
itselfI thoughtalmost to a declaration. There were crackers in
it with the tenderest mottoes that could be got for money. At six
in the morningI was in Covent Garden Marketbuying a bouquet for
Dora. At ten I was on horseback (I hired a gallant greyfor the
occasion)with the bouquet in my hatto keep it freshtrotting
down to Norwood.

I suppose that when I saw Dora in the garden and pretended not to
see herand rode past the house pretending to be anxiously looking
for itI committed two small fooleries which other young gentlemen
in my circumstances might have committed - because they came so
very natural to me. But oh! when I DID find the houseand DID
dismount at the garden-gateand drag those stony-hearted boots
across the lawn to Dora sitting on a garden-seat under a lilac
treewhat a spectacle she wasupon that beautiful morningamong
the butterfliesin a white chip bonnet and a dress of celestial
blue! There was a young lady with her - comparatively stricken in
years - almost twentyI should say. Her name was Miss Mills. and
Dora called her Julia. She was the bosom friend of Dora. Happy
Miss Mills!

Jip was thereand Jip WOULD bark at me again. When I presented my
bouquethe gnashed his teeth with jealousy. Well he might. If he
had the least idea how I adored his mistresswell he might!

'Ohthank youMr. Copperfield! What dear flowers!' said Dora.

I had had an intention of saying (and had been studying the best
form of words for three miles) that I thought them beautiful before
I saw them so near HER. But I couldn't manage it. She was too
bewildering. To see her lay the flowers against her little dimpled
chinwas to lose all presence of mind and power of language in a
feeble ecstasy. I wonder I didn't say'Kill meif you have a
heartMiss Mills. Let me die here!'

Then Dora held my flowers to Jip to smell. Then Jip growledand
wouldn't smell them. Then Dora laughedand held them a little
closer to Jipto make him. Then Jip laid hold of a bit of
geranium with his teethand worried imaginary cats in it. Then
Dora beat himand poutedand said'My poor beautiful flowers!'
as compassionatelyI thoughtas if Jip had laid hold of me. I
wished he had!

'You'll be so glad to hearMr. Copperfield' said Dora'that that
cross Miss Murdstone is not here. She has gone to her brother's
marriageand will be away at least three weeks. Isn't that
delightful?'

I said I was sure it must be delightful to herand all that was
delightful to her was delightful to me. Miss Millswith an air of
superior wisdom and benevolencesmiled upon us.

'She is the most disagreeable thing I ever saw' said Dora. 'You
can't believe how ill-tempered and shocking she isJulia.'

'YesI canmy dear!' said Julia.

'YOU canperhapslove' returned Dorawith her hand on julia's.


'Forgive my not excepting youmy dearat first.'

I learntfrom thisthat Miss Mills had had her trials in the
course of a chequered existence; and that to theseperhapsI
might refer that wise benignity of manner which I had already
noticed. i foundin the course of the daythat this was the
case: Miss Mills having been unhappy in a misplaced affectionand
being understood to have retired from the world on her awful stock
of experiencebut still to take a calm interest in the unblighted
hopes and loves of youth.

But now Mr. Spenlow came out of the houseand Dora went to him
saying'Lookpapawhat beautiful flowers!' And Miss Mills smiled
thoughtfullyas who should say'Ye Mayfliesenjoy your brief
existence in the bright morning of life!' And we all walked from
the lawn towards the carriagewhich was getting ready.

I shall never have such a ride again. I have never had such
another. There were only those threetheir hampermy hamperand
the guitar-casein the phaeton; andof coursethe phaeton was
open; and I rode behind itand Dora sat with her back to the
horseslooking towards me. She kept the bouquet close to her on
the cushionand wouldn't allow Jip to sit on that side of her at
allfor fear he should crush it. She often carried it in her
handoften refreshed herself with its fragrance. Our eyes at
those times often met; and my great astonishment is that I didn't
go over the head of my gallant grey into the carriage.

There was dustI believe. There was a good deal of dustI
believe. I have a faint impression that Mr. Spenlow remonstrated
with me for riding in it; but I knew of none. I was sensible of a
mist of love and beauty about Dorabut of nothing else. He stood
up sometimesand asked me what I thought of the prospect. I said
it was delightfuland I dare say it was; but it was all Dora to
me. The sun shone Doraand the birds sang Dora. The south wind
blew Doraand the wild flowers in the hedges were all Dorasto a
bud. My comfort isMiss Mills understood me. Miss Mills alone
could enter into my feelings thoroughly.

I don't know how long we were goingand to this hour I know as
little where we went. Perhaps it was near Guildford. Perhaps some
Arabian-night magicianopened up the place for the dayand shut
it up for ever when we came away. It was a green spoton a hill
carpeted with soft turf. There were shady treesand heatherand
as far as the eye could seea rich landscape.

It was a trying thing to find people herewaiting for us; and my
jealousyeven of the ladiesknew no bounds. But all of my own
sex - especially one impostorthree or four years my elderwith
a red whiskeron which he established an amount of presumption not
to be endured - were my mortal foes.

We all unpacked our basketsand employed ourselves in getting
dinner ready. Red Whisker pretended he could make a salad (which
I don't believe)and obtruded himself on public notice. Some of
the young ladies washed the lettuces for himand sliced them under
his directions. Dora was among these. I felt that fate had pitted
me against this manand 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-cellarwhich he constructedbeing an
ingenious beastin the hollow trunk of a tree. By and byI saw
himwith the majority of a lobster on his plateeating his dinner


at the feet of Dora!

I have but an indistinct idea of what happened for some time after
this baleful object presented itself to my view. I was very merry
I know; but it was hollow merriment. I attached myself to a young
creature in pinkwith little eyesand flirted with her
desperately. She received my attentions with favour; but whether
on my account solelyor because she had any designs on Red
WhiskerI can't say. Dora's health was drunk. When I drank it
I affected to interrupt my conversation for that purposeand to
resume it immediately afterwards. I caught Dora's eye as I bowed
to herand I thought it looked appealing. But it looked at me
over the head of Red Whiskerand 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 partywhile the remnants of
the dinner were being put away; and I strolled off by myself among
the treesin a raging and remorseful state. I was debating
whether I should pretend that I was not welland fly - I don't
know where - upon my gallant greywhen 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 Millswith an almost
venerable air. 'Enough of this. Do not allow a trivial
misunderstanding to wither the blossoms of springwhichonce put
forth and blightedcannot be renewed. I speak' said Miss Mills
'from experience of the past - the remoteirrevocable past. The
gushing fountains which sparkle in the sunmust not be stopped in
mere caprice; the oasis in the desert of Sahara must not be plucked
up idly.'

I hardly knew what I didI was burning all over to that
extraordinary extent; but I took Dora's little hand and kissed it

-and she let me! I kissed Miss Mills's hand; and we all seemed
to my thinkingto 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 knowsfolly as it all wasit
would have been a happy fate to have been struck immortal with
those foolish feelingsand have stayed among the trees for ever!
Butmuch too soonwe heard the others laughing and talkingand
calling 'where's Dora?' So we went backand they wanted Dora to
sing. Red Whisker would have got the guitar-case out of the
carriagebut Dora told him nobody knew where it wasbut I. So
Red Whisker was done for in a moment; and I got itand I unlocked
itand I took the guitar outand I sat by herand I held her
handkerchief and glovesand I drank in every note of her dear
voiceand she sang to ME who loved herand all the others might
applaud as much as they likedbut they had nothing to do with it!

I was intoxicated with joy. I was afraid it was too happy to be
realand that I should wake in Buckingham Street presentlyand
hear Mrs. Crupp clinking the teacups in getting breakfast ready.
But Dora sangand others sangand Miss Mills sang - about the
slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory; as if she were a


hundred years old - and the evening came on; and we had teawith
the kettle boiling gipsy-fashion; and I was still as happy as ever.


I was happier than ever when the party broke upand the other
peopledefeated Red Whisker and allwent their several waysand
we went ours through the still evening and the dying lightwith
sweet scents rising up around us. Mr. Spenlow being a little
drowsy after the champagne - honour to the soil that grew the
grapeto the grape that made the wineto the sun that ripened it
and to the merchant who adulterated it! - and being fast asleep in
a corner of the carriageI rode by the side and talked to Dora.
She admired my horse and patted him - ohwhat a dear little hand
it looked upon a horse! - and her shawl would not keep rightand
now and then I drew it round her with my arm; and I even fancied
that Jip began to see how it wasand to understand that he must
make up his mind to be friends with me.


That sagacious Miss Millstoo; that amiablethough quite used up
recluse; that little patriarch of something less than twentywho
had done with the worldand mustn't on any account have the
slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory awakened; what a kind
thing she did!


'Mr. Copperfield' said Miss Mills'come to this side of the
carriage a moment - if you can spare a moment. I want to speak to
you.'


Behold meon my gallant greybending at the side of Miss Mills
with my hand upon the carriage door!


'Dora is coming to stay with me. She is coming home with me the
day after tomorrow. If you would like to callI 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 Millswith grateful looks and
fervent wordshow much I appreciated her good officesand what an
inestimable value I set upon her friendship!


Then Miss Mills benignantly dismissed mesaying'Go back to
Dora!' and I went; and Dora leaned out of the carriage to talk to
meand we talked all the rest of the way; and I rode my gallant
grey so close to the wheel that I grazed his near fore leg against
itand 'took the bark off'as his owner told me'to the tune of
three pun' sivin' - which I paidand thought extremely cheap for
so much joy. What time Miss Mills sat looking at the moon
murmuring verses- and recallingI supposethe ancient days when
she and earth had anything in common.


Norwood was many miles too nearand we reached it many hours too
soon; but Mr. Spenlow came to himself a little short of itand
said'You must come inCopperfieldand rest!' and I consenting
we had sandwiches and wine-and-water. In the light roomDora
blushing looked so lovelythat I could not tear myself awaybut
sat there staringin a dreamuntil the snoring of Mr. Spenlow
inspired me with sufficient consciousness to take my leave. So we
parted; I riding all the way to London with the farewell touch of
Dora's hand still light on minerecalling every incident and word
ten thousand times; lying down in my own bed at lastas enraptured
a young noodle as ever was carried out of his five wits by love.


When I awoke next morningI was resolute to declare my passion to
Doraand know my fate. Happiness or misery was now the question.
There was no other question that I knew of in the worldand only



Dora could give the answer to it. I passed three days in a luxury
of wretchednesstorturing myself by putting every conceivable
variety of discouraging construction on all that ever had taken
place between Dora and me. At lastarrayed for the purpose at a
vast expenseI went to Miss Mills'sfraught with a declaration.

How many times I went up and down the streetand round the square

-painfully aware of being a much better answer to the old riddle
than the original one - before I could persuade myself to go up the
steps and knockis no matter now. Even whenat lastI had
knockedand was waiting at the doorI had some flurried thought
of asking if that were Mr. Blackboy's (in imitation of poor
Barkis)begging pardonand 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 upstairswhere Miss Mills and Dora were.
Jip was there. Miss Mills was copying music (I recollectit was
a new songcalled 'Affection's Dirge')and Dora was painting
flowers. What were my feelingswhen I recognized my own flowers;
the identical Covent Garden Market purchase! I cannot say that
they were very likeor that they particularly resembled any
flowers that have ever come under my observation; but I knew from
the paper round them which was accurately copiedwhat the
composition was.

Miss Mills was very glad to see meand very sorry her papa was not
at home: though I thought we all bore that with fortitude. Miss
Mills was conversational for a few minutesand thenlaying down
her pen upon 'Affection's Dirge'got upand left the room.

I began to think I would put it off till tomorrow.

'I hope your poor horse was not tiredwhen he got home at night'
said Doralifting up her beautiful eyes. 'It was a long way for
him.'

I began to think I would do it today.

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

'Wasn't he fedpoor thing?' asked Dora.

I began to think I would put it off till tomorrow.

'Ye-yes' I said'he was well taken care of. I mean he had not
the unutterable happiness that I had in being so near you.'

Dora bent her head over her drawing and saidafter a little while

-I had satin the intervalin a burning feverand with my legs
in a very rigid state '
You didn't seem to be sensible of that happiness yourselfat one
time of the day.'

I saw now that I was in for itand it must be done on the spot.

'You didn't care for that happiness in the least' said Dora
slightly raising her eyebrowsand shaking her head'when you were
sitting by Miss Kitt.'

KittI should observewas the name of the creature in pinkwith


the little eyes.

'Though certainly I don't know why you should' said Doraor 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. Jipyou naughty boycome here!'

I don't know how I did it. I did it in a moment. I intercepted
Jip. I had Dora in my arms. I was full of eloquence. I never
stopped for a word. I told her how I loved her. I told her I
should die without her. I told her that I idolized and worshipped
her. Jip barked madly all the time.

When Dora hung her head and criedand trembledmy eloquence
increased so much the more. If she would like me to die for her
she had but to say the wordand I was ready. Life without Dora's
love was not a thing to have on any terms. I couldn't bear itand
I wouldn't. I had loved her every minuteday and nightsince I
first saw her. I loved her at that minute to distraction. I
should always love herevery minuteto distraction. Lovers had
loved beforeand lovers would love again; but no lover had loved
mightcouldwouldor should ever loveas I loved Dora. The
more I ravedthe more Jip barked. Each of usin his own waygot
more mad every moment.

Wellwell! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and byquiet
enoughand Jip was lying in her lapwinking peacefully at me. It
was off my mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I
were engaged.

I suppose we had some notion that this was to end in marriage. We
must have had somebecause Dora stipulated that we were never to
be married without her papa's consent. Butin our youthful
ecstasyI don't think that we really looked before us or behind
us; or had any aspiration beyond the ignorant present. We were to
keep our secret from Mr. Spenlow; but I am sure the idea never
entered my headthenthat there was anything dishonourable in
that.

Miss Mills was more than usually pensive when Doragoing to find
herbrought her back; - I apprehendbecause there was a tendency
in what had passed to awaken the slumbering echoes in the caverns
of Memory. But she gave us her blessingand the assurance of her
lasting friendshipand spoke to usgenerallyas became a Voice
from the Cloister.

What an idle time it was! What an insubstantialhappyfoolish
time it was!

When I measured Dora's finger for a ring that was to be made of
Forget-me-notsand when the jewellerto whom I took the measure
found me outand laughed over his order-bookand charged me
anything he liked for the pretty little toywith its blue stones

-so associated in my remembrance with Dora's handthat yesterday
when I saw such anotherby chanceon the finger of my own
daughterthere was a momentary stirring in my heartlike pain!
When I walked aboutexalted with my secretand full of my own
interestand felt the dignity of loving Doraand of being
belovedso muchthat if I had walked the airI could not have
been more above the people not so situatedwho were creeping on
the earth!

When we had those meetings in the garden of the squareand sat


within the dingy summer-houseso happythat I love the London
sparrows to this hourfor nothing elseand 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 ringenclosed in a
despairing cocked-hat notewherein she used the terrible
expression that 'our love had begun in follyand ended in
madness!' which dreadful words occasioned me to tear my hairand
cry that all was over!

Whenunder cover of the nightI flew to Miss Millswhom I saw by
stealth in a back kitchen where there was a mangleand implored
Miss Mills to interpose between us and avert insanity. When Miss
Mills undertook the office and returned with Doraexhorting us
from the pulpit of her own bitter youthto mutual concessionand
the avoidance of the Desert of Sahara!

When we criedand made it upand were so blest againthat the
back kitchenmangle and allchanged to Love's own templewhere
we arranged a plan of correspondence through Miss Millsalways to
comprehend at least one letter on each side every day!

What an idle time! What an insubstantialhappyfoolish time! Of
all the times of mine that Time has in his gripthere is none that
in one retrospect I can smile at half so muchand think of half so
tenderly.

CHAPTER 34
MY AUNT ASTONISHES ME

I wrote to Agnes as soon as Dora and I were engaged. I wrote her
a long letterin which I tried to make her comprehend how blest I
wasand 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
unfathomableand expressed my belief that nothing like it had ever
been known.

Somehowas 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 meit shed such a peaceful influence upon the hurry
and agitation in which I had been living latelyand of which my
very happiness partook in some degreethat it soothed me into
tears. I remember that I sat resting my head upon my handwhen
the letter was half donecherishing a general fancy as if Agnes
were one of the elements of my natural home. As ifin the
retirement of the house made almost sacred to me by her presence
Dora and I must be happier than anywhere. As ifin lovejoy
sorrowhopeor disappointment; in all emotions; my heart turned
naturally thereand found its refuge and best friend.

Of Steerforth I said nothing. I only told her there had been sad
grief at Yarmouthon account of Emily's flight; and that on me it
made a double woundby reason of the circumstances attending it.
I knew how quick she always was to divine the truthand that she
would never be the first to breathe his name.

To this letterI received an answer by return of post. As I read
itI 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 latelyTraddles had called twice
or thrice. Finding Peggotty withinand being informed by Peggotty
(who always volunteered that information to whomsoever would
receive it)that she was my old nursehe had established a
good-humoured acquaintance with herand 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 sideand of immoderate lengthas she
was very difficult indeed to stopGod bless her! when she had me
for her theme.

This reminds menot only that I expected Traddles on a certain
afternoon of his own appointingwhich was now comebut that Mrs.
Crupp had resigned everything appertaining to her office (the
salary excepted) until Peggotty should cease to present herself.
Mrs. Cruppafter holding divers conversations respecting Peggotty
in a very high-pitched voiceon the staircase - with some
invisible Familiar it would appearfor corporeally speaking she
was quite alone at those times - addressed a letter to me
developing her views. Beginning it with that statement of
universal applicationwhich fitted every occurrence of her life
namelythat she was a mother herselfshe went on to inform me
that she had once seen very different daysbut that at all periods
of her existence she had had a constitutional objection to spies
intrudersand informers. She named no namesshe said; let them
the cap fittedwear it; but spiesintrudersand 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 spiesintrudersand informers (but still naming no
names)that was his own pleasure. He had a right to please
himself; so let him do. All that sheMrs. Cruppstipulated for
wasthat she should not be 'brought in contract' with such
persons. Therefore she begged to be excused from any further
attendance on the top setuntil things were as they formerly was
and as they could be wished to be; and further mentioned that her
little book would be found upon the breakfast-table every Saturday
morningwhen she requested an immediate settlement of the same
with the benevolent view of saving trouble 'and an ill-conwenience'
to all parties.

After thisMrs. Crupp confined herself to making pitfalls on the
stairsprincipally with pitchersand endeavouring to delude
Peggotty into breaking her legs. I found it rather harassing to
live in this state of siegebut was too much afraid of Mrs. Crupp
to see any way out of it.

'My dear Copperfield' cried Traddlespunctually appearing at my
doorin spite of all these obstacles'how do you do?'

'My dear Traddles' said I'I am delighted to see you at lastand
very sorry I have not been at home before. But I have been so much
engaged -'

'YesyesI know' said Traddles'of course. Yours lives in
LondonI think.'

'What did you say?'

'She - excuse me - Miss D.you know' said Traddlescolouring in
his great delicacy'lives in LondonI believe?'

'Oh yes. Near London.'

'Mineperhaps you recollect' said Traddleswith a serious look


'lives down in Devonshire - one of ten. ConsequentlyI am not so
much engaged as you - in that sense.'


'I wonder you can bear' I returned'to see her so seldom.'


'Hah!' said Traddlesthoughtfully. 'It does seem a wonder. I
suppose it isCopperfieldbecause there is no help for it?'


'I suppose so' I replied with a smileand not without a blush.
'And because you have so much constancy and patienceTraddles.'


'Dear me!' said Traddlesconsidering about it'do I strike you in
that wayCopperfield? Really I didn't know that I had. But she
is such an extraordinarily dear girl herselfthat it's possible
she may have imparted something of those virtues to me. Now you
mention itCopperfieldI shouldn't wonder at all. I assure you
she is always forgetting herselfand taking care of the other
nine.'


'Is she the eldest?' I inquired.


'Oh dearno' said Traddles. 'The eldest is a Beauty.'


He sawI supposethat I could not help smiling at the simplicity
of this reply; and addedwith a smile upon his own ingenuous face:


'Notof coursebut that my Sophy - pretty nameCopperfieldI
always think?'


'Very pretty!' said I.


'Notof coursebut that Sophy is beautiful too in my eyesand
would be one of the dearest girls that ever wasin anybody's eyes
(I should think). But when I say the eldest is a BeautyI mean
she really is a -' he seemed to be describing clouds about himself
with both hands: 'Splendidyou know' said Traddles
energetically.
'Indeed!' said I.


'OhI assure you' said Traddles'something very uncommon
indeed! Thenyou knowbeing formed for society and admiration
and not being able to enjoy much of it in consequence of their
limited meansshe naturally gets a little irritable and exacting
sometimes. Sophy puts her in good humour!'


'Is Sophy the youngest?' I hazarded.


'Oh dearno!' said Traddlesstroking his chin. 'The two youngest
are only nine and ten. Sophy educates 'em.'


'The second daughterperhaps?' I hazarded.


'No' said Traddles. 'Sarah's the second. Sarah has something the
matter with her spinepoor girl. The malady will wear out by and
bythe doctors saybut in the meantime she has to lie down for a
twelvemonth. Sophy nurses her. Sophy's the fourth.'


'Is the mother living?' I inquired.


'Oh yes' said Traddles'she is alive. She is a very superior
woman indeedbut the damp country is not adapted to her
constitutionand - in factshe has lost the use of her limbs.'


'Dear me!' said I.



'Very sadis it not?' returned Traddles. 'But in a merely
domestic view it is not so bad as it might bebecause Sophy takes
her place. She is quite as much a mother to her motheras she is
to the other nine.'

I felt the greatest admiration for the virtues of this young lady;
andhonestly with the view of doing my best to prevent the
good-nature of Traddles from being imposed uponto the detriment
of their joint prospects in lifeinquired how Mr. Micawber was?

'He is quite wellCopperfieldthank you' said Traddles. 'I am
not living with him at present.'

'No?'

'No. You see the truth is' said Traddlesin a whisper'he had
changed his name to Mortimerin consequence of his temporary
embarrassments; and he don't come out till after dark - and then in
spectacles. There was an execution put into our housefor 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 feelingsCopperfieldto
see the matter settled with itand Mrs. Micawber recover her
spirits.'

'Hum!' said I.
'Not that her happiness was of long duration' pursued Traddles
'forunfortunatelywithin a week another execution came in. It
broke up the establishment. I have been living in a furnished
apartment since thenand the Mortimers have been very private
indeed. I hope you won't think it selfishCopperfieldif I
mention that the broker carried off my little round table with the
marble topand Sophy's flower-pot and stand?'

'What a hard thing!' I exclaimed indignantly.

'It was a - it was a pull' said Traddleswith his usual wince at
that expression. 'I don't mention it reproachfullyhoweverbut
with a motive. The fact isCopperfieldI was unable to
repurchase them at the time of their seizure; in the first place
because the brokerhaving an idea that I wanted themran the
price up to an extravagant extent; andin the second place
because I - hadn't any money. NowI have kept my eye sinceupon
the broker's shop' said Traddleswith a great enjoyment of his
mystery'which is up at the top of Tottenham Court Roadandat
lasttoday I find them put out for sale. I have only noticed them
from over the waybecause if the broker saw mebless youhe'd
ask any price for them! What has occurred to mehaving now the
moneyisthat perhaps you wouldn't object to ask that good nurse
of yours to come with me to the shop - I can show it her from round
the corner of the next street - and make the best bargain for them
as if they were for herselfthat she can!'

The delight with which Traddles propounded this plan to meand the
sense he had of its uncommon artfulnessare among the freshest
things in my remembrance.

I told him that my old nurse would be delighted to assist himand
that we would all three take the field togetherbut on one
condition. That condition wasthat he should make a solemn
resolution to grant no more loans of his nameor anything elseto
Mr. Micawber.


'My dear Copperfield' said Traddles'I have already done so
because I begin to feel that I have not only been inconsiderate
but that I have been positively unjust to Sophy. My word being
passed to myselfthere is no longer any apprehension; but I pledge
it to youtoowith the greatest readiness. That first unlucky
obligationI have paid. I have no doubt Mr. Micawber would have
paid it if he couldbut he could not. One thing I ought to
mentionwhich I like very much in Mr. MicawberCopperfield. It
refers to the second obligationwhich is not yet due. He don't
tell me that it is provided forbut he says it WILL BE. NowI
think there is something very fair and honest about that!'

I was unwilling to damp my good friend's confidenceand therefore
assented. After a little further conversationwe went round to
the chandler's shopto enlist Peggotty; Traddles declining to pass
the evening with meboth because he endured the liveliest
apprehensions that his property would be bought by somebody else
before he could re-purchase itand 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 Roadwhile Peggotty was bargaining for the
precious articles; or his agitation when she came slowly towards us
after vainly offering a priceand was hailed by the relenting
brokerand went back again. The end of the negotiation wasthat
she bought the property on tolerably easy termsand Traddles was
transported with pleasure.

'I am very much obliged to youindeed' said Traddleson hearing
it was to be sent to where he livedthat night. 'If I might ask
one other favourI hope you would not think it absurd
Copperfield?'

I said beforehandcertainly not.

'Then if you WOULD be good enough' said Traddles to Peggotty'to
get the flower-pot nowI think I should like (it being Sophy's
Copperfield) to carry it home myself!'

Peggotty was glad to get it for himand he overwhelmed her with
thanksand went his way up Tottenham Court Roadcarrying the
flower-pot affectionately in his armswith 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 elseI sauntered easily alongamused by her staring in at
the windowsand waiting for her as often as she chose. We were
thus a good while in getting to the Adelphi.

On our way upstairsI called her attention to the sudden
disappearance of Mrs. Crupp's pitfallsand also to the prints of
recent footsteps. We were both very much surprisedcoming higher
upto find my outer door standing open (which I had shut) and to
hear voices inside.

We looked at one anotherwithout knowing what to make of thisand
went into the sitting-room. What was my amazement to findof all
people upon earthmy aunt thereand Mr. Dick! My aunt sitting on
a quantity of luggagewith her two birds before herand her cat
on her kneelike a female Robinson Crusoedrinking tea. Mr. Dick
leaning thoughtfully on a great kitesuch as we had often been out
together to flywith more luggage piled about him!


'My dear aunt!' cried I. 'Whywhat an unexpected pleasure!'

We cordially embraced; and Mr. Dick and I cordially shook hands;
and Mrs. Cruppwho was busy making teaand could not be too
attentivecordially said she had knowed well as Mr. Copperfull
would have his heart in his mouthwhen he see his dear relations.

'Holloa!' said my aunt to Peggottywho quailed before her awful
presence. 'How are YOU?'

'You remember my auntPeggotty?' said I.

'For the love of goodnesschild' exclaimed my aunt'don't call
the woman by that South Sea Island name! If she married and got
rid of itwhich was the best thing she could dowhy don't you
give her the benefit of the change? What's your name now- P?'
said my auntas a compromise for the obnoxious appellation.

'Barkisma'am' said Peggottywith a curtsey.

'Well! That's human' said my aunt. 'It sounds less as if you
wanted a missionary. How d'ye doBarkis? I hope you're well?'

Encouraged by these gracious wordsand by my aunt's extending her
handBarkis came forwardand took the handand curtseyed her
acknowledgements.

'We are older than we wereI see' said my aunt. 'We have only
met each other once beforeyou know. A nice business we made of
it then! Trotmy dearanother cup.'

I handed it dutifully to my auntwho was in her usual inflexible
state of figure; and ventured a remonstrance with her on the
subject of her sitting on a box.

'Let me draw the sofa hereor the easy-chairaunt' said I. 'Why
should you be so uncomfortable?'

'Thank youTrot' replied my aunt'I prefer to sit upon my
property.' Here my aunt looked hard at Mrs. Cruppand observed
'We needn't trouble you to waitma'am.'

'Shall I put a little more tea in the pot afore I goma'am?' said
Mrs. Crupp.

'NoI thank youma'am' replied my aunt.

'Would you let me fetch another pat of butterma'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 auntMr. Copperfull?'

'Nothingma'am' returned my aunt. 'I shall do very wellI thank
you.'

Mrs. Cruppwho had been incessantly smiling to express sweet
temperand incessantly holding her head on one sideto express a
general feebleness of constitutionand incessantly rubbing her
handsto express a desire to be of service to all deserving
objectsgradually smiled herselfone-sided herselfand rubbed
herselfout of the room.
'Dick!' said my aunt. 'You know what I told you about time-servers
and wealth-worshippers?'


Mr. Dick - with rather a scared lookas if he had forgotten it returned
a hasty answer in the affirmative.

'Mrs. Crupp is one of them' said my aunt. 'BarkisI'll trouble
you to look after the teaand let me have another cupfor 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 mindand that there was far more matter in this
arrival than a stranger might have supposed. I noticed how her eye
lighted on mewhen she thought my attention otherwise occupied;
and what a curious process of hesitation appeared to be going on
within herwhile 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 thatI wondered!

As I knew she would only speak in her own good timeI sat down
near herand spoke to the birdsand played with the catand was
as easy as I could be. But I was very far from being really easy;
and I should still have been soeven if Mr. Dickleaning over the
great kite behind my aunthad not taken every secret opportunity
of shaking his head darkly at meand pointing at her.

'Trot' said my aunt at lastwhen she had finished her teaand
carefully smoothed down her dressand wiped her lips - 'you
needn't goBarkis! - Trothave you got to be firm and
self-reliant?'

'I hope soaunt.'

'What do you think?' inquired Miss Betsey.

'I think soaunt.'

'Then whymy love' said my auntlooking earnestly at me'why do
you think I prefer to sit upon this property of mine tonight?'

I shook my headunable to guess.

'Because' said my aunt'it's all I have. Because I'm ruinedmy
dear!'

If the houseand every one of ushad tumbled out into the river
togetherI could hardly have received a greater shock.

'Dick knows it' said my auntlaying her hand calmly on my
shoulder. 'I am ruinedmy dear Trot! All I have in the world is
in this roomexcept the cottage; and that I have left Janet to
let. BarkisI want to get a bed for this gentleman tonight. To
save expenseperhaps you can make up something here for myself.
Anything will do. It's only for tonight. We'll talk about this
moretomorrow.'

I was roused from my amazementand concern for her - I am sure
for her - by her falling on my neckfor a momentand crying that
she only grieved for me. In another moment she suppressed this
emotion; and said with an aspect more triumphant than dejected:

'We must meet reverses boldlyand not suffer them to frighten us
my dear. We must learn to act the play out. We must live
misfortune downTrot!'


CHAPTER 35
DEPRESSION

As soon as I could recover my presence of mindwhich quite
deserted me in the first overpowering shock of my aunt's
intelligenceI proposed to Mr. Dick to come round to the
chandler's shopand take possession of the bed which Mr. Peggotty
had lately vacated. The chandler's shop being in Hungerford
Marketand Hungerford Market being a very different place in those
daysthere was a low wooden colonnade before the door (not very
unlike that before the house where the little man and woman used to
livein the old weather-glass)which pleased Mr. Dick mightily.
The glory of lodging over this structure would have compensated
himI dare sayfor many inconveniences; butas there were really
few to bearbeyond the compound of flavours I have already
mentionedand perhaps the want of a little more elbow-roomhe was
perfectly charmed with his accommodation. Mrs. Crupp had
indignantly assured him that there wasn't room to swing a cat
there; butas Mr. Dick justly observed to mesitting down on the
foot of the bednursing his leg'You knowTrotwoodI don't want
to swing a cat. I never do swing a cat. Thereforewhat does that
signify to ME!'

I tried to ascertain whether Mr. Dick had any understanding of the
causes of this sudden and great change in my aunt's affairs. As I
might have expectedhe had none at all. The only account he could
give of it wasthat my aunt had said to himthe day before
yesterday'NowDickare you really and truly the philosopher I
take you for?' That then he had saidYeshe hoped so. That then
my aunt had said'DickI am ruined.' That then he had said'Oh
indeed!' That then my aunt had praised him highlywhich he was
glad of. And that then they had come to meand had had bottled
porter and sandwiches on the road.

Mr. Dick was so very complacentsitting on the foot of the bed
nursing his legand telling me thiswith his eyes wide open and
a surprised smilethat I am sorry to say I was provoked into
explaining to him that ruin meant distresswantand starvation;
but I was soon bitterly reproved for this harshnessby seeing his
face turn paleand tears course down his lengthened cheekswhile
he fixed upon me a look of such unutterable woethat 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 confidentmerely because of his faith in the wisest and
most wonderful of womenand his unbounded reliance on my
intellectual resources. The latterI believehe considered a
match for any kind of disaster not absolutely mortal.

'What can we doTrotwood?' said Mr. Dick. 'There's the Memorial
-'

'To be sure there is' said I. 'But all we can do just nowMr.
Dickis to keep a cheerful countenanceand not let my aunt see
that we are thinking about it.'

He assented to this in the most earnest manner; and implored meif
I should see him wandering an inch out of the right courseto
recall him by some of those superior methods which were always at
my command. But I regret to state that the fright I had given him
proved too much for his best attempts at concealment. All the
evening his eyes wandered to my aunt's facewith an expression of


the most dismal apprehensionas if he saw her growing thin on the
spot. He was conscious of thisand put a constraint upon his
head; but his keeping that immovableand sitting rolling his eyes
like a piece of machinerydid 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 repastI 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 savingswhen we should
have reached an advanced stage of attenuation.

My aunton the other handwas in a composed frame of mindwhich
was a lesson to all of us - to meI am sure. She was extremely
gracious to Peggottyexcept when I inadvertently called her by
that name; andstrange as I knew she felt in Londonappeared
quite at home. She was to have my bedand I was to lie in the
sitting-roomto keep guard over her. She made a great point of
being so near the riverin case of a conflagration; and I suppose
really did find some satisfaction in that circumstance.

'Trotmy dear' said my auntwhen she saw me making preparations
for compounding her usual night-draught'No!'

'Nothingaunt?'

'Not winemy dear. Ale.'

'But there is wine hereaunt. And you always have it made of
wine.'

'Keep thatin case of sickness' said my aunt. 'We mustn't use it
carelesslyTrot. Ale for me. Half a pint.'

I thought Mr. Dick would have falleninsensible. My aunt being
resoluteI went out and got the ale myself. As it was growing
latePeggotty and Mr. Dick took that opportunity of repairing to
the chandler's shop together. I parted from himpoor fellowat
the corner of the streetwith his great kite at his backa very
monument of human misery.

My aunt was walking up and down the room when I returnedcrimping
the borders of her nightcap with her fingers. I warmed the ale and
made the toast on the usual infallible principles. When it was
ready for hershe was ready for itwith her nightcap onand the
skirt of her gown turned back on her knees.

'My dear' said my auntafter taking a spoonful of it; 'it's a
great deal better than wine. Not half so bilious.'

I suppose I looked doubtfulfor she added:

'Tuttutchild. If nothing worse than Ale happens to uswe are
well off.'

'I should think so myselfauntI am sure' said I.

'Wellthenwhy DON'T you think so?' said my aunt.

'Because you and I are very different people' I returned.

'Stuff and nonsenseTrot!' replied my aunt.

MY aunt went on with a quiet enjoymentin which there was very
little affectationif any; drinking the warm ale with a tea-spoon


and soaking her strips of toast in it.

'Trot' said she'I don't care for strange faces in generalbut
I rather like that Barkis of yoursdo you know!'

'It's better than a hundred pounds to hear you say so!' said I.

'It's a most extraordinary world' observed my auntrubbing her
nose; 'how that woman ever got into it with that nameis
unaccountable to me. It would be much more easy to be born a
Jacksonor something of that sortone would think.'

'Perhaps she thinks sotoo; it's not her fault' said I.

'I suppose not' returned my auntrather grudging the admission;
'but it's very aggravating. Howevershe's Barkis now. That's
some comfort. Barkis is uncommonly fond of youTrot.'

'There is nothing she would leave undone to prove it' said I.

'NothingI believe' returned my aunt. 'Herethe poor fool has
been begging and praying about handing over some of her money because
she has got too much of it. A simpleton!'

My aunt's tears of pleasure were positively trickling down into the
warm ale.

'She's the most ridiculous creature that ever was born' said my
aunt. 'I knewfrom the first moment when I saw her with that poor
dear blessed baby of a mother of yoursthat she was the most
ridiculous of mortals. But there are good points in Barkis!'

Affecting to laughshe got an opportunity of putting her hand to
her eyes. Having availed herself of itshe resumed her toast and
her discourse together.

'Ah! Mercy upon us!' sighed my aunt. 'I know all about itTrot!
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 tofor my part. I wonder they don't knock out their
brains against - against mantelpieces' said my aunt; an idea which
was probably suggested to her by her contemplation of mine.

'Poor Emily!' said I.

'Ohdon't talk to me about poor' returned my aunt. 'She should
have thought of thatbefore she caused so much misery! Give me a
kissTrot. I am sorry for your early experience.'

As I bent forwardshe put her tumbler on my knee to detain meand
said:

'OhTrotTrot! And so you fancy yourself in love! Do you?'

'Fancyaunt!' I exclaimedas red as I could be. 'I adore her
with my whole soul!'

'Doraindeed!' returned my aunt. 'And you mean to say the little
thing is very fascinatingI suppose?'

'My dear aunt' I replied'no one can form the least idea what she
is!'

'Ah! And not silly?' said my aunt.


'Sillyaunt!'

I seriously believe it had never once entered my head for a single
momentto consider whether she was or not. I resented the idea
of course; but I was in a manner struck by itas a new one
altogether.

'Not light-headed?' said my aunt.

'Light-headedaunt!' I could only repeat this daring speculation
with the same kind of feeling with which I had repeated the
preceding question.

'Wellwell!' said my aunt. 'I only ask. I don't depreciate her.
Poor little couple! And so you think you were formed for one
anotherand are to go through a party-supper-table kind of life
like two pretty pieces of confectionerydo youTrot?'

She asked me this so kindlyand with such a gentle airhalf
playful and half sorrowfulthat I was quite touched.

'We are young and inexperiencedauntI know' I replied; 'and I
dare say we say and think a good deal that is rather foolish. But
we love one another trulyI am sure. If I thought Dora could ever
love anybody elseor cease to love me; or that I could ever love
anybody elseor cease to love her; I don't know what I should do

-go out of my mindI think!'
'AhTrot!' said my auntshaking her headand smiling gravely;
'blindblindblind!'

'Someone that I knowTrot' my aunt pursuedafter a pause
'though of a very pliant dispositionhas an earnestness of
affection in him that reminds me of poor Baby. Earnestness is what
that Somebody must look forto sustain him and improve himTrot.
Deepdownrightfaithful earnestness.'

'If you only knew the earnestness of Doraaunt!' I cried.

'OhTrot!' she said again; 'blindblind!' and without knowing
whyI 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 themselvesor to make them unhappy; sothough
it is a girl and boy attachmentand girl and boy attachments very
often - mind! I don't say always! - come to nothingstill we'll be
serious about itand hope for a prosperous issue one of these
days. There's time enough for it to come to anything!'

This was not upon the whole very comforting to a rapturous lover;
but I was glad to have my aunt in my confidenceand I was mindful
of her being fatigued. So I thanked her ardently for this mark of
her affectionand for all her other kindnesses towards me; and
after a tender good nightshe took her nightcap into my bedroom.

How miserable I waswhen I lay down! How I thought and thought
about my being poorin Mr. Spenlow's eyes; about my not being what
I thought I waswhen I proposed to Dora; about the chivalrous
necessity of telling Dora what my worldly condition wasand
releasing her from her engagement if she thought fit; about how I
should contrive to liveduring the long term of my articleswhen
I was earning nothing; about doing something to assist my auntand


seeing no way of doing anything; about coming down to have no money
in my pocketand to wear a shabby coatand to be able to carry
Dora no little presentsand to ride no gallant greysand to show
myself in no agreeable light! Sordid and selfish as I knew it was
and as I tortured myself by knowing that it wasto let my mind run
on my own distress so muchI 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
auntand less of myself; butso farselfishness was inseparable
from Doraand I could not put Dora on one side for any mortal
creature. How exceedingly miserable I wasthat night!

As to sleepI had dreams of poverty in all sorts of shapesbut I
seemed to dream without the previous ceremony of going to sleep.
Now I was raggedwanting to sell Dora matchessix bundles for a
halfpenny; now I was at the office in a nightgown and boots
remonstrated with by Mr. Spenlow on appearing before the clients in
that airy attire; now I was hungrily picking up the crumbs that
fell from old Tiffey's daily biscuitregularly eaten when St.
Paul's struck one; now I was hopelessly endeavouring to get a
licence to marry Dorahaving nothing but one of Uriah Heep's
gloves to offer in exchangewhich the whole Commons rejected; and
stillmore or less conscious of my own roomI was always tossing
about like a distressed ship in a sea of bed-clothes.

My aunt was restlesstoofor I frequently heard her walking to
and fro. Two orthree times in the course of the nightattired in
a long flannel wrapper in which she looked seven feet highshe
appearedlike a disturbed ghostin my roomand came to the side
of the sofa on which I lay. On the first occasion I started up in
alarmto learn that she inferred from a particular light in the
skythat Westminster Abbey was on fire; and to be consulted in
reference to the probability of its igniting Buckingham Streetin
case the wind changed. Lying stillafter thatI found that she
sat down near mewhispering to herself 'Poor boy!' And then it
made me twenty times more wretchedto know how unselfishly mindful
she was of meand how selfishly mindful I was of myself.

It was difficult to believe that a night so long to mecould be
short to anybody else. This consideration set me thinking and
thinking of an imaginary party where people were dancing the hours
awayuntil that became a dream tooand I heard the music
incessantly playing one tuneand saw Dora incessantly dancing one
dancewithout taking the least notice of me. The man who had been
playing the harp all nightwas trying in vain to cover it with an
ordinary-sized nightcapwhen I awoke; or I should rather saywhen
I left off trying to go to sleepand saw the sun shining in
through the window at last.

There was an old Roman bath in those days at the bottom of one of
the streets out of the Strand - it may be there still - in which I
have had many a cold plunge. Dressing myself as quietly as I
couldand leaving Peggotty to look after my auntI tumbled head
foremost into itand 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 goodfor I soon came to the conclusion that
the first step I ought to take wasto try if my articles could be
cancelled and the premium recovered. I got some breakfast on the
Heathand walked back to Doctors' Commonsalong the watered roads

and through a pleasant smell of summer flowersgrowing in gardens
and carried into town on hucksters' headsintent on this first
effort to meet our altered circumstances.

I arrived at the office so soonafter allthat I had half an


hour's loitering about the Commonsbefore old Tiffeywho was
always firstappeared with his key. Then I sat down in my shady
cornerlooking up at the sunlight on the opposite chimney-pots
and thinking about Dora; until Mr. Spenlow came incrisp and
curly.

'How are youCopperfield?' said he. 'Fine morning!'

'Beautiful morningsir' 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 roomand he began putting on his gownand
touching himself up before a little glass he hadhanging inside a
closet door.

'I am sorry to say' said I'that I have some rather disheartening
intelligence from my aunt.'

'No!' said he. 'Dear me! Not paralysisI hope?'

'It has no reference to her healthsir' I replied. 'She has met
with some large losses. In factshe has very little left
indeed.'

'You as-tound meCopperfield!' cried Mr. Spenlow.

I shook my head. 'Indeedsir' said I'her affairs are so
changedthat I wished to ask you whether it would be possible - at
a sacrifice on our part of some portion of the premiumof course'
I put in thison the spur of the momentwarned by the blank
expression of his face - 'to cancel my articles?'

What it cost me to make this proposalnobody knows. It was like
askingas a favourto be sentenced to transportation from Dora.

'To cancel your articlesCopperfield? Cancel?'

I explained with tolerable firmnessthat I really did not know
where my means of subsistence were to come fromunless I could
earn them for myself. I had no fear for the futureI said - and
I laid great emphasis on thatas if to imply that I should still
be decidedly eligible for a son-in-law one of these days - butfor
the presentI was thrown upon my own resources.
'I am extremely sorry to hear thisCopperfield' said Mr. Spenlow.
'Extremely sorry. It is not usual to cancel articles for any such
reason. It is not a professional course of proceeding. It is not
a convenient precedent at all. Far from it. At the same time -'

'You are very goodsir' I murmuredanticipating a concession.

'Not at all. Don't mention it' said Mr. Spenlow. 'At the same
timeI was going to sayif it had been my lot to have my hands
unfettered - if I had not a partner - Mr. Jorkins -'

My hopes were dashed in a momentbut I made another effort.

'Do you thinksir' said I'if I were to mention it to Mr.
Jorkins -'

Mr. Spenlow shook his head discouragingly. 'Heaven forbid
Copperfield' he replied'that I should do any man an injustice:
still lessMr. jorkins. But I know my partnerCopperfield. Mr.


jorkins is not a man to respond to a proposition of this peculiar
nature. Mr. jorkins is very difficult to move from the beaten
track. You know what he is!'

I am sure I knew nothing about himexcept that he had originally
been alone in the businessand now lived by himself in a house
near Montagu Squarewhich was fearfully in want of painting; that
he came very late of a dayand went away very early; that he never
appeared to be consulted about anything; and that he had a dingy
little black-hole of his own upstairswhere no business was ever
doneand where there was a yellow old cartridge-paper pad upon his
deskunsoiled by inkand reported to be twenty years of age.

'Would you object to my mentioning it to himsir?' I asked.

'By no means' said Mr. Spenlow. 'But I have some experience of
Mr. jorkinsCopperfield. I wish it were otherwisefor I should
be happy to meet your views in any respect. I cannot have the
objection to your mentioning it to Mr. jorkinsCopperfieldif you
think it worth while.'

Availing myself of this permissionwhich was given with a warm
shake of the handI sat thinking about Doraand looking at the
sunlight stealing from the chimney-pots down the wall of the
opposite houseuntil Mr. jorkins came. I then went up to Mr.
jorkins's roomand evidently astonished Mr. jorkins very much by
making my appearance there.

'Come inMr. Copperfield' said Mr. jorkins. 'Come in!'

I went inand sat down; and stated my case to Mr. jorkins pretty
much as I had stated it to Mr. Spenlow. Mr. Jorkins was not by any
means the awful creature one might have expectedbut a large
mildsmooth-faced man of sixtywho took so much snuff that there
was a tradition in the Commons that he lived principally on that
stimulanthaving little room in his system for any other article
of diet.

'You have mentioned this to Mr. SpenlowI suppose?' said Mr.
jorkins; when he had heard mevery restlesslyto an end.

I answered Yesand told him that Mr. Spenlow had introduced his
name.

'He said I should object?' asked Mr. jorkins.

I was obliged to admit that Mr. Spenlow had considered it probable.

'I am sorry to sayMr. CopperfieldI can't advance your object'
said Mr. jorkinsnervously. 'The fact is - but I have an
appointment at the Bankif you'll have the goodness to excuse me.'

With that he rose in a great hurryand was going out of the room
when I made bold to say that I fearedthenthere was no way of
arranging the matter?

'No!' said Mr. jorkinsstopping at the door to shake his head.
'Ohno! I objectyou know' which he said very rapidlyand went
out. 'You must be awareMr. Copperfield' he addedlooking
restlessly in at the door again'if Mr. Spenlow objects -'

'Personallyhe does not objectsir' said I.

'Oh! Personally!' repeated Mr. Jorkinsin an impatient manner.


'I assure you there's an objectionMr. Copperfield. Hopeless!
What you wish to be donecan't be done. I - I really have got an
appointment at the Bank.' With that he fairly ran away; and to the
best of my knowledgeit was three days before he showed himself in
the Commons again.

Being very anxious to leave no stone unturnedI waited until Mr.
Spenlow came inand then described what had passed; giving him to
understand that I was not hopeless of his being able to soften the
adamantine jorkinsif he would undertake the task.

'Copperfield' returned Mr. Spenlowwith a gracious smile'you
have not known my partnerMr. jorkinsas long as I have. Nothing
is farther from my thoughts than to attribute any degree of
artifice to Mr. jorkins. But Mr. jorkins has a way of stating his
objections which often deceives people. NoCopperfield!' shaking
his head. 'Mr. jorkins is not to be movedbelieve me!'

I was completely bewildered between Mr. Spenlow and Mr. jorkinsas
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 despondencywhich I remember with
anything but satisfactionfor I know it still had too much
reference to myself (though always in connexion with Dora)I left
the officeand went homeward.

I was trying to familiarize my mind with the worstand to present
to myself the arrangements we should have to make for the future in
their sternest aspectwhen a hackney-chariot coming after meand
stopping at my very feetoccasioned 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 happinessfrom the moment
when it first turned back on the old oak staircase with the great
broad balustradeand when I associated its softened beauty with
the stained-glass window in the churchwas smiling on me.

'Agnes!' I joyfully exclaimed. 'Ohmy dear Agnesof all people
in the worldwhat a pleasure to see you!'

'Is itindeed?' she saidin her cordial voice.

'I want to talk to you so much!' said I. 'It's such a lightening
of my heartonly to look at you! If I had had a conjuror's cap
there is no one I should have wished for but you!'

'What?' returned Agnes.

'Well! perhaps Dora first' I admittedwith a blush.

'CertainlyDora firstI hope' said Agneslaughing.

'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 chariotwhich smelt (I had my head
in it all this time) like a stable put under a cucumber-frame. I
dismissed the coachmanand she took my armand we walked on
together. She was like Hope embodiedto me. How different I felt
in one short minutehaving Agnes at my side!

My aunt had written her one of the oddabrupt notes - very little
longer than a Bank note - to which her epistolary efforts were
usually limited. She had stated therein that she had fallen into


adversityand was leaving Dover for goodbut had quite made up
her mind to itand was so well that nobody need be uncomfortable
about her. Agnes had come to London to see my auntbetween whom
and herself there had been a mutual liking these many years:
indeedit dated from the time of my taking up my residence in Mr.
Wickfield's house. She was not aloneshe said. Her papa was with
her - and Uriah Heep.

'And now they are partners' said I. 'Confound him!'

'Yes' said Agnes. 'They have some business here; and I took
advantage of their comingto come too. You must not think my
visit all friendly and disinterestedTrotwoodfor - I am afraid
I may be cruelly prejudiced - I do not like to let papa go away
alonewith him.'
'Does he exercise the same influence over Mr. Wickfield still
Agnes?'

Agnes shook her head. 'There is such a change at home' said she
'that you would scarcely know the dear old house. They live with
us now.'

'They?' said I.

'Mr. Heep and his mother. He sleeps in your old room' said Agnes
looking up into my face.

'I wish I had the ordering of his dreams' said I. 'He wouldn't
sleep there long.'

'I keep my own little room' said Agnes'where I used to learn my
lessons. How the time goes! You remember? The little panelled
room that opens from the drawing-room?'

'RememberAgnes? When I saw youfor the first timecoming out
at the doorwith your quaint little basket of keys hanging at your
side?'

'It is just the same' said Agnessmiling. 'I am glad you think
of it so pleasantly. We were very happy.'

'We wereindeed' said I.

'I keep that room to myself still; but I cannot always desert Mrs.
Heepyou know. And so' said Agnesquietly'I feel obliged to
bear her companywhen I might prefer to be alone. But I have no
other reason to complain of her. If she tires mesometimesby
her praises of her sonit is only natural in a mother. He is a
very good son to her.'

I looked at Agnes when she said these wordswithout detecting in
her any consciousness of Uriah's design. Her mild but earnest eyes
met mine with their own beautiful franknessand there was no
change in her gentle face.

'The chief evil of their presence in the house' said Agnes'is
that I cannot be as near papa as I could wish - Uriah Heep being so
much between us - and cannot watch over himif that is not too
bold a thing to sayas closely as I would. But if any fraud or
treachery is practising against himI hope that simple love and
truth will be strong in the end. I hope that real love and truth
are stronger in the end than any evil or misfortune in the world.'

A certain bright smilewhich I never saw on any other facedied


awayeven while I thought how good it wasand how familiar it had
once been to me; and she asked mewith a quick change of
expression (we were drawing very near my street)if I knew how the
reverse in my aunt's circumstances had been brought about. On my
replying noshe had not told me yetAgnes became thoughtfuland
I fancied I felt her arm tremble in mine.

We found my aunt alonein a state of some excitement. A
difference of opinion had arisen between herself and Mrs. Cruppon
an abstract question (the propriety of chambers being inhabited by
the gentler sex); and my auntutterly indifferent to spasms on the
part of Mrs. Crupphad cut the dispute shortby informing that
lady that she smelt of my brandyand that she would trouble her to
walk out. Both of these expressions Mrs. Crupp considered
actionableand had expressed her intention of bringing before a
'British Judy' - meaningit was supposedthe bulwark of our
national liberties.

MY aunthoweverhaving had time to coolwhile Peggotty was out
showing Mr. Dick the soldiers at the Horse Guards - and being
besidesgreatly pleased to see Agnes - rather plumed herself on
the affair than otherwiseand received us with unimpaired good
humour. When Agnes laid her bonnet on the tableand sat down
beside herI could not but thinklooking on her mild eyes and her
radiant foreheadhow natural it seemed to have her there; how
trustfullyalthough she was so young and inexperiencedmy aunt
confided in her; how strong she wasindeedin simple love and
truth.

We began to talk about my aunt's lossesand I told them what I had
tried to do that morning.

'Which was injudiciousTrot' said my aunt'but well meant. You
are a generous boy - I suppose I must sayyoung mannow - and I
am proud of youmy dear. So farso good. NowTrot and Agnes
let us look the case of Betsey Trotwood in the faceand see how it
stands.'

I observed Agnes turn paleas she looked very attentively at my
aunt. My auntpatting her catlooked very attentively at Agnes.

'Betsey Trotwood' said my auntwho had always kept her money
matters to herself. '- I don't mean your sisterTrotmy dear
but myself - had a certain property. It don't matter how much;
enough to live on. More; for she had saved a littleand added to
it. Betsey funded her property for some timeand thenby the
advice of her man of businesslaid it out on landed security.
That did very welland returned very good interesttill Betsey
was paid off. I am talking of Betsey as if she was a man-of-war.
Well! ThenBetsey had to look about herfor a new investment.
She thought she was wisernowthan her man of businesswho was
not such a good man of business by this timeas he used to be - I
am alluding to your fatherAgnes - 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.
Firstshe lost in the mining wayand then she lost in the diving
way - fishing up treasureor some such Tom Tiddler nonsense'
explained my auntrubbing her nose; 'and then she lost in the
mining way againandlast of allto set the thing entirely to
rightsshe lost in the banking way. I don't know what the Bank
shares were worth for a little while' said my aunt; 'cent per cent
was the lowest of itI believe; but the Bank was at the other end
of the worldand tumbled into spacefor what I know; anyhowit
fell to piecesand never will and never can pay sixpence; and


Betsey's sixpences were all thereand there's an end of them.
Least saidsoonest mended!'

My aunt concluded this philosophical summaryby fixing her eyes
with a kind of triumph on Agneswhose colour was gradually
returning.

'Dear Miss Trotwoodis that all the history?' said Agnes.

'I hope it's enoughchild' said my aunt. 'If there had been more
money to loseit wouldn't have been allI dare say. Betsey would
have contrived to throw that after the restand make another
chapterI have little doubt. But there was no more moneyand
there's no more story.'

Agnes had listened at first with suspended breath. Her colour
still came and wentbut 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 hersand laughed.

'Is that all?' repeated my aunt. 'Whyyesthat's allexcept
And she lived happy ever afterwards.Perhaps I may add that of
Betsey yetone of these days. NowAgnesyou have a wise head.
So have youTrotin some thingsthough I can't compliment you
always'; and here my aunt shook her own at mewith an energy
peculiar to herself. 'What's to be done? Here's the cottage
taking one time with anotherwill produce say seventy pounds a
year. I think we may safely put it down at that. Well! - That's
all we've got' said my aunt; with whom it was an idiosyncrasyas
it is with some horsesto stop very short when she appeared to be
in a fair way of going on for a long while.

'Then' said my auntafter a rest'there's Dick. He's good for
a hundred a-yearbut of course that must be expended on himself.
I would sooner send him awaythough I know I am the only person
who appreciates himthan have himand not spend his money on
himself. How can Trot and I do bestupon our means? What do you
sayAgnes?'

'I sayaunt' I interposed'that I must do something!'

'Go for a soldierdo you mean?' returned my auntalarmed; 'or go
to sea? I won't hear of it. You are to be a proctor. We're not
going to have any knockings on the head in THIS familyif you
pleasesir.'

I was about to explain that I was not desirous of introducing that
mode of provision into the familywhen Agnes inquired if my rooms
were held for any long term?

'You come to the pointmy dear' said my aunt. 'They are not to
be got rid offor six months at leastunless they could be
underletand that I don't believe. The last man died here. Five
people out of six would die - of course - of that woman in nankeen
with the flannel petticoat. I have a little ready money; and I
agree with youthe best thing we can doisto live the term out
hereand get a bedroom hard by.'

I thought it my duty to hint at the discomfort my aunt would
sustainfrom living in a continual state of guerilla warfare with
Mrs. Crupp; but she disposed of that objection summarily by
declaring thaton the first demonstration of hostilitiesshe was
prepared to astonish Mrs. Crupp for the whole remainder of her


natural life.

'I have been thinkingTrotwood' said Agnesdiffidently'that if
you had time -'

'I have a good deal of timeAgnes. I am always disengaged after
four or five o'clockand I have time early in the morning. In one
way and another' said Iconscious of reddening a little as I
thought of the hours and hours I had devoted to fagging about town
and to and fro upon the Norwood Road'I have abundance of time.'

'I know you would not mind' said Agnescoming to meand speaking
in a low voiceso full of sweet and hopeful consideration that I
hear it now'the duties of a secretary.'

'Mindmy dear Agnes?'

'Because' continued Agnes'Doctor Strong has acted on his
intention of retiringand has come to live in London; and he asked
papaI knowif he could recommend him one. Don't you think he
would rather have his favourite old pupil near himthan 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 laughthat one good Angel
(meaning Dora) was enough; and went on to remind me that the Doctor
had been used to occupy himself in his studyearly in the morning
and in the evening - and that probably my leisure would suit his
requirements very well. I was scarcely more delighted with the
prospect of earning my own breadthan with the hope of earning it
under my old master; in shortacting on the advice of AgnesI sat
down and wrote a letter to the Doctorstating my objectand
appointing to call on him next day at ten in the forenoon. This I
addressed to Highgate - for in that placeso memorable to mehe
lived - and went and postedmyselfwithout losing a minute.

Wherever Agnes wassome agreeable token of her noiseless presence
seemed inseparable from the place. When I came backI found my
aunt's birds hangingjust as they had hung so long in the parlour
window of the cottage; and my easy-chair imitating my aunt's much
easier chair in its position at the open window; and even the round
green fanwhich my aunt had brought away with herscrewed on to
the window-sill. I knew who had done all thisby 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 awayinstead of seeing
her busy with themand smiling at the disorder into which they had
fallen.

My aunt was quite gracious on the subject of the Thames (it really
did look very well with the sun upon itthough not like the sea
before the cottage)but she could not relent towards the London
smokewhichshe said'peppered everything'. A complete
revolutionin which Peggotty bore a prominent partwas being
effected in every corner of my roomsin regard of this pepper; and
I was looking onthinking how little even Peggotty seemed to do
with a good deal of bustleand how much Agnes did without any
bustle at allwhen a knock came at the door.

'I think' said Agnesturning pale'it's papa. He promised me
that he would come.'


I opened the doorand admittednot only Mr. Wickfieldbut Uriah
Heep. I had not seen Mr. Wickfield for some time. I was prepared
for a great change in himafter what I had heard from Agnesbut
his appearance shocked me.

It was not that he looked many years olderthough 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 handthe
cause of which I knewand had for some years seen at work. It was
not that he had lost his good looksor his old bearing of a
gentleman - for that he had not - but the thing that struck me
mostwasthat with the evidences of his native superiority still
upon himhe should submit himself to that crawling impersonation
of meannessUriah Heep. The reversal of the two naturesin their
relative positionsUriah's of power and Mr. Wickfield's of
dependencewas a sight more painful to me than I can express. If
I had seen an Ape taking command of a ManI should hardly have
thought it a more degrading spectacle.

He appeared to be only too conscious of it himself. When he came
inhe stood still; and with his head bowedas if he felt it.
This was only for a moment; for Agnes softly said to him'Papa!
Here is Miss Trotwood - and Trotwoodwhom you have not seen for a
long while!' and then he approachedand constrainedly gave my aunt
his handand shook hands more cordially with me. In the moment's
pause I speak ofI saw Uriah's countenance form itself into a most
ill-favoured smile. Agnes saw it tooI thinkfor she shrank from
him.

What my aunt sawor did not seeI defy the science of physiognomy
to have made outwithout 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.

'WellWickfield!' said my aunt; and he looked up at her for the
first time. 'I have been telling your daughter how well I have
been disposing of my money for myselfbecause I couldn't trust it
to youas you were growing rusty in business matters. We have
been taking counsel togetherand getting on very wellall things
considered. Agnes is worth the whole firmin my opinion.'

'If I may umbly make the remark' said Uriah Heepwith a writhe
'I fully agree with Miss Betsey Trotwoodand should be only too
appy if Miss Agnes was a partner.'

'You're a partner yourselfyou know' returned my aunt'and
that's about enough for youI expect. How do you find yourself
sir?'

In acknowledgement of this questionaddressed to him with
extraordinary curtnessMr. Heepuncomfortably clutching the blue
bag he carriedreplied that he was pretty wellhe thanked my
auntand hoped she was the same.

'And youMaster - I should sayMister Copperfield' pursued
Uriah. 'I hope I see you well! I am rejoiced to see youMister
Copperfieldeven under present circumstances.' I believed that;
for he seemed to relish them very much. 'Present circumstances is
not what your friends would wish for youMister Copperfieldbut
it isn't money makes the man: it's - I am really unequal with my


umble powers to express what it is' said Uriahwith a fawning
jerk'but it isn't money!'

Here he shook hands with me: not in the common waybut standing at
a good distance from meand lifting my hand up and down like a
pump handlethat he was a little afraid of.

'And how do you think we are lookingMaster Copperfield- I
should sayMister?' fawned Uriah. 'Don't you find Mr. Wickfield
bloomingsir? Years don't tell much in our firmMaster
Copperfieldexcept in raising up the umblenamelymother and
self - and in developing' he addedas an afterthought'the
beautifulnamelyMiss Agnes.'

He jerked himself aboutafter this complimentin such an
intolerable mannerthat my auntwho had sat looking straight at
himlost all patience.

'Deuce take the man!' said my auntsternly'what's he about?
Don't be galvanicsir!'

'I ask your pardonMiss Trotwood' returned Uriah; 'I'm aware
you're nervous.'

'Go along with yousir!' said my auntanything but appeased.
'Don't presume to say so! I am nothing of the sort. If you're an
eelsirconduct yourself like one. If you're a mancontrol your
limbssir! Good God!' said my auntwith great indignation'I am
not going to be serpentined and corkscrewed out of my senses!'

Mr. Heep was rather abashedas most people might have beenby
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 awareMaster Copperfieldthat Miss Trotwoodthough an
excellent ladyhas a quick temper (indeed I think I had the
pleasure of knowing herwhen I was a numble clerkbefore you did
Master Copperfield)and it's only naturalI am surethat 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 doin present circumstancesmother or selfor
Wickfield and Heep-we should be really glad. I may go so far?'
said Uriahwith a sickly smile at his partner.

'Uriah Heep' said Mr. Wickfieldin a monotonous forced way'is
active in the businessTrotwood. What he saysI quite concur in.
You know I had an old interest in you. Apart from thatwhat Uriah
says I quite concur in!'

'Ohwhat a reward it is' said Uriahdrawing up one legat the
risk of bringing down upon himself another visitation from my aunt
'to be so trusted in! But I hope I am able to do something to
relieve him from the fatigues of businessMaster Copperfield!'

'Uriah Heep is a great relief to me' said Mr. Wickfieldin the
same dull voice. 'It's a load off my mindTrotwoodto have such
a partner.'

The red fox made him say all thisI knewto exhibit him to me in
the light he had indicated on the night when he poisoned my rest.
I saw the same ill-favoured smile upon his face againand saw how
he watched me.


'You are not goingpapa?' said Agnesanxiously. 'Will you not
walk back with Trotwood and me?'

He would have looked to UriahI believebefore replyingif that
worthy had not anticipated him.

'I am bespoke myself' said Uriah'on business; otherwise I should
have been appy to have kept with my friends. But I leave my
partner to represent the firm. Miss Agnesever yours! I wish you
good-dayMaster Copperfieldand leave my umble respects for Miss
Betsey Trotwood.'

With those wordshe retiredkissing his great handand leering
at us like a mask.

We sat theretalking about our pleasant old Canterbury daysan
hour or two. Mr. Wickfieldleft to Agnessoon became more like
his former self; though there was a settled depression upon him
which he never shook off. For all thathe brightened; and had an
evident pleasure in hearing us recall the little incidents of our
old lifemany of which he remembered very well. He said it was
like those timesto 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 Agnesand in the very touch of her
hand upon his armthat did wonders for him.

My aunt (who was busy nearly all this while with Peggottyin the
inner room) would not accompany us to the place where they were
stayingbut insisted on my going; and I went. We dined together.
After dinnerAgnes sat beside himas of oldand poured out his
wine. He took what she gave himand no more - like a child - and
we all three sat together at a window as the evening gathered in.
When it was almost darkhe lay down on a sofaAgnes pillowing his
head and bending over him a little while; and when she came back to
the windowit 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
truthat that time of my life; for if I shouldI must be drawing
near the endand then I would desire to remember her best! She
filled my heart with such good resolutionsstrengthened my
weakness soby her exampleso directed - I know not howshe was
too modest and gentle to advise me in many words - the wandering
ardour and unsettled purpose within methat all the little good I
have doneand all the harm I have forborneI solemnly believe I
may refer to her.

And how she spoke to me of Dorasitting 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 lightthat made it
yet more precious and more innocent to me! OhAgnessister of my
boyhoodif I had known thenwhat I knew long afterwards! -

There was a beggar in the streetwhen I went down; and as I turned
my head towards the windowthinking of her calm seraphic eyeshe
made me start by mutteringas if he were an echo of the morning:
'Blind! Blind! Blind!'

CHAPTER 36
ENTHUSIASM


I began the next day with another dive into the Roman bathand
then started for Highgate. I was not dispirited now. I was not
afraid of the shabby coatand had no yearnings after gallant
greys. My whole manner of thinking of our late misfortune was
changed. What I had to dowasto show my aunt that her past
goodness to me had not been thrown away on an insensible
ungrateful object. What I had to dowasto turn the painful
discipline of my younger days to accountby going to work with a
resolute and steady heart. What I had to dowasto take my
woodman's axe in my handand clear my own way through the forest
of difficultyby cutting down the trees until I came to Dora. And
I went on at a mighty rateas if it could be done by walking.

When I found myself on the familiar Highgate roadpursuing such a
different errand from that old one of pleasurewith which it was
associatedit seemed as if a complete change had come on my whole
life. But that did not discourage me. With the new lifecame new
purposenew intention. Great was the labour; priceless the
reward. Dora was the rewardand Dora must be won.

I got into such a transportthat I felt quite sorry my coat was
not a little shabby already. I wanted to be cutting at those trees
in the forest of difficultyunder circumstances that should prove
my strength. I had a good mind to ask an old manin wire
spectacleswho was breaking stones upon the roadto lend me his
hammer for a little whileand let me begin to beat a path to Dora
out of granite. I stimulated myself into such a heatand got so
out of breaththat I felt as if I had been earning I don't know
how much.

In this stateI went into a cottage that I saw was to letand
examined it narrowly- for I felt it necessary to be practical.
It would do for me and Dora admirably: with a little front garden
for Jip to run about inand bark at the tradespeople through the
railingsand a capital room upstairs for my aunt. I came out
againhotter and faster than everand dashed up to Highgateat
such a rate that I was there an hour too early; andthough I had
not beenshould have been obliged to stroll about to cool myself
before I was at all presentable.

My first careafter putting myself under this necessary course of
preparationwas to find the Doctor's house. It was not in that
part of Highgate where Mrs. Steerforth livedbut quite on the
opposite side of the little town. When I had made this discovery
I went backin an attraction I could not resistto a lane by Mrs.
Steerforth'sand looked over the corner of the garden wall. His
room was shut up close. The conservatory doors were standing open
and Rosa Dartle was walkingbareheadedwith a quickimpetuous
stepup and down a gravel walk on one side of the lawn. She gave
me the idea of some fierce thingthat was dragging the length of
its chain to and fro upon a beaten trackand wearing its heart
out.

I came softly away from my place of observationand avoiding that
part of the neighbourhoodand wishing I had not gone near it
strolled about until it was ten o'clock. The church with the
slender spirethat stands on the top of the hill nowwas not
there then to tell me the time. An old red-brick mansionused as
a schoolwas in its place; and a fine old house it must have been
to go to school atas I recollect it.

When I approached the Doctor's cottage - a pretty old placeon
which he seemed to have expended some moneyif I might judge from
the embellishments and repairs that had the look of being just


completed - I saw him walking in the garden at the sidegaiters
and allas if he had never left off walking since the days of my
pupilage. He had his old companions about himtoo; for there were
plenty of high trees in the neighbourhoodand two or three rooks
were on the grasslooking after himas if they had been written
to about him by the Canterbury rooksand were observing him
closely in consequence.

Knowing the utter hopelessness of attracting his attention from
that distanceI made bold to open the gateand walk after himso
as to meet him when he should turn round. When he didand came
towards mehe looked at me thoughtfully for a few moments
evidently without thinking about me at all; and then his benevolent
face expressed extraordinary pleasureand he took me by both
hands.

'Whymy dear Copperfield' said the Doctor'you are a man! How
do you do? I am delighted to see you. My dear Copperfieldhow
very much you have improved! You are quite - yes - dear me!'

I hoped he was welland Mrs. Strong too.

'Oh dearyes!' said the Doctor; 'Annie's quite welland she'll be
delighted to see you. You were always her favourite. She said so
last nightwhen I showed her your letter. And - yesto be sure

-you recollect Mr. Jack MaldonCopperfield?'
'Perfectlysir.'

'Of course' said the Doctor. 'To be sure. He's pretty well
too.'

'Has he come homesir?' I inquired.

'From India?' said the Doctor. 'Yes. Mr. Jack Maldon couldn't
bear the climatemy dear. Mrs. Markleham - you have not forgotten
Mrs. Markleham?'

Forgotten the Old Soldier! And in that short time!

'Mrs. Markleham' said the Doctor'was quite vexed about himpoor
thing; so we have got him at home again; and we have bought him a
little Patent placewhich 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 doand which was pretty
well paid. The Doctorwalking up and down with his hand on my
shoulderand his kind face turned encouragingly to minewent on:

'Nowmy dear Copperfieldin reference to this proposal of yours.
It's very gratifying and agreeable to meI am sure; but don't you
think you could do better? You achieved distinctionyou know
when you were with us. You are qualified for many good things.
You have laid a foundation that any edifice may be raised upon; and
is it not a pity that you should devote the spring-time of your
life to such a poor pursuit as I can offer?'

I became very glowing againandexpressing myself in a
rhapsodical styleI am afraidurged my request strongly;
reminding the Doctor that I had already a profession.

'Wellwell' said the Doctor'that's true. Certainlyyour
having a professionand being actually engaged in studying it
makes a difference. Butmy good young friendwhat's seventy
pounds a year?'


'It doubles our incomeDoctor 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-yearbecause I
have always contemplated making any young friend I might thus
employa present too. Undoubtedly' said the Doctorstill
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 (nowreallywithout any nonsense)'to
whom I owe more obligations already than I ever can acknowledge -'

'Nono' interposed the Doctor. 'Pardon me!'

'If you will take such time as I haveand that is my mornings and
eveningsand can think it worth seventy pounds a yearyou will do
me such a service as I cannot express.'

'Dear me!' said the Doctorinnocently. 'To think that so little
should go for so much! Deardear! And when you can do better
you will? On your wordnow?' said the Doctor- which he had
always made a very grave appeal to the honour of us boys.

'On my wordsir!' I returnedanswering in our old school manner.

'Then be it so' said the Doctorclapping me on the shoulderand
still keeping his hand thereas we still walked up and down.

'And I shall be twenty times happiersir' said Iwith a little

-I hope innocent - flattery'if my employment is to be on the
Dictionary.'
The Doctor stoppedsmilingly clapped me on the shoulder againand
exclaimedwith a triumph most delightful to beholdas if I had
penetrated to the profoundest depths of mortal sagacity'My dear
young friendyou have hit it. It IS the Dictionary!'

How could it be anything else! His pockets were as full of it as
his head. It was sticking out of him in all directions. He told
me that since his retirement from scholastic lifehe had been
advancing with it wonderfully; and that nothing could suit him
better than the proposed arrangements for morning and evening work
as it was his custom to walk about in the daytime with his
considering cap on. His papers were in a little confusionin
consequence of Mr. Jack Maldon having lately proffered his
occasional services as an amanuensisand not being accustomed to
that occupation; but we should soon put right what was amissand
go on swimmingly. Afterwardswhen we were fairly at our workI
found Mr. Jack Maldon's efforts more troublesome to me than I had
expectedas he had not confined himself to making numerous
mistakesbut had sketched so many soldiersand ladies' heads
over the Doctor's manuscriptthat I often became involved in
labyrinths of obscurity.

The Doctor was quite happy in the prospect of our going to work
together on that wonderful performanceand we settled to begin
next morning at seven o'clock. We were to work two hours every
morningand two or three hours every nightexcept on Saturdays
when I was to rest. On Sundaysof courseI was to rest alsoand
I considered these very easy terms.

Our plans being thus arranged to our mutual satisfactionthe
Doctor took me into the house to present me to Mrs. Strongwhom we


found in the Doctor's new studydusting his books- a freedom
which he never permitted anybody else to take with those sacred
favourites.

They had postponed their breakfast on my accountand we sat down
to table together. We had not been seated longwhen I saw an
approaching arrival in Mrs. Strong's facebefore I heard any sound
of it. A gentleman on horseback came to the gateand leading his
horse into the little courtwith the bridle over his armas if he
were quite at hometied him to a ring in the empty coach-house
walland came into the breakfast parlourwhip in hand. It was
Mr. Jack Maldon; and Mr. Jack Maldon was not at all improved by
IndiaI thought. I was in a state of ferocious virtuehowever
as to young men who were not cutting down trees in the forest of
difficulty; and my impression must be received with due allowance.

'Mr. Jack!' said the Doctor. 'Copperfield!'

Mr. Jack Maldon shook hands with me; but not very warmlyI
believed; and with an air of languid patronageat which I secretly
took great umbrage. But his languor altogether was quite a
wonderful sight; except when he addressed himself to his cousin
Annie.
'Have you breakfasted this morningMr. Jack?' said the Doctor.

'I hardly ever take breakfastsir' he repliedwith his head
thrown back in an easy-chair. 'I find it bores me.'

'Is there any news today?' inquired the Doctor.

'Nothing at allsir' replied Mr. Maldon. 'There's an account
about the people being hungry and discontented down in the North
but they are always being hungry and discontented somewhere.'

The Doctor looked graveand saidas though he wished to change
the subject'Then there's no news at all; and no newsthey say
is good news.'

'There's a long statement in the paperssirabout a murder'
observed Mr. Maldon. 'But somebody is always being murderedand
I didn't read it.'

A display of indifference to all the actions and passions of
mankind was not supposed to be such a distinguished quality at that
timeI thinkas I have observed it to be considered since. I
have known it very fashionable indeed. I have seen it displayed
with such successthat I have encountered some fine ladies and
gentlemen who might as well have been born caterpillars. Perhaps
it impressed me the more thenbecause it was new to mebut it
certainly did not tend to exalt my opinion ofor to strengthen my
confidence inMr. Jack Maldon.

'I came out to inquire whether Annie would like to go to the opera
tonight' said Mr. Maldonturning to her. 'It's the last good
night there will bethis season; and there's a singer therewhom
she really ought to hear. She is perfectly exquisite. Besides
whichshe is so charmingly ugly' relapsing into languor.

The Doctorever pleased with what was likely to please his young
wifeturned to her and said:

'You must goAnnie. You must go.'

'I would rather not' she said to the Doctor. 'I prefer to remain


at home. I would much rather remain at home.'

Without looking at her cousinshe then addressed meand asked me
about Agnesand whether she should see herand whether she was
not likely to come that day; and was so much disturbedthat I
wondered how even the Doctorbuttering his toastcould be blind
to what was so obvious.

But he saw nothing. He told hergood-naturedlythat she was
young and ought to be amused and entertainedand must not allow
herself to be made dull by a dull old fellow. Moreoverhe said
he wanted to hear her sing all the new singer's songs to him; and
how could she do that wellunless she went? So the Doctor
persisted in making the engagement for herand Mr. Jack Maldon was
to come back to dinner. This concludedhe went to his Patent
placeI suppose; but at all events went away on his horselooking
very idle.

I was curious to find out next morningwhether she had been. She
had notbut had sent into London to put her cousin off; and had
gone out in the afternoon to see Agnesand had prevailed upon the
Doctor to go with her; and they had walked home by the fieldsthe
Doctor told methe evening being delightful. I wondered then
whether she would have gone if Agnes had not been in townand
whether Agnes had some good influence over her too!

She did not look very happyI thought; but it was a good faceor
a very false one. I often glanced at itfor she sat in the window
all the time we were at work; and made our breakfastwhich we took
by snatches as we were employed. When I leftat nine o'clockshe
was kneeling on the ground at the Doctor's feetputting on his
shoes and gaiters for him. There was a softened shade upon her
facethrown from some green leaves overhanging the open window of
the low room; and I thought all the way to Doctors' Commonsof the
night when I had seen it looking at him as he read.

I was pretty busy now; up at five in the morningand home at nine
or ten at night. But I had infinite satisfaction in being so
closely engagedand never walked slowly on any accountand felt
enthusiastically that the more I tired myselfthe more I was doing
to deserve Dora. I had not revealed myself in my altered character
to Dora yetbecause she was coming to see Miss Mills in a few
daysand 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
meantimeI put myself on a short allowance of bear's grease
wholly abandoned scented soap and lavender waterand sold off
three waistcoats at a prodigious sacrificeas being too luxurious
for my stern career.

Not satisfied with all these proceedingsbut burning with
impatience to do something moreI went to see Traddlesnow
lodging up behind the parapet of a house in Castle StreetHolborn.
Mr. Dickwho had been with me to Highgate twice alreadyand had
resumed his companionship with the DoctorI took with me.

I took Mr. Dick with mebecauseacutely sensitive to my aunt's
reversesand sincerely believing that no galley-slave or convict
worked as I didhe had begun to fret and worry himself out of
spirits and appetiteas having nothing useful to do. In this
conditionhe felt more incapable of finishing the Memorial than
ever; and the harder he worked at itthe oftener that unlucky head
of King Charles the First got into it. Seriously apprehending that
his malady would increaseunless we put some innocent deception


upon him and caused him to believe that he was usefulor 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 wentI wrote Traddles a full statement of all that had
happenedand Traddles wrote me back a capital answerexpressive
of his sympathy and friendship.


We found him hard at work with his inkstand and papersrefreshed
by the sight of the flower-pot stand and the little round table in
a corner of the small apartment. He received us cordiallyand
made friends with Mr. Dick in a moment. Mr. Dick professed an
absolute certainty of having seen him beforeand we both said
'Very likely.'


The first subject on which I had to consult Traddles was this- I
had heard that many men distinguished in various pursuits had begun
life by reporting the debates in Parliament. Traddles having
mentioned newspapers to meas one of his hopesI had put the two
things togetherand told Traddles in my letter that I wished to
know how I could qualify myself for this pursuit. Traddles now
informed meas the result of his inquiriesthat the mere
mechanical acquisition necessaryexcept in rare casesfor
thorough excellence in itthat is to saya perfect and entire
command of the mystery of short-hand writing and readingwas about
equal in difficulty to the mastery of six languages; and that it
might perhaps be attainedby dint of perseverancein the course
of a few years. Traddles reasonably supposed that this would
settle the business; but Ionly feeling that here indeed were a
few tall trees to be hewn downimmediately resolved to work my way
on to Dora through this thicketaxe in hand.


'I am very much obliged to youmy dear Traddles!' said I. 'I'll
begin tomorrow.'


Traddles looked astonishedas 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 Commonswhere I haven't half enough to do;
I'll take down the speeches in our court for practice - Traddles
my dear fellowI'll master it!'


'Dear me' said Traddlesopening his eyes'I had no idea you were
such a determined characterCopperfield!'


I don't know how he should have hadfor it was new enough to me.
I passed that offand brought Mr. Dick on the carpet.


'You see' said Mr. Dickwistfully'if I could exert myselfMr.
Traddles - if I could beat a drum- or blow anything!'


Poor fellow! I have little doubt he would have preferred such an
employment in his heart to all others. Traddleswho would not
have smiled for the worldreplied composedly:


'But you are a very good penmansir. 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 writingssirif
I got them for you?'


Mr. Dick looked doubtfully at me. 'EhTrotwood?'



I shook my head. Mr. Dick shook hisand sighed. 'Tell him about
the Memorial' said Mr. Dick.

I explained to Traddles that there was a difficulty in keeping King
Charles the First out of Mr. Dick's manuscripts; Mr. Dick in the
meanwhile looking very deferentially and seriously at Traddlesand
sucking his thumb.

'But these writingsyou knowthat I speak ofare already drawn
up and finished' said Traddles after a little consideration. 'Mr.
Dick has nothing to do with them. Wouldn't that make a difference
Copperfield? At all eventswouldn't it be well to try?'

This gave us new hope. Traddles and I laying our heads together
apartwhile Mr. Dick anxiously watched us from his chairwe
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 Streetwe set out the work
Traddles procured for him - which was to makeI forget how many
copies of a legal document about some right of way - and on another
table we spread the last unfinished original of the great Memorial.
Our instructions to Mr. Dick were that he should copy exactly what
he had before himwithout the least departure from the original;
and that when he felt it necessary to make the slightest allusion
to King Charles the Firsthe should fly to the Memorial. We
exhorted him to be resolute in thisand left my aunt to observe
him. My aunt reported to usafterwardsthatat firsthe was
like a man playing the kettle-drumsand constantly divided his
attentions between the two; but thatfinding this confuse and
fatigue himand having his copy thereplainly before his eyeshe
soon sat at it in an orderly business-like mannerand postponed
the Memorial to a more convenient time. In a wordalthough we
took great care that he should have no more to do than was good for
himand although he did not begin with the beginning of a weekhe
earned by the following Saturday night ten shillings and
nine-pence; and neverwhile I liveshall I forget his going about
to all the shops in the neighbourhood to change this treasure into
sixpencesor his bringing them to my aunt arranged in the form of
a heart upon a waiterwith tears of joy and pride in his eyes. He
was like one under the propitious influence of a charmfrom the
moment of his being usefully employed; and if there were a happy
man in the worldthat Saturday nightit was the grateful creature
who thought my aunt the most wonderful woman in existenceand me
the most wonderful young man.

'No starving nowTrotwood' said Mr. Dickshaking hands with me
in a corner. 'I'll provide for herSir!' and he flourished his
ten fingers in the airas if they were ten banks.

I hardly know which was the better pleasedTraddles or I. 'It
really' said Traddlessuddenlytaking a letter out of his
pocketand giving it to me'put Mr. Micawber quite out of my
head!'

The letter (Mr. Micawber never missed any possible opportunity of
writing a letter) was addressed to me'By the kindness of T.
TraddlesEsquireof the Inner Temple.' It ran thus:


'MY DEAR COPPERFIELD

'You may possibly not be unprepared to receive the intimation that


something has turned up. I may have mentioned to you on a former
occasion that I was in expectation of such an event.

'I am about to establish myself in one of the provincial towns of
our favoured island (where the society may be described as a happy
admixture of the agricultural and the clerical)in immediate
connexion with one of the learned professions. Mrs. Micawber and
our offspring will accompany me. Our ashesat a future period
will probably be found commingled in the cemetery attached to a
venerable pilefor which the spot to which I refer has acquired a
reputationshall I say from China to Peru?

'In bidding adieu to the modern Babylonwhere we have undergone
many vicissitudesI trust not ignoblyMrs. Micawber and myself
cannot disguise from our minds that we partit may be for years
and it may be for everwith an individual linked by strong
associations to the altar of our domestic life. Ifon the eve of
such a departureyou will accompany our mutual friendMr. Thomas
Traddlesto our present abodeand there reciprocate the wishes
natural to the occasionyou will confer a Boon

'On
'One
'Who
'Is
'Ever yours
'WILKINS MICAWBER.'

I was glad to find that Mr. Micawber had got rid of his dust and
ashesand that something really had turned up at last. Learning
from Traddles that the invitation referred to the evening then
wearing awayI expressed my readiness to do honour to it; and we
went off together to the lodging which Mr. Micawber occupied as Mr.
Mortimerand which was situated near the top of the Gray's Inn
Road.

The resources of this lodging were so limitedthat we found the
twinsnow some eight or nine years oldreposing in a turn-up
bedstead in the family sitting-roomwhere Mr. Micawber had
preparedin a wash-hand-stand jugwhat he called 'a Brew' of the
agreeable beverage for which he was famous. I had the pleasureon
this occasionof renewing the acquaintance of Master Micawber
whom I found a promising boy of about twelve or thirteenvery
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 sisterMiss Micawberin whomas Mr. Micawber told us'her
mother renewed her youthlike the Phoenix'.

'My dear Copperfield' said Mr. Micawber'yourself and Mr.
Traddles find us on the brink of migrationand will excuse any
little discomforts incidental to that position.'

Glancing round as I made a suitable replyI observed that the
family effects were already packedand 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 affairsI am well assured. My family may
consider it banishmentif they please; but I am a wife and mother
and I never will desert Mr. Micawber.'

Traddlesappealed to by Mrs. Micawber's eyefeelingly acquiesced.


'That' said Mrs. Micawber'thatat leastis my viewmy dear
Mr. Copperfield and Mr. Traddlesof the obligation which I took
upon myself when I repeated the irrevocable wordsI, Emma, take
thee, Wilkins.I read the service over with a flat-candle on the
previous nightand the conclusion I derived from it wasthat I
never could desert Mr. Micawber. And' said Mrs. Micawber'though
it is possible I may be mistaken in my view of the ceremonyI
never will!'

'My dear' said Mr. Micawbera little impatiently'I am not
conscious that you are expected to do anything of the sort.'

'I am awaremy dear Mr. Copperfield' pursued Mrs. Micawber'that
I am now about to cast my lot among strangers; and I am also aware
that the various members of my familyto whom Mr. Micawber has
written in the most gentlemanly termsannouncing that facthave
not taken the least notice of Mr. Micawber's communication. Indeed
I may be superstitious' said Mrs. Micawber'but it appears to me
that Mr. Micawber is destined never to receive any answers whatever
to the great majority of the communications he writes. I may
augurfrom the silence of my familythat they object to the
resolution I have taken; but I should not allow myself to be
swerved from the path of dutyMr. Copperfieldeven by my papa and
mamawere 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 surelyMr. Copperfieldif it is a
sacrifice in meit is much more a sacrifice in a man of Mr.
Micawber's abilities.'

'Oh! You are going to a Cathedral town?' said I.

Mr. Micawberwho had been helping us allout of the
wash-hand-stand jugreplied:

'To Canterbury. In factmy dear CopperfieldI have entered into
arrangementsby virtue of which I stand pledged and contracted to
our friend Heepto assist and serve him in the capacity of - and
to be - his confidential clerk.'

I stared at Mr. Micawberwho greatly enjoyed my surprise.

'I am bound to state to you' he saidwith an official air'that
the business habitsand the prudent suggestionsof Mrs. Micawber
have in a great measure conduced to this result. The gauntletto
which Mrs. Micawber referred upon a former occasionbeing thrown
down in the form of an advertisementwas taken up by my friend
Heepand led to a mutual recognition. Of my friend Heep' said
Mr. Micawber'who is a man of remarkable shrewdnessI desire to
speak with all possible respect. My friend Heep has not fixed the
positive remuneration at too high a figurebut he has made a great
dealin the way of extrication from the pressure of pecuniary
difficultiescontingent on the value of my services; and on the
value of those services I pin my faith. Such address and
intelligence as I chance to possess' said Mr. Micawberboastfully
disparaging himselfwith the old genteel air'will be devoted to
my friend Heep's service. I have already some acquaintance with
the law - as a defendant on civil process - and I shall immediately
apply myself to the Commentaries of one of the most eminent and
remarkable of our English jurists. I believe it is unnecessary to
add that I allude to Mr. justice Blackstone.'


These observationsand indeed the greater part of the observations
made that eveningwere interrupted by Mrs. Micawber's discovering
that Master Micawber was sitting on his bootsor holding his head
on with both arms as if he felt it looseor accidentally kicking
Traddles under the tableor shuffling his feet over one another
or producing them at distances from himself apparently outrageous
to natureor 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 whileamazed by Mr. Micawber's disclosureand
wondering what it meant; until Mrs. Micawber resumed the thread of
the discourseand claimed my attention.

'What I particularly request Mr. Micawber to be careful ofis'
said Mrs. Micawber'that he does notmy dear Mr. Copperfieldin
applying himself to this subordinate branch of the lawplace it
out of his power to riseultimatelyto the top of the tree. I am
convinced that Mr. Micawbergiving his mind to a profession so
adapted to his fertile resourcesand his flow of languagemust
distinguish himself. Nowfor exampleMr. Traddles' said Mrs.
Micawberassuming a profound air'a judgeor even say a
Chancellor. Does an individual place himself beyond the pale of
those preferments by entering on such an office as Mr. Micawber has
accepted?'

'My dear' observed Mr. Micawber - but glancing inquisitively at
Traddlestoo; 'we have time enough before usfor the
consideration of those questions.'

'Micawber' she returned'no! Your mistake in life isthat you
do not look forward far enough. You are boundin justice to your
familyif not to yourselfto take in at a comprehensive glance
the extremest point in the horizon to which your abilities may lead
you.'

Mr. Micawber coughedand drank his punch with an air of exceeding
satisfaction - still glancing at Traddlesas if he desired to have
his opinion.

'Whythe plain state of the caseMrs. Micawber' said Traddles
mildly breaking the truth to her. 'I mean the real prosaic fact
you know -'

'Just so' said Mrs. Micawber'my dear Mr. TraddlesI wish to be
as prosaic and literal as possible on a subject of so much
importance.'

'- Is' said Traddles'that this branch of the laweven if Mr.
Micawber were a regular solicitor -'

'Exactly so' returned Mrs. Micawber. ('Wilkinsyou are
squintingand will not be able to get your eyes back.')

'- Has nothing' pursued Traddles'to do with that. Only a
barrister is eligible for such preferments; and Mr. Micawber could
not be a barristerwithout being entered at an inn of court as a
studentfor five years.'

'Do I follow you?' said Mrs. Micawberwith her most affable air of
business. 'Do I understandmy dear Mr. Traddlesthatat the
expiration of that periodMr. Micawber would be eligible as a
Judge or Chancellor?'


'He would be ELIGIBLE' returned Traddleswith a strong emphasis
on that word.

'Thank you' said Mrs. Micawber. 'That is quite sufficient. If
such is the caseand Mr. Micawber forfeits no privilege by
entering on these dutiesmy anxiety is set at rest. I speak'
said Mrs. Micawber'as a femalenecessarily; but I have always
been of opinion that Mr. Micawber possesses what I have heard my
papa callwhen I lived at homethe judicial mind; and I hope Mr.
Micawber is now entering on a field where that mind will develop
itselfand take a commanding station.'

I quite believe that Mr. Micawber saw himselfin his judicial
mind's eyeon the woolsack. He passed his hand complacently over
his bald headand said with ostentatious resignation:

'My dearwe will not anticipate the decrees of fortune. If I am
reserved to wear a wigI am at least preparedexternally' in
allusion to his baldness'for that distinction. I do not' said
Mr. Micawber'regret my hairand I may have been deprived of it
for a specific purpose. I cannot say. It is my intentionmy dear
Copperfieldto educate my son for the Church; I will not deny that
I should be happyon his accountto attain to eminence.'

'For the Church?' said Istill ponderingbetween whileson Uriah
Heep.

'Yes' said Mr. Micawber. 'He has a remarkable head-voiceand
will commence as a chorister. Our residence at Canterburyand our
local connexionwillno doubtenable him to take advantage of
any vacancy that may arise in the Cathedral corps.'

On looking at Master Micawber againI saw that he had a certain
expression of faceas if his voice were behind his eyebrows; where
it presently appeared to beon his singing us (as an alternative
between that and bed) 'The Wood-Pecker tapping'. After many
compliments on this performancewe fell into some general
conversation; and as I was too full of my desperate intentions to
keep my altered circumstances to myselfI made them known to Mr.
and Mrs. Micawber. I cannot express how extremely delighted they
both wereby 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 punchI
addressed myself to Traddlesand reminded him that we must not
separatewithout wishing our friends healthhappinessand
success in their new career. I begged Mr. Micawber to fill us
bumpersand proposed the toast in due form: shaking hands with him
across the tableand kissing Mrs. Micawberto commemorate that
eventful occasion. Traddles imitated me in the first particular
but did not consider himself a sufficiently old friend to venture
on the second.

'My dear Copperfield' said Mr. Micawberrising with one of his
thumbs in each of his waistcoat pockets'the companion of my
youth: if I may be allowed the expression - and my esteemed friend
Traddles: if I may be permitted to call him so - will allow meon
the part of Mrs. Micawbermyselfand our offspringto thank them
in the warmest and most uncompromising terms for their good wishes.
It may be expected that on the eve of a migration which will
consign us to a perfectly new existence' Mr. Micawber spoke as if
they were going five hundred thousand miles'I should offer a few
valedictory remarks to two such friends as I see before me. But
all that I have to say in this wayI have said. Whatever station


in society I may attainthrough the medium of the learned
profession of which I am about to become an unworthy memberI
shall endeavour not to disgraceand Mrs. Micawber will be safe to
adorn. Under the temporary pressure of pecuniary liabilities
contracted with a view to their immediate liquidationbut
remaining unliquidated through a combination of circumstancesI
have been under the necessity of assuming a garb from which my
natural instincts recoil - I allude to spectacles - and possessing
myself of a cognomento which I can establish no legitimate
pretensions. All I have to say on that score isthat the cloud
has passed from the dreary sceneand the God of Day is once more
high upon the mountain tops. On Monday nexton the arrival of the
four o'clock afternoon coach at Canterburymy foot will be on my
native heath - my nameMicawber!'

Mr. Micawber resumed his seat on the close of these remarksand
drank two glasses of punch in grave succession. He then said with
much solemnity:

'One thing more I have to dobefore this separation is complete
and that is to perform an act of justice. My friend Mr. Thomas
Traddles hason two several occasionsput his nameif I may
use a common expressionto bills of exchange for my accommodation.
On the first occasion Mr. Thomas Traddles was left - let me sayin
shortin the lurch. The fulfilment of the second has not yet
arrived. The amount of the first obligation' here Mr. Micawber
carefully referred to papers'wasI believetwenty-threefour
nine and a halfof the secondaccording to my entry of that
transactioneighteensixtwo. These sumsunitedmake a total
if my calculation is correctamounting to forty-oneteneleven
and a half. My friend Copperfield will perhaps do me the favour to
check that total?'

I did so and found it correct.

'To leave this metropolis' said Mr. Micawber'and my friend Mr.
Thomas Traddleswithout acquitting myself of the pecuniary part of
this obligationwould weigh upon my mind to an insupportable
extent. I havethereforeprepared for my friend Mr. Thomas
Traddlesand I now hold in my handa documentwhich accomplishes
the desired object. I beg to hand to my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles
my I.O.U. for forty-oneteneleven and a halfand I am happy to
recover my moral dignityand 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 Traddlesand said he wished him
well in every relation of life. I am persuadednot only that this
was quite the same to Mr. Micawber as paying the moneybut that
Traddles himself hardly knew the difference until he had had time
to think about it.
Mr. Micawber walked so erect before his fellow manon the strength
of this virtuous actionthat his chest looked half as broad again
when he lighted us downstairs. We parted with great heartiness on
both sides; and when I had seen Traddles to his own doorand was
going home aloneI thoughtamong the other odd and contradictory
things I mused uponthatslippery as Mr. Micawber wasI was
probably indebted to some compassionate recollection he retained of
me as his boy-lodgerfor never having been asked by him for money.
I certainly should not have had the moral courage to refuse it; and
I have no doubt he knew that (to his credit be it written)quite
as well as I did.


CHAPTER 37
A LITTLE COLD WATER

My new life had lasted for more than a weekand I was stronger
than ever in those tremendous practical resolutions that I felt the
crisis required. I continued to walk extremely fastand 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 couldin 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 dietvaguely conceiving thatin becoming a
graminivorous animalI should sacrifice to Dora.

As yetlittle Dora was quite unconscious of my desperate firmness
otherwise than as my letters darkly shadowed it forth. But another
Saturday cameand 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 streetby a bird-cage in the drawing-room middle
window)I was to go there to tea.

By this timewe 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 offthrowing the first pitcher she planted on the
stairs out of windowand protecting in personup and down the
staircasea supernumerary whom she engaged from the outer world.
These vigorous measures struck such terror to the breast of Mrs.
Cruppthat she subsided into her own kitchenunder the impression
that my aunt was mad. My aunt being supremely indifferent to Mrs.
Crupp's opinion and everybody else'sand rather favouring than
discouraging the ideaMrs. Cruppof late the boldbecame within
a few days so faint-heartedthat rather than encounter my aunt
upon the staircaseshe would endeavour to hide her portly form
behind doors - leaving visiblehowevera wide margin of flannel
petticoat - or would shrink into dark corners. This gave my aunt
such unspeakable satisfactionthat I believe she took a delight in
prowling up and downwith her bonnet insanely perched on the top
of her headat times when Mrs. Crupp was likely to be in the way.

My auntbeing uncommonly neat and ingeniousmade so many little
improvements in our domestic arrangementsthat I seemed to be
richer instead of poorer. Among the restshe converted the pantry
into a dressing-room for me; and purchased and embellished a
bedstead for my occupationwhich 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
betteror studied more how to make me happy.

Peggotty had considered herself highly privileged in being allowed
to participate in these labours; andalthough she still retained
something of her old sentiment of awe in reference to my aunthad
received so many marks of encouragement and confidencethat 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 homeand enter on the
discharge of the duties she had undertaken in behalf of Ham. 'So
good-byeBarkis' 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
partingand confided her brother to my friendship as Ham had done.
We had heard nothing of him since he went awaythat sunny


afternoon.

'And nowmy own dear Davy' said Peggotty'ifwhile you're a
prenticeyou should want any money to spend; or ifwhen you're
out of your timemy dearyou should want any to set you up (and
you must do one or otheror bothmy darling); who has such a good
right to ask leave to lend it youas my sweet girl's own old
stupid me!'

I was not so savagely independent as to say anything in replybut
that if ever I borrowed money of anyoneI would borrow it of her.
Next to accepting a large sum on the spotI believe this gave
Peggotty more comfort than anything I could have done.

'Andmy dear!' whispered Peggotty'tell the pretty little angel
that I should so have liked to see heronly for a minute! And
tell her that before she marries my boyI'll come and make your
house so beautiful for youif you'll let me!'

I declared that nobody else should touch it; and this gave Peggotty
such delight that she went away in good spirits.

I fatigued myself as much as I possibly could in the Commons all
dayby a variety of devicesand at the appointed time in the
evening repaired to Mr. Mills's street. Mr. Millswho was a
terrible fellow to fall asleep after dinnerhad not yet gone out
and there was no bird-cage in the middle window.

He kept me waiting so longthat 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-cageand peep into the balcony to look
for meand run in again when she saw I was therewhile Jip
remained behindto bark injuriously at an immense butcher's dog in
the streetwho could have taken him like a pill.

Dora came to the drawing-room door to meet me; and Jip came
scrambling outtumbling over his own growlsunder the impression
that I was a Bandit; and we all three went inas happy and loving
as could be. I soon carried desolation into the bosom of our joys

-not that I meant to do itbut that I was so full of the subject
-by asking Dorawithout the smallest preparationif she could
love a beggar?
My prettylittlestartled Dora! Her only association with the
word was a yellow face and a nightcapor a pair of crutchesor a
wooden legor a dog with a decanter-stand in his mouthor
something of that kind; and she stared at me with the most
delightful wonder.

'How can you ask me anything so foolish?' pouted Dora. 'Love a
beggar!'

'Doramy own dearest!' said I. 'I am a beggar!'

'How can you be such a silly thing' replied Doraslapping my
hand'as to sit theretelling such stories? I'll make Jip bite
you!'

Her childish way was the most delicious way in the world to mebut
it was necessary to be explicitand I solemnly repeated:

'Doramy own lifeI am your ruined David!'

'I declare I'll make Jip bite you!' said Dorashaking her curls


'if you are so ridiculous.'

But I looked so seriousthat Dora left off shaking her curlsand
laid her trembling little hand upon my shoulderand first looked
scared and anxiousthen began to cry. That was dreadful. I fell
upon my knees before the sofacaressing herand imploring her not
to rend my heart; butfor some timepoor little Dora did nothing
but exclaim Oh dear! Oh dear! And ohshe was so frightened! And
where was Julia Mills! And ohtake her to Julia Millsand go
awayplease! until I was almost beside myself.

At lastafter an agony of supplication and protestationI got
Dora to look at mewith a horrified expression of facewhich I
gradually soothed until it was only lovingand her softpretty
cheek was lying against mine. Then I told herwith my arms
clasped round herhow I loved herso dearlyand 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 itor recover it
if I lost her; how I had no fears of povertyif she had nonemy
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 practicaland look into the future; how a crust well
earned was sweeter far than a feast inherited; and much more to the
same purposewhich I delivered in a burst of passionate eloquence
quite surprising to myselfthough I had been thinking about it
day and nightever since my aunt had astonished me.

'Is your heart mine stilldear Dora?' said Irapturouslyfor I
knew by her clinging to me that it was.

'Ohyes!' cried Dora. 'Ohyesit's all yours. Ohdon't be
dreadful!'

I dreadful! To Dora!

'Don't talk about being poorand working hard!' said Dora
nestling closer to me. 'Ohdon'tdon't!'

'My dearest love' said I'the crust well-earned -'

'Ohyes; but I don't want to hear any more about crusts!' said
Dora. 'And Jip must have a mutton-chop every day at twelveor
he'll die.'

I was charmed with her childishwinning way. I fondly explained
to Dora that Jip should have his mutton-chop with his accustomed
regularity. I drew a picture of our frugal homemade independent
by my labour - sketching in the little house I had seen at
Highgateand my aunt in her room upstairs.

'I am not dreadful nowDora?' said Itenderly.

'Ohnono!' 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 everI am sure
I did. But I felt she was a little impracticable. It damped my
new-born ardourto find that ardour so difficult of communication
to her. I made another trial. When she was quite herself again
and was curling Jip's earsas he lay upon her lapI became grave
and said:

'My own! May I mention something?'


'Ohplease don't be practical!' said Doracoaxingly. 'Because it
frightens me so!'


'Sweetheart!' I returned; 'there is nothing to alarm you in all
this. I want you to think of it quite differently. I want to make
it nerve youand inspire youDora!'


'Ohbut that's so shocking!' cried Dora.


'My loveno. Perseverance and strength of character will enable
us to bear much worse things.'
'But I haven't got any strength at all' said Dorashaking her
curls. 'Have IJip? Ohdo kiss Jipand be agreeable!'


It was impossible to resist kissing Jipwhen she held him up to me
for that purposeputting her own brightrosy little mouth into
kissing formas she directed the operationwhich she insisted
should be performed symmetricallyon the centre of his nose. I
did as she bade me - rewarding myself afterwards for my obedience


-and she charmed me out of my graver character for I don't know
how long.
'ButDoramy beloved!' said Iat last resuming it; 'I was going
to mention something.'

The judge of the Prerogative Court might have fallen in love with
herto see her fold her little hands and hold them upbegging and
praying me not to be dreadful any more.

'Indeed I am not going to bemy darling!' I assured her. 'But
Doramy loveif you will sometimes think- not despondinglyyou
know; far from that! - but if you will sometimes think - just to
encourage yourself - that you are engaged to a poor man -'

'Don'tdon't! Pray don't!' cried Dora. 'It's so very dreadful!'

'My soulnot at all!' said Icheerfully. 'If you will sometimes
think of thatand look about now and then at your papa's
housekeepingand endeavour to acquire a little habit - of
accountsfor instance -'

Poor little Dora received this suggestion with something that was
half a sob and half a scream.

'- It would be so useful to us afterwards' I went on. 'And if you
would promise me to read a little - a little Cookery Book that I
would send youit would be so excellent for both of us. For our
path in lifemy Dora' said Iwarming with the subject'is stony
and rugged nowand 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 meetand crush them!'

I was going on at a great ratewith a clenched handand a most
enthusiastic countenance; but it was quite unnecessary to proceed.
I had said enough. I had done it again. Ohshe was so
frightened! Ohwhere was Julia Mills! Ohtake her to Julia
Millsand go awayplease! So thatin shortI was quite
distractedand raved about the drawing-room.

I thought I had killed herthis time. I sprinkled water on her
face. I went down on my knees. I plucked at my hair. I denounced
myself as a remorseless brute and a ruthless beast. I implored her
forgiveness. I besought her to look up. I ravaged Miss Mills's
work-box for a smelling-bottleand in my agony of mind applied an


ivory needle-case insteadand dropped all the needles over Dora.
I shook my fists at Jipwho was as frantic as myself. I did every
wild extravagance that could be doneand was a long way beyond the
end of my wits when Miss Mills came into the room.

'Who has done this?' exclaimed Miss Millssuccouring her friend.

I replied'IMiss Mills! I have done it! Behold the destroyer!'
- or words to that effect - and hid my face from the lightin the
sofa cushion.

At first Miss Mills thought it was a quarreland that we were
verging on the Desert of Sahara; but she soon found out how matters
stoodfor my dear affectionate little Doraembracing herbegan
exclaiming that I was 'a poor labourer'; and then cried for meand
embraced meand asked me would I let her give me all her money to
keepand then fell on Miss Mills's necksobbing as if her tender
heart were broken.

Miss Mills must have been born to be a blessing to us. She
ascertained from me in a few words what it was all aboutcomforted
Doraand gradually convinced her that I was not a labourer - from
my manner of stating the case I believe Dora concluded that I was
a navigatorand went balancing myself up and down a plank all day
with a wheelbarrow - and so brought us together in peace. When we
were quite composedand Dora had gone up-stairs to put some
rose-water to her eyesMiss Mills rang for tea. In the ensuing
intervalI told Miss Mills that she was evermore my friendand
that my heart must cease to vibrate ere I could forget her
sympathy.

I then expounded to Miss Mills what I had endeavouredso very
unsuccessfullyto expound to Dora. Miss Mills repliedon general
principlesthat the Cottage of content was better than the Palace
of cold splendourand that where love wasall was.

I said to Miss Mills that this was very trueand who should know
it better than Iwho loved Dora with a love that never mortal had
experienced yet? But on Miss Mills observingwith despondency
that it were well indeed for some hearts if this were soI
explained that I begged leave to restrict the observation to
mortals of the masculine gender.

I then put it to Miss Millsto say whether she considered that
there was or was not any practical merit in the suggestion I had
been anxious to makeconcerning the accountsthe housekeeping
and the Cookery Book?

Miss Millsafter some considerationthus replied:

'Mr. CopperfieldI will be plain with you. Mental suffering and
trial supplyin some naturesthe place of yearsand I will be as
plain with you as if I were a Lady Abbess. No. The suggestion is
not appropriate to our Dora. Our dearest Dora is a favourite child
of nature. She is a thing of lightand airinessand joy. I am
free to confess that if it could be doneit might be wellbut -'
And Miss Mills shook her head.

I was encouraged by this closing admission on the part of Miss
Mills to ask herwhetherfor Dora's sakeif she had any
opportunity of luring her attention to such preparations for an
earnest lifeshe would avail herself of it? Miss Mills replied in
the affirmative so readilythat I further asked her if she would
take charge of the Cookery Book; andif she ever could insinuate


it upon Dora's acceptancewithout frightening herundertake to do
me that crowning service. Miss Mills accepted this trusttoo; but
was not sanguine.

And Dora returnedlooking such a lovely little creaturethat I
really doubted whether she ought to be troubled with anything so
ordinary. And she loved me so muchand was so captivating
(particularly when she made Jip stand on his hind legs for toast
and when she pretended to hold that nose of his against the hot
teapot for punishment because he wouldn't)that I felt like a sort
of Monster who had got into a Fairy's bowerwhen I thought of
having frightened herand 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 dancingLa ra laLa ra launtil I felt a much greater
Monster than before.

We had only one check to our pleasureand that happened a little
while before I took my leavewhenMiss Mills chancing to make
some allusion to tomorrow morningI unluckily let out thatbeing
obliged to exert myself nowI got up at five o'clock. Whether
Dora had any idea that I was a Private WatchmanI am unable to
say; but it made a great impression on herand she neither played
nor sang any more.

It was still on her mind when I bade her adieu; and she said to me
in her pretty coaxing way - as if I were a dollI used to think:

'Now don't get up at five o'clockyou naughty boy. It's so
nonsensical!'

'My love' said I'I have work to do.'

'But don't do it!' returned Dora. 'Why should you?'

It was impossible to say to that sweet little surprised face
otherwise than lightly and playfullythat we must work to live.

'Oh! How ridiculous!' cried Dora.

'How shall we live withoutDora?' said I.

'How? Any how!' said Dora.

She seemed to think she had quite settled the questionand gave me
such a triumphant little kissdirect from her innocent heartthat
I would hardly have put her out of conceit with her answerfor a
fortune.

Well! I loved herand I went on loving hermost absorbingly
entirelyand completely. But going ontooworking pretty hard
and busily keeping red-hot all the irons I now had in the fireI
would sit sometimes of a nightopposite my auntthinking how I
had frightened Dora that timeand how I could best make my way
with a guitar-case through the forest of difficultyuntil I used
to fancy that my head was turning quite grey.

CHAPTER 38
A DISSOLUTION OF PARTNERSHIP


I did not allow my resolutionwith respect to the Parliamentary
Debatesto cool. It was one of the irons I began to heat
immediatelyand one of the irons I kept hotand hammered atwith
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 mein
a few weeksto the confines of distraction. The changes that were
rung upon dotswhich in such a position meant such a thingand in
such another position something elseentirely different; the
wonderful vagaries that were played by circles; the unaccountable
consequences that resulted from marks like flies' legs; the
tremendous effects of a curve in a wrong place; not only troubled
my waking hoursbut reappeared before me in my sleep. When I had
groped my wayblindlythrough these difficultiesand had
mastered the alphabetwhich was an Egyptian Temple in itself
there then appeared a procession of new horrorscalled arbitrary
characters; the most despotic characters I have ever known; who
insistedfor instancethat a thing like the beginning of a
cobwebmeant expectationand that a pen-and-ink sky-rocketstood
for disadvantageous. When I had fixed these wretches in my mind
I found that they had driven everything else out of it; then
beginning againI forgot them; while I was picking them upI
dropped the other fragments of the system; in shortit was almost
heart-breaking.

It might have been quite heart-breakingbut for Dorawho was the
stay and anchor of my tempest-driven bark. Every scratch in the
scheme was a gnarled oak in the forest of difficultyand I went on
cutting them downone after anotherwith such vigourthat in
three or four months I was in a condition to make an experiment on
one of our crack speakers in the Commons. Shall I ever forget how
the crack speaker walked off from me before I beganand left my
imbecile pencil staggering about the paper as if it were in a fit!

This would not doit was quite clear. I was flying too highand
should never get onso. I resorted to Traddles for advice; who
suggested that he should dictate speeches to meat a paceand
with occasional stoppagesadapted to my weakness. Very grateful
for this friendly aidI accepted the proposal; and night after
nightalmost every nightfor a long timewe had a sort of
Private Parliament in Buckingham Streetafter I came home from the
Doctor's.

I should like to see such a Parliament anywhere else! My aunt and
Mr. Dick represented the Government or the Opposition (as the case
might be)and Traddleswith the assistance of Enfield's Speakers
or a volume of parliamentary orationsthundered astonishing
invectives against them. Standing by the tablewith his finger in
the page to keep the placeand his right arm flourishing above his
headTraddlesas Mr. PittMr. FoxMr. SheridanMr. BurkeLord
CastlereaghViscount Sidmouthor Mr. Canningwould work himself
into the most violent heatsand deliver the most withering
denunciations of the profligacy and corruption of my aunt and Mr.
Dick; while I used to sitat a little distancewith my notebook
on my kneefagging 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 policyin
the compass of a week; and nailed all sorts of colours to every
denomination of mast. My auntlooking very like an immovable
Chancellor of the Exchequerwould occasionally throw in an
interruption or twoas 'Hear!' or 'No!' or 'Oh!' when the text
seemed to require it: which was always a signal to Mr. Dick (a
perfect country gentleman) to follow lustily with the same cry.
But Mr. Dick got taxed with such things in the course of his


Parliamentary careerand was made responsible for such awful
consequencesthat he became uncomfortable in his mind sometimes.
I believe he actually began to be afraid he really had been doing
somethingtending to the annihilation of the British constitution
and the ruin of the country.

Often and often we pursued these debates until the clock pointed to
midnightand the candles were burning down. The result of so much
good practice wasthat by and by I began to keep pace with
Traddles pretty welland should have been quite triumphant if I
had had the least idea what my notes were about. Butas to
reading them after I had got themI might as well have copied the
Chinese inscriptions of an immense collection of tea-chestsor the
golden characters on all the great red and green bottles in the
chemists' shops!

There was nothing for itbut to turn back and begin all over
again. It was very hardbut I turned backthough with a heavy
heartand began laboriously and methodically to plod over the same
tedious ground at a snail's pace; stopping to examine minutely
every speck in the wayon all sidesand 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 workas the common expression islike a
cart-horse.
One daywhen I went to the Commons as usualI found Mr. Spenlow
in the doorway looking extremely graveand talking to himself. As
he was in the habit of complaining of pains in his head - he had
naturally a short throatand I do seriously believe he
over-starched himself - I was at first alarmed by the idea that he
was not quite right in that direction; but he soon relieved my
uneasiness.

Instead of returning my 'Good morning' with his usual affability
he looked at me in a distantceremonious mannerand coldly
requested me to accompany him to a certain coffee-housewhichin
those dayshad a door opening into the Commonsjust within the
little archway in St. Paul's Churchyard. I compliedin a very
uncomfortable stateand with a warm shooting all over meas if my
apprehensions were breaking out into buds. When I allowed him to
go on a little beforeon account of the narrowness of the wayI
observed that he carried his head with a lofty air that was
particularly unpromising; and my mind misgave me that he had found
out about my darling Dora.

If I had not guessed thison the way to the coffee-houseI could
hardly have failed to know what was the matter when I followed him
into an upstairs roomand found Miss Murdstone theresupported by
a background of sideboardon which were several inverted tumblers
sustaining lemonsand two of those extraordinary boxesall
corners and flutingsfor sticking knives and forks inwhich
happily for mankindare now obsolete.

Miss Murdstone gave me her chilly finger-nailsand sat severely
rigid. Mr. Spenlow shut the doormotioned me to a chairand
stood on the hearth-rug in front of the fireplace.

'Have the goodness to show Mr. Copperfield' said Mr. Spenlowwhat
you have in your reticuleMiss Murdstone.'

I believe it was the old identical steel-clasped reticule of my
childhoodthat shut up like a bite. Compressing her lipsin
sympathy with the snapMiss Murdstone opened it - opening her
mouth a little at the same time - and produced my last letter to


Dorateeming with expressions of devoted affection.

'I believe that is your writingMr. Copperfield?' said Mr.
Spenlow.

I was very hotand the voice I heard was very unlike minewhen I
said'It issir!'

'If I am not mistaken' said Mr. Spenlowas Miss Murdstone brought
a parcel of letters out of her reticuletied round with the
dearest bit of blue ribbon'those are also from your penMr.
Copperfield?'

I took them from her with a most desolate sensation; andglancing
at such phrases at the topas 'My ever dearest and own Dora' 'My
best beloved angel' 'My blessed one for ever' and the like
blushed deeplyand inclined my head.

'Nothank you!' said Mr. Spenlowcoldlyas I mechanically
offered them back to him. 'I will not deprive you of them. Miss
Murdstonebe so good as to proceed!'

That gentle creatureafter a moment's thoughtful survey of the
carpetdelivered herself with much dry unction as follows.

'I must confess to having entertained my suspicions of Miss
Spenlowin reference to David Copperfieldfor some time. I
observed Miss Spenlow and David Copperfieldwhen they first met;
and the impression made upon me then was not agreeable. The
depravity of the human heart is such -'

'You will oblige mema'am' interrupted Mr. Spenlow'by confining
yourself to facts.'

Miss Murdstone cast down her eyesshook her head as if protesting
against this unseemly interruptionand with frowning dignity
resumed:

'Since I am to confine myself to factsI will state them as dryly
as I can. Perhaps that will be considered an acceptable course of
proceeding. I have already saidsirthat I have had my
suspicions of Miss Spenlowin reference to David Copperfieldfor
some time. I have frequently endeavoured to find decisive
corroboration of those suspicionsbut without effect. I have
therefore forborne to mention them to Miss Spenlow's father';
looking severely at him- 'knowing how little disposition there
usually is in such casesto acknowledge the conscientious
discharge of duty.'

Mr. Spenlow seemed quite cowed by the gentlemanly sternness of Miss
Murdstone's mannerand deprecated her severity with a conciliatory
little wave of his hand.

'On my return to Norwoodafter the period of absence occasioned by
my brother's marriage' pursued Miss Murdstone in a disdainful
voice'and on the return of Miss Spenlow from her visit to her
friend Miss MillsI imagined that the manner of Miss Spenlow gave
me greater occasion for suspicion than before. Therefore I watched
Miss Spenlow closely.'

Deartender little Doraso unconscious of this Dragon's eye!

'Still' resumed Miss Murdstone'I found no proof until last
night. It appeared to me that Miss Spenlow received too many


letters from her friend Miss Mills; but Miss Mills being her friend
with her father's full concurrence' another telling blow at Mr.
Spenlow'it was not for me to interfere. If I may not be
permitted to allude to the natural depravity of the human heartat
least I may - I must - be permittedso far to refer to misplaced
confidence.'

Mr. Spenlow apologetically murmured his assent.

'Last evening after tea' pursued Miss Murdstone'I observed the
little dog startingrollingand growling about the drawing-room
worrying something. I said to Miss SpenlowDora, what is that
the dog has in his mouth? It's paper.Miss Spenlow immediately
put her hand to her frockgave a sudden cryand ran to the dog.
I interposedand saidDora, my love, you must permit me.'

Oh Jipmiserable Spanielthis wretchednessthenwas your work!

'Miss Spenlow endeavoured' said Miss Murdstone'to bribe me with
kisseswork-boxesand small articles of jewellery - thatof
courseI pass over. The little dog retreated under the sofa on my
approaching himand was with great difficulty dislodged by the
fire-irons. Even when dislodgedhe still kept the letter in his
mouth; and on my endeavouring to take it from himat the imminent
risk of being bittenhe 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 itI taxed Miss Spenlow with having many such
letters in her possession; and ultimately obtained from her the
packet which is now in David Copperfield's hand.'

Here she ceased; and snapping her reticule againand shutting her
mouthlooked as if she might be brokenbut could never be bent.

'You have heard Miss Murdstone' said Mr. Spenlowturning to me.
'I beg to askMr. Copperfieldif you have anything to say in
reply?'

The picture I had before meof the beautiful little treasure of my
heartsobbing and crying all night - of her being alone
frightenedand wretchedthen - of her having so piteously begged
and prayed that stony-hearted woman to forgive her - of her having
vainly offered her those kisseswork-boxesand trinkets - of her
being in such grievous distressand all for me - very much
impaired the little dignity I had been able to muster. I am afraid
I was in a tremulous state for a minute or sothough I did my best
to disguise it.

'There is nothing I can saysir' I returned'except that all the
blame is mine. Dora -'

'Miss Spenlowif you please' said her fathermajestically.

'- was induced and persuaded by me' I went onswallowing that
colder designation'to consent to this concealmentand I bitterly
regret it.'

'You are very much to blamesir' said Mr. Spenlowwalking to and
fro upon the hearth-rugand emphasizing what he said with his
whole body instead of his headon account of the stiffness of his
cravat and spine. 'You have done a stealthy and unbecoming action
Mr. Copperfield. When I take a gentleman to my houseno matter
whether he is nineteentwenty-nineor ninetyI take him there in
a spirit of confidence. If he abuses my confidencehe commits a


dishonourable actionMr. Copperfield.'

'I feel itsirI assure you' I returned. 'But I never thought
sobefore. SincerelyhonestlyindeedMr. SpenlowI never
thought sobefore. I love Miss Spenlow to that extent -'

'Pooh! nonsense!' said Mr. Spenlowreddening. 'Pray don't tell me
to my face that you love my daughterMr. Copperfield!'

'Could I defend my conduct if I did notsir?' I returnedwith all
humility.

'Can you defend your conduct if you dosir?' said Mr. Spenlow
stopping short upon the hearth-rug. 'Have you considered your
yearsand my daughter's yearsMr. Copperfield? Have you
considered what it is to undermine the confidence that should
subsist between my daughter and myself? Have you considered my
daughter's station in lifethe projects I may contemplate for her
advancementthe testamentary intentions I may have with reference
to her? Have you considered anythingMr. Copperfield?'

'Very littlesirI am afraid;' I answeredspeaking to him as
respectfully and sorrowfully as I felt; 'but pray believe meI
have considered my own worldly position. When I explained it to
youwe were already engaged -'

'I BEG' said Mr. Spenlowmore like Punch than I had ever seen
himas he energetically struck one hand upon the other - I could
not help noticing that even in my despair; 'that YOU Will NOT talk
to me of engagementsMr. Copperfield!'

The otherwise immovable Miss Murdstone laughed contemptuously in
one short syllable.

'When I explained my altered position to yousir' I began again
substituting a new form of expression for what was so unpalatable
to him'this concealmentinto which I am so unhappy as to have
led Miss Spenlowhad begun. Since I have been in that altered
positionI have strained every nerveI have exerted every energy
to improve it. I am sure I shall improve it in time. Will you
grant me time - any length of time? We are both so youngsir-'

'You are right' interrupted Mr. Spenlownodding his head a great
many timesand frowning very much'you are both very young. It's
all nonsense. Let there be an end of the nonsense. Take away
those lettersand throw them in the fire. Give me Miss Spenlow's
letters to throw in the fire; and although our future intercourse
mustyou are awarebe restricted to the Commons herewe will
agree to make no further mention of the past. ComeMr.
Copperfieldyou don't want sense; and this is the sensible
course.'

No. I couldn't think of agreeing to it. I was very sorrybut
there was a higher consideration than sense. Love was above all
earthly considerationsand I loved Dora to idolatryand Dora
loved me. I didn't exactly say so; I softened it down as much as
I could; but I implied itand I was resolute upon it. I don't
think I made myself very ridiculousbut I know I was resolute.

'Very wellMr. Copperfield' said Mr. Spenlow'I must try my
influence with my daughter.'

Miss Murdstoneby an expressive sounda long drawn respiration
which was neither a sigh nor a moanbut was like bothgave it as


her opinion that he should have done this at first.

'I must try' said Mr. Spenlowconfirmed 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 wrongbut I
couldn't possibly take them from Miss Murdstone.

'Nor from me?' said Mr. Spenlow.

NoI replied with the profoundest respect; nor from him.

'Very well!' said Mr. Spenlow.

A silence succeedingI was undecided whether to go or stay. At
length I was moving quietly towards the doorwith the intention of
saying that perhaps I should consult his feelings best by
withdrawing: when he saidwith his hands in his coat pocketsinto
which it was as much as he could do to get them; and with what I
should callupon the wholea decidedly pious air:

'You are probably awareMr. Copperfieldthat I am not altogether
destitute of worldly possessionsand that my daughter is my
nearest and dearest relative?'

I hurriedly made him a reply to the effectthat 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 yourselfand all of usif you WERE
mercenaryMr. Copperfield - I meanif you were more discreet and
less influenced by all this youthful nonsense. No. I merely say
with quite another viewyou are probably aware I have some
property to bequeath to my child?'

I certainly supposed so.

'And you can hardly think' said Mr. Spenlow'having experience of
what we seein the Commons hereevery dayof the various
unaccountable and negligent proceedings of menin respect of their
testamentary arrangements - of all subjectsthe one on which
perhaps the strangest revelations of human inconsistency are to be
met with - but that mine are made?'

I inclined my head in acquiescence.

'I should not allow' said Mr. Spenlowwith an evident increase of
pious sentimentand slowly shaking his head as he poised himself
upon his toes and heels alternately'my suitable provision for my
child to be influenced by a piece of youthful folly like the
present. It is mere folly. Mere nonsense. In a little whileit
will weigh lighter than any feather. But I might - I might - if
this silly business were not completely relinquished altogetherbe
induced in some anxious moment to guard her fromand surround her
with protections againstthe consequences of any foolish step in
the way of marriage. NowMr. CopperfieldI hope that you will
not render it necessary for me to openeven for a quarter of an
hourthat closed page in the book of lifeand unsettleeven for
a quarter of an hourgrave affairs long since composed.'

There was a serenitya tranquillitya calm sunset air about him
which quite affected me. He was so peaceful and resigned - clearly


had his affairs in such perfect trainand so systematically wound
up - that he was a man to feel touched in the contemplation of.
really think I saw tears rise to his eyesfrom 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
saidhow could I say I wouldn't take a weekyet how could I fail
to know that no amount of weeks could influence such love as mine?

'In the meantimeconfer with Miss Trotwoodor with any person
with any knowledge of life' said Mr. Spenlowadjusting his cravat
with both hands. 'Take a weekMr. Copperfield.'

I submitted; andwith a countenance as expressive as I was able to
make it of dejected and despairing constancycame out of the room.
Miss Murdstone's heavy eyebrows followed me to the door - I say her
eyebrows rather than her eyesbecause they were much more
important in her face - and she looked so exactly as she used to
lookat about that hour of the morningin our parlour at
Blunderstonethat I could have fancied I had been breaking down in
my lessons againand that the dead weight on my mind was that
horrible old spelling-bookwith oval woodcutsshapedto my
youthful fancylike the glasses out of spectacles.

When I got to the officeandshutting out old Tiffey and the rest
of them with my handssat at my deskin my own particular nook
thinking of this earthquake that had taken place so unexpectedly
and in the bitterness of my spirit cursing JipI fell into such a
state of torment about Dorathat I wonder I did not take up my hat
and rush insanely to Norwood. The idea of their frightening her
and making her cryand of my not being there to comfort herwas
so excruciatingthat it impelled me to write a wild letter to Mr.
Spenlowbeseeching him not to visit upon her the consequences of
my awful destiny. I implored him to spare her gentle nature - not
to crush a fragile flower - and addressed him generallyto the
best of my remembranceas ifinstead of being her fatherhe had
been an Ogreor the Dragon of Wantley.3 This letter I sealed and
laid upon his desk before he returned; and when he came inI saw
himthrough the half-opened door of his roomtake it up and read
it.

He said nothing about it all the morning; but before he went away
in the afternoon he called me inand told me that I need not make
myself at all uneasy about his daughter's happiness. He had
assured herhe saidthat 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 necessaryif you are foolish or obstinateMr.
Copperfield' he observed'for me to send my daughter abroad
againfor a term; but I have a better opinion of you. I hope you
will be wiser than thatin a few days. As to Miss Murdstone' for
I had alluded to her in the letter'I respect that lady's
vigilanceand feel obliged to her; but she has strict charge to
avoid the subject. All I desireMr. Copperfieldisthat it
should be forgotten. All you have got to doMr. Copperfieldis
to forget it.'

All! In the note I wrote to Miss MillsI bitterly quoted this
sentiment. All I had to doI saidwith gloomy sarcasmwas to
forget Dora. That was alland what was that! I entreated Miss
Mills to see methat evening. If it could not be done with Mr.


Mills's sanction and concurrenceI besought a clandestine
interview in the back kitchen where the Mangle was. I informed her
that my reason was tottering on its throneand only sheMiss
Millscould prevent its being deposed. I signed myselfhers
distractedly; and I couldn't help feelingwhile I read this
composition overbefore sending it by a porterthat it was
something in the style of Mr. Micawber.

HoweverI sent it. At night I repaired to Miss Mills's street
and walked up and downuntil I was stealthily fetched in by Miss
Mills's maidand taken the area way to the back kitchen. I have
since seen reason to believe that there was nothing on earth to
prevent my going in at the front doorand being shown up into the
drawing-roomexcept Miss Mills's love of the romantic and
mysterious.

In the back kitchenI raved as became me. I went thereI
supposeto make a fool of myselfand I am quite sure I did it.
Miss Mills had received a hasty note from Doratelling her that
all was discoveredand saying. 'Oh pray come to meJuliado
do!' But Miss Millsmistrusting the acceptability of her presence
to the higher powershad not yet gone; and we were all benighted
in the Desert of Sahara.

Miss Mills had a wonderful flow of wordsand liked to pour them
out. I could not help feelingthough she mingled her tears with
minethat she had a dreadful luxury in our afflictions. She
petted themas I may sayand made the most of them. A deep gulf
she observedhad opened between Dora and meand Love could only
span it with its rainbow. Love must suffer in this stern world; it
ever had been soit ever would be so. No matterMiss Mills
remarked. Hearts confined by cobwebs would burst at lastand then
Love was avenged.

This was small consolationbut Miss Mills wouldn't encourage
fallacious hopes. She made me much more wretched than I was
beforeand 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 morningand find some means of assuring
hereither by looks or wordsof my devotion and misery. We
partedoverwhelmed 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 mewent to bed despairing. I got up despairingand
went out despairing. It was Saturday morningand I went straight
to the Commons.

I was surprisedwhen I came within sight of our office-doorto
see the ticket-porters standing outside talking togetherand some
half-dozen stragglers gazing at the windows which were shut up.
quickened my paceandpassing among themwondering at their
lookswent hurriedly in.

The clerks were therebut nobody was doing anything. Old Tiffey
for the first time in his life I should thinkwas sitting on
somebody else's stooland had not hung up his hat.

'This is a dreadful calamityMr. Copperfield' said heas I
entered.

'What is?' I exclaimed. 'What's the matter?'

'Don't you know?' cried Tiffeyand all the rest of themcoming


round me.

'No!' said Ilooking from face to face.

'Mr. Spenlow' said Tiffey.

'What about him!'

'Dead!'
I thought it was the office reelingand not Ias one of the
clerks caught hold of me. They sat me down in a chairuntied my
neck-clothand brought me some water. I have no idea whether this
took any time.

'Dead?' said I.

'He dined in town yesterdayand drove down in the phaeton by
himself' said Tiffey'having sent his own groom home by the
coachas he sometimes didyou know -'

'Well?'

'The phaeton went home without him. The horses stopped at the
stable-gate. The man went out with a lantern. Nobody in the
carriage.'

'Had they run away?'

'They were not hot' said Tiffeyputting on his glasses; 'no
hotterI understandthan they would have beengoing down at the
usual pace. The reins were brokenbut they had been dragging on
the ground. The house was roused up directlyand three of them
went out along the road. They found him a mile off.'

'More than a mile offMr. Tiffey' interposed a junior.

'Was it? I believe you are right' said Tiffey- 'more than a
mile off - not far from the church - lying partly on the roadside
and partly on the pathupon his face. Whether he fell out in a
fitor got outfeeling ill before the fit came on - or even
whether he was quite dead thenthough there is no doubt he was
quite insensible - no one appears to know. If he breathed
certainly he never spoke. Medical assistance was got as soon as
possiblebut it was quite useless.'

I cannot describe the state of mind into which I was thrown by this
intelligence. The shock of such an event happening so suddenly
and happening to one with whom I had been in any respect at
variance - the appalling vacancy in the room he had occupied so
latelywhere his chair and table seemed to wait for himand his
handwriting of yesterday was like a ghost - the in- definable
impossibility of separating him from the placeand feelingwhen
the door openedas if he might come in - the lazy hush and rest
there was in the officeand the insatiable relish with which our
people talked about itand other people came in and out all day
and gorged themselves with the subject - this is easily
intelligible to anyone. What I cannot describe ishowin the
innermost recesses of my own heartI 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 wasin a grudging way I have no words
forenvious of her grief. How it made me restless to think of her
weeping to othersor being consoled by others. How I had a
graspingavaricious wish to shut out everybody from her but
myselfand to be all in all to herat that unseasonable time of


all times.


In the trouble of this state of mind - not exclusively my ownI
hopebut known to others - I went down to Norwood that night; and
finding from one of the servantswhen I made my inquiries at the
doorthat Miss Mills was theregot my aunt to direct a letter to
herwhich I wrote. I deplored the untimely death of Mr. Spenlow
most sincerelyand shed tears in doing so. I entreated her to
tell Doraif Dora were in a state to hear itthat he had spoken
to me with the utmost kindness and consideration; and had coupled
nothing but tendernessnot a single or reproachful wordwith her
name. I know I did this selfishlyto have my name brought before
her; but I tried to believe it was an act of justice to his memory.
Perhaps I did believe it.


My aunt received a few lines next day in reply; addressedoutside
to her; withinto me. Dora was overcome by grief; and when her
friend had asked her should she send her love to mehad only
criedas she was always crying'Ohdear papa! ohpoor papa!'
But she had not said Noand that I made the most of.


Mr. jorkinswho had been at Norwood since the occurrencecame to
the office a few days afterwards. He and Tiffey were closeted
together for some few momentsand then Tiffey looked out at the
door and beckoned me in.


'Oh!' said Mr. jorkins. 'Mr. Tiffey and myselfMr. Copperfield
are about to examine the desksthe drawersand other such
repositories of the deceasedwith the view of sealing up his
private papersand searching for a Will. There is no trace of
anyelsewhere. It may be as well for you to assist usif you
please.'


I had been in agony to obtain some knowledge of the circumstances
in which my Dora would be placed - asin whose guardianshipand
so forth - and this was something towards it. We began the search
at once; Mr. jorkins unlocking the drawers and desksand 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 sealor pencil-case
or ringor any little article of that kind which we associated
personally with himwe spoke very low.


We had sealed up several packets; and were still going on dustily
and quietlywhen Mr. jorkins said to usapplying exactly the same
words to his late partner as his late partner had applied to him:


'Mr. Spenlow was very difficult to move from the beaten track. You
know what he was! I am disposed to think he had made no will.'


'OhI know he had!' said I.


They both stopped and looked at me.
'On the very day when I last saw him' said I'he told me that he
hadand that his affairs were long since settled.'


Mr. jorkins and old Tiffey shook their heads with one accord.


'That looks unpromising' said Tiffey.


'Very unpromising' said Mr. jorkins.


'Surely you don't doubt -' I began.



'My good Mr. Copperfield!' said Tiffeylaying his hand upon my
armand shutting up both his eyes as he shook his head: 'if you
had been in the Commons as long as I haveyou would know that
there is no subject on which men are so inconsistentand so little
to be trusted.'

'Whybless my soulhe made that very remark!' I replied
persistently.

'I should call that almost final' observed Tiffey. 'My opinion is

-no will.'
It appeared a wonderful thing to mebut it turned out that there
was no will. He had never so much as thought of making oneso far
as his papers afforded any evidence; for there was no kind of hint
sketchor memorandumof any testamentary intention whatever.
What was scarcely less astonishing to mewasthat his affairs
were in a most disordered state. It was extremely difficultI
heardto make out what he owedor what he had paidor 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 outthatin the competition on all points of
appearance and gentility then running high in the Commonshe had
spent more than his professional incomewhich was not a very large
oneand had reduced his private meansif they ever had been great
(which was exceedingly doubtful)to a very low ebb indeed. There
was a sale of the furniture and leaseat Norwood; and Tiffey told
melittle thinking how interested I was in the storythatpaying
all the just debts of the deceasedand deducting his share of
outstanding bad and doubtful debts due to the firmhe wouldn't
give a thousand pounds for all the assets remaining.

This was at the expiration of about six weeks. I had suffered
tortures all the time; and thought I really must have laid violent
hands upon myselfwhen Miss Mills still reported to methat my
broken-hearted little Dora would say nothingwhen I was mentioned
but 'Ohpoor papa! Ohdear papa!' Alsothat she had no other
relations than two auntsmaiden sisters of Mr. Spenlowwho lived
at Putneyand 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 beenon the
occasion of Dora's christeninginvited to teawhen they
considered themselves privileged to be invited to dinnerthey had
expressed their opinion in writingthat it was 'better for the
happiness of all parties' that they should stay away. Since which
they had gone their roadand their brother had gone his.

These two ladies now emerged from their retirementand proposed to
take Dora to live at Putney. Doraclinging to them bothand
weepingexclaimed'O yesaunts! Please take Julia Mills and me
and Jip to Putney!' So they wentvery soon after the funeral.

How I found time to haunt PutneyI am sure I don't know; but I
contrivedby some means or otherto prowl about the neighbourhood
pretty often. Miss Millsfor the more exact discharge of the
duties of friendshipkept a journal; and she used to meet me
sometimeson the Commonand read itor (if she had not time to
do that) lend it to me. How I treasured up the entriesof which
I subjoin a sample!


'Monday. My sweet D. still much depressed. Headache. Called
attention to J. as being beautifully sleek. D. fondled J.
Associations thus awakenedopened 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 windowand barking violently at
dustmanoccasioned smile to overspread features of D. (Of such
slight links is chain of life composed! J. M.)

'Wednesday. D. comparatively cheerful. Sang to heras congenial
melodyEvening Bells. Effect not soothingbut reverse. D.
inexpressibly affected. Found sobbing afterwardsin own room.
Quoted verses respecting self and young Gazelle. Ineffectually.
Also referred to Patience on Monument. (Qy. Why on monument? J.
M.)

'Thursday. D. certainly improved. Better night. Slight tinge of
damask revisiting cheek. Resolved to mention name of D. C.
Introduced samecautiouslyin course of airing. D. immediately
overcome. "Ohdeardear Julia! OhI have been a naughty and
undutiful child!" Soothed and caressed. Drew ideal picture of D.

C. on verge of tomb. D. again overcome. "Ohwhat shall I do
what shall I do? Ohtake me somewhere!" Much alarmed. Fainting
of D. and glass of water from public-house. (Poetical affinity.
Chequered sign on door-post; chequered human life. Alas! J. M.)
'Friday. Day of incident. Man appears in kitchenwith blue bag
for lady's boots left out to heel. Cook repliesNo such
orders.Man argues point. Cook withdraws to inquireleaving man
alone with J. On Cook's returnman still argues pointbut
ultimately goes. J. missing. D. distracted. Information sent to
police. Man to be identified by broad noseand legs like
balustrades of bridge. Search made in every direction. No J. D.
weeping bitterlyand inconsolable. Renewed reference to young
Gazelle. Appropriatebut unavailing. Towards eveningstrange
boy calls. Brought into parlour. Broad nosebut no balustrades.
Says he wants a poundand knows a dog. Declines to explain
furtherthough much pressed. Pound being produced by D. takes
Cook to little housewhere J. alone tied up to leg of table. joy
of D. who dances round J. while he eats his supper. Emboldened by
this happy changemention D. C. upstairs. D. weeps afreshcries
piteouslyOh, don't, don't, don't! It is so wicked to think of
anything but poor papa!- embraces J. and sobs herself to sleep.
(Must not D. C. confine himself to the broad pinions of Time? J.
M.)'

Miss Mills and her journal were my sole consolation at this period.
To see herwho had seen Dora but a little while before - to trace
the initial letter of Dora's name through her sympathetic pages to
be made more and more miserable by her - were my only comforts.
I felt as if I had been living in a palace of cardswhich had
tumbled downleaving only Miss Mills and me among the ruins; I
felt as if some grim enchanter had drawn a magic circle round the
innocent goddess of my heartwhich nothing indeed but those same
strong pinionscapable of carrying so many people over so much
would enable me to enter!

CHAPTER 39
WICKFIELD AND HEEP

My auntbeginningI imagineto be made seriously uncomfortable
by my prolonged dejectionmade a pretence of being anxious that I
should go to Doverto see that all was working well at the


cottagewhich was let; and to conclude an agreementwith the same
tenantfor a longer term of occupation. Janet was drafted into
the service of Mrs. Strongwhere I saw her every day. She had
been undecidedon leaving Doverwhether or no to give the
finishing touch to that renunciation of mankind in which she had
been educatedby marrying a pilot; but she decided against that
venture. Not so much for the sake of principleI believeas
because she happened not to like him.

Although it required an effort to leave Miss MillsI fell rather
willingly into my aunt's pretenceas a means of enabling me to
pass a few tranquil hours with Agnes. I consulted the good Doctor
relative to an absence of three days; and the Doctor wishing me to
take that relaxation- he wished me to take more; but my energy
could not bear that- I made up my mind to go.

As to the CommonsI had no great occasion to be particular about
my duties in that quarter. To say the truthwe were getting in no
very good odour among the tip-top proctorsand were rapidly
sliding down to but a doubtful position. The business had been
indifferent under Mr. jorkinsbefore Mr. Spenlow's time; and
although it had been quickened by the infusion of new bloodand by
the display which Mr. Spenlow madestill it was not established on
a sufficiently strong basis to bearwithout being shakensuch a
blow as the sudden loss of its active manager. It fell off very
much. Mr. jorkinsnotwithstanding his reputation in the firmwas
an easy-goingincapable sort of manwhose reputation out of doors
was not calculated to back it up. I was turned over to him now
and when I saw him take his snuff and let the business goI
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 Commonswhowithout being
proctors themselvesdabbled in common-form businessand got it
done by real proctorswho lent their names in consideration of a
share in the spoil; - and there were a good many of these too. As
our house now wanted business on any termswe joined this noble
band; and threw out lures to the hangers-on and outsidersto bring
their business to us. Marriage licences and small probates were
what we all looked forand 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 Commonswith
instructions to do their utmost to cut off all persons in mourning
and all gentlemen with anything bashful in their appearanceand
entice them to the offices in which their respective employers were
interested; which instructions were so well observedthat I
myselfbefore I was known by sightwas twice hustled into the
premises of our principal opponent. The conflicting interests of
these touting gentlemen being of a nature to irritate their
feelingspersonal collisions took place; and the Commons was even
scandalized by our principal inveigler (who had formerly been in
the wine tradeand afterwards in the sworn brokery line) walking
about for some days with a black eye. Any one of these scouts used
to think nothing of politely assisting an old lady in black out of
a vehiclekilling any proctor whom she inquired forrepresenting
his employer as the lawful successor and representative of that
proctorand bearing the old lady off (sometimes greatly affected)
to his employer's office. Many captives were brought to me in this
way. As to marriage licencesthe competition rose to such a
pitchthat a shy gentleman in want of onehad nothing to do but
submit himself to the first inveigleror be fought forand become
the prey of the strongest. One of our clerkswho was an outsider
usedin the height of this contestto sit with his hat onthat
he might be ready to rush out and swear before a surrogate any


victim who was brought in. The system of inveigling continuesI
believeto this day. The last time I was in the Commonsa civil
able-bodied person in a white apron pounced out upon me from a
doorwayand whispering the word 'Marriage-licence' in my earwas
with great difficulty prevented from taking me up in his arms and
lifting me into a proctor's. From this digressionlet 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 feudand waged incessant war against donkeys.
Having settled the little business I had to transact thereand
slept there one nightI walked on to Canterbury early in the
morning. It was now winter again; and the freshcold windy day
and the sweeping downlandbrightened up my hopes a little.

Coming into CanterburyI loitered through the old streets with a
sober pleasure that calmed my spiritsand eased my heart. There
were the old signsthe old names over the shopsthe old people
serving in them. It appeared so longsince I had been a schoolboy
therethat I wondered the place was so little changeduntil I
reflected how little I was changed myself. Strange to saythat
quiet influence which was inseparable in my mind from Agnesseemed
to pervade even the city where she dwelt. The venerable cathedral
towersand the old jackdaws and rooks whose airy voices made them
more retired than perfect silence would have done; the battered
gatewaysone stuck full with statueslong thrown downand
crumbled awaylike the reverential pilgrims who had gazed upon
them; the still nookswhere the ivied growth of centuries crept
over gabled ends and ruined walls; the ancient housesthe pastoral
landscape of fieldorchardand garden; everywhere - on everything

-I felt the same serener airthe same calmthoughtfulsoftening
spirit.
Arrived at Mr. Wickfield's houseI foundin the little lower room
on the ground floorwhere Uriah Heep had been of old accustomed to
sitMr. Micawber plying his pen with great assiduity. He was
dressed in a legal-looking suit of blackand loomedburly and
largein that small office.

Mr. Micawber was extremely glad to see mebut a little confused
too. He would have conducted me immediately into the presence of
Uriahbut I declined.

'I know the house of oldyou recollect' said I'and will find my
way upstairs. How do you like the lawMr. Micawber?'

'My dear Copperfield' he replied. 'To a man possessed of the
higher imaginative powersthe objection to legal studies is the
amount of detail which they involve. Even in our professional
correspondence' said Mr. Micawberglancing at some letters he was
writing'the mind is not at liberty to soar to any exalted form of
expression. Stillit 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 moreunder her own roof.

'It is humble' said Mr. Micawber'- to quote a favourite
expression of my friend Heep; but it may prove the stepping-stone
to more ambitious domiciliary accommodation.'

I asked him whether he had reasonso farto be satisfied with his
friend Heep's treatment of him? He got up to ascertain if the door


were close shutbefore he repliedin a lower voice:


'My dear Copperfielda man who labours under the pressure of
pecuniary embarrassmentsiswith the generality of peopleat a
disadvantage. That disadvantage is not diminishedwhen that
pressure necessitates the drawing of stipendiary emolumentsbefore
those emoluments are strictly due and payable. All I can say is
that my friend Heep has responded to appeals to which I need not
more particularly referin a manner calculated to redound equally
to the honour of his headand of his heart.'


'I should not have supposed him to be very free with his money
either' I observed.


'Pardon me!' said Mr. Micawberwith an air of constraint'I speak
of my friend Heep as I have experience.'


'I am glad your experience is so favourable' I returned.


'You are very obligingmy dear Copperfield' said Mr. Micawber;
and hummed a tune.


'Do you see much of Mr. Wickfield?' I askedto change the subject.


'Not much' said Mr. Micawberslightingly. 'Mr. Wickfield isI
dare saya man of very excellent intentions; but he is - in short
he is obsolete.'


'I am afraid his partner seeks to make him so' said I.


'My dear Copperfield!' returned Mr. Micawberafter some uneasy
evolutions on his stool'allow me to offer a remark! I am here
in a capacity of confidence. I am herein a position of trust.
The discussion of some topicseven with Mrs. Micawber herself (so
long the partner of my various vicissitudesand a woman of a
remarkable lucidity of intellect)isI am led to consider
incompatible with the functions now devolving on me. I would
therefore take the liberty of suggesting that in our friendly
intercourse - which I trust will never be disturbed! - we draw a
line. On one side of this line' said Mr. Micawberrepresenting
it on the desk with the office ruler'is the whole range of the
human intellectwith a trifling exception; on the otherIS that
exception; that is to saythe affairs of Messrs Wickfield and
Heepwith all belonging and appertaining thereunto. I trust I
give no offence to the companion of my youthin submitting this
proposition to his cooler judgement?'


Though I saw an uneasy change in Mr. Micawberwhich sat tightly on
himas if his new duties were a misfitI felt I had no right to
be offended. My telling him soappeared to relieve him; and he
shook hands with me.


'I am charmedCopperfield' said Mr. Micawber'let me assure you
with Miss Wickfield. She is a very superior young ladyof very
remarkable attractionsgracesand virtues. Upon my honour' said
Mr. Micawberindefinitely kissing his hand and bowing with his
genteelest air'I do Homage to Miss Wickfield! Hem!'
'I am glad of thatat least' said I.


'If you had not assured usmy dear Copperfieldon the occasion of
that agreeable afternoon we had the happiness of passing with you
that D. was your favourite letter' said Mr. Micawber'I should
unquestionably have supposed that A. had been so.'



We have all some experience of a feelingthat comes over us
occasionallyof what we are saying and doing having been said and
done beforein a remote time - of our having been surroundeddim
ages agoby the same facesobjectsand circumstances - of our
knowing perfectly what will be said nextas if we suddenly
remembered it! I never had this mysterious impression more
strongly in my lifethan before he uttered those words.

I took my leave of Mr. Micawberfor the timecharging him with my
best remembrances to all at home. As I left himresuming his
stool and his penand rolling his head in his stockto get it
into easier writing orderI clearly perceived that there was
something interposed between him and mesince he had come into his
new functionswhich prevented our getting at each other as we used
to doand quite altered the character of our intercourse.

There was no one in the quaint old drawing-roomthough it
presented tokens of Mrs. Heep's whereabouts. I looked into the
room still belonging to Agnesand saw her sitting by the fireat
a pretty old-fashioned desk she hadwriting.

My darkening the light made her look up. What a pleasure to be the
cause of that bright change in her attentive faceand the object
of that sweet regard and welcome!

'AhAgnes!' said Iwhen we were sitting togetherside by side;
'I have missed you so muchlately!'

'Indeed?' she replied. 'Again! And so soon?'

I shook my head.

'I don't know how it isAgnes; I seem to want some faculty of mind
that I ought to have. You were so much in the habit of thinking
for mein the happy old days hereand I came so naturally to you
for counsel and supportthat I really think I have missed
acquiring it.'

'And what is it?' said Agnescheerfully.

'I don't know what to call it' I replied. 'I think I am earnest
and persevering?'

'I am sure of it' said Agnes.

'And patientAgnes?' I inquiredwith a little hesitation.

'Yes' returned Agneslaughing. 'Pretty well.'

'And yet' said I'I get so miserable and worriedand am so
unsteady and irresolute in my power of assuring myselfthat I know
I must want - shall I call it - relianceof some kind?'

'Call it soif you will' said Agnes.

'Well!' I returned. 'See here! You come to LondonI rely on you
and I have an object and a course at once. I am driven out of it
I come hereand in a moment I feel an altered person. The
circumstances that distressed me are not changedsince I came into
this room; but an influence comes over me in that short interval
that alters meohhow much for the better! What is it? What is
your secretAgnes?'

Her head was bent downlooking at the fire.


'It's the old story' said I. 'Don't laughwhen I say it was
always the same in little things as it is in greater ones. My old
troubles were nonsenseand now they are serious; but whenever I
have gone away from my adopted sister -'

Agnes looked up - with such a Heavenly face! - and gave me her
handwhich I kissed.

'Whenever I have not had youAgnesto advise and approve in the
beginningI have seemed to go wildand to get into all sorts of
difficulty. When I have come to youat last (as I have always
done)I have come to peace and happiness. I come homenowlike
a tired travellerand find such a blessed sense of rest!'

I felt so deeply what I saidit affected me so sincerelythat my
voice failedand I covered my face with my handand broke into
tears. I write the truth. Whatever contradictions and
inconsistencies there were within meas there are within so many
of us; whatever might have been so differentand so much better;
whatever I had donein 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 earnestwhen 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 composurewhich had long ago
made the house that held her quite a sacred place to me; she soon
won me from this weaknessand led me on to tell all that had
happened since our last meeting.

'And there is not another word to tellAgnes' said Iwhen I had
made an end of my confidence. 'Nowmy reliance is on you.'

'But it must not be on meTrotwood' returned Agneswith a
pleasant smile. 'It must be on someone else.'

'On Dora?' said I.

'Assuredly.'

'WhyI have not mentionedAgnes' said Ia little embarrassed
'that Dora is rather difficult to - I would notfor the world
sayto rely uponbecause she is the soul of purity and truth but
rather difficult to - I hardly know how to express itreally
Agnes. She is a timid little thingand easily disturbed and
frightened. Some time agobefore her father's deathwhen I
thought it right to mention to her - but I'll tell youif you will
bear with mehow it was.'

AccordinglyI told Agnes about my declaration of povertyabout
the cookery-bookthe housekeeping accountsand all the rest of
it.

'OhTrotwood!' she remonstratedwith a smile. 'Just your old
headlong way! You might have been in earnest in striving to get on
in the worldwithout being so very sudden with a timidloving
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 Doraand tacitly reproving me
by her considerate protectionfor my hot haste in fluttering that
little heart. It was as if I had seen Dorain all her fascinating


artlessnesscaressing Agnesand thanking herand coaxingly
appealing against meand loving me with all her childish
innocence.

I felt so grateful to Agnesand admired her so! I saw those two
togetherin a bright perspectivesuch well-associated friends
each adorning the other so much!

'What ought I to do thenAgnes?' I inquiredafter looking at the
fire a little while. 'What would it be right to do?'

'I think' said Agnes'that the honourable course to takewould
be to write to those two ladies. Don't you think that any secret
course is an unworthy one?'

'Yes. If YOU think so' said I.

'I am poorly qualified to judge of such matters' replied Agnes
with a modest hesitation'but I certainly feel - in shortI feel
that your being secret and clandestineis not being like
yourself.'

'Like myselfin the too high opinion you have of meAgnesI am
afraid' said I.

'Like yourselfin the candour of your nature' she returned; 'and
therefore I would write to those two ladies. I would relateas
plainly and as openly as possibleall that has taken place; and I
would ask their permission to visit sometimesat their house.
Considering that you are youngand 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 requestwithout a reference to Dora; and to discuss
it with her when they should think the time suitable. I would not
be too vehement' said Agnesgently'or propose too much. I
would trust to my fidelity and perseverance - and to Dora.'

'But if they were to frighten Dora againAgnesby speaking to
her' said I. 'And if Dora were to cryand say nothing about me!'

'Is that likely?' inquired Agneswith the same sweet consideration
in her face.

'God bless hershe 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 thinkTrotwood' returned Agnesraising her soft eyes to
mine'I would consider that. Perhaps it would be better only to
consider whether it is right to do this; andif it isto do it.'

I had no longer any doubt on the subject. With a lightened heart
though with a profound sense of the weighty importance of my task
I devoted the whole afternoon to the composition of the draft of
this letter; for which great purposeAgnes relinquished her desk
to me. But first I went downstairs to see Mr. Wickfield and Uriah
Heep.

I found Uriah in possession of a newplaster-smelling office
built out in the garden; looking extraordinarily meanin the midst
of a quantity of books and papers. He received me in his usual
fawning wayand 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 roomwhich was the shadow of
its former self - having been divested of a variety of
conveniencesfor the accommodation of the new partner - and stood
before the firewarming his backand shaving his chin with his
bony handwhile Mr. Wickfield and I exchanged greetings.


'You stay with usTrotwoodwhile you remain in Canterbury?' said
Mr. Wickfieldnot without a glance at Uriah for his approval.


'Is there room for me?' said I.


'I am sureMaster Copperfield - I should say Misterbut the other
comes so natural' said Uriah-'I would turn out of your old room
with pleasureif it would be agreeable.'


'Nono' said Mr. Wickfield. 'Why should you be inconvenienced?
There's another room. There's another room.'
'Ohbut you know' returned Uriahwith a grin'I should really
be delighted!'


To cut the matter shortI said I would have the other room or none
at all; so it was settled that I should have the other room; and
taking my leave of the firm until dinnerI went upstairs again.


I had hoped to have no other companion than Agnes. But Mrs. Heep
had asked permission to bring herself and her knitting near the
firein that room; on pretence of its having an aspect more
favourable for her rheumaticsas the wind then wasthan the
drawing-room or dining-parlour. Though I could almost have
consigned her to the mercies of the wind on the topmost pinnacle of
the Cathedralwithout remorseI made a virtue of necessityand
gave her a friendly salutation.


'I'm umbly thankful to yousir' said Mrs. Heepin
acknowledgement of my inquiries concerning her health'but I'm
only pretty well. I haven't much to boast of. If I could see my
Uriah well settled in lifeI couldn't expect much more I think.
How do you think my Ury lookingsir?'


I thought him looking as villainous as everand I replied that I
saw no change in him.


'Ohdon't you think he's changed?' said Mrs. Heep. 'There I must
umbly beg leave to differ from you. Don't you see a thinness in
him?'


'Not more than usual' I replied.


'Don't you though!' said Mrs. Heep. 'But you don't take notice of
him with a mother's eye!'


His mother's eye was an evil eye to the rest of the worldI
thought as it met minehowsoever 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 himMiss Wickfield?'
inquired Mrs. Heep.


'No' said Agnesquietly pursuing the work on which she was
engaged. 'You are too solicitous about him. He is very well.'


Mrs. Heepwith a prodigious sniffresumed her knitting.



She never left offor left us for a moment. I had arrived early
in the dayand we had still three or four hours before dinner; but
she sat thereplying 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 meon
the other sidesat Agnes. Whensoeverslowly pondering over my
letterI lifted up my eyesand meeting the thoughtful face of
Agnessaw it clearand beam encouragement upon mewith its own
angelic expressionI was conscious presently of the evil eye
passing meand going on to herand coming back to me againand
dropping furtively upon the knitting. What the knitting wasI
don't knownot being learned in that art; but it looked like a
net; and as she worked away with those Chinese chopsticks of
knitting-needlesshe showed in the firelight like an ill-looking
enchantressbaulked as yet by the radiant goodness oppositebut
getting ready for a cast of her net by and by.

At dinner she maintained her watchwith the same unwinking eyes.
After dinnerher son took his turn; and when Mr. Wickfield
himselfand I were left alone togetherleered at meand writhed
until I could hardly bear it. In the drawing-roomthere was the
mother knitting and watching again. All the time that Agnes sang
and playedthe mother sat at the piano. Once she asked for a
particular balladwhich she said her Ury (who was yawning in a
great chair) doted on; and at intervals she looked round at him
and reported to Agnes that he was in raptures with the music. But
she hardly ever spoke - I question if she ever did - without making
some mention of him. It was evident to me that this was the duty
assigned to her.

This lasted until bedtime. To have seen the mother and sonlike
two great bats hanging over the whole houseand darkening it with
their ugly formsmade me so uncomfortablethat I would rather
have remained downstairsknitting and allthan gone to bed. I
hardly got any sleep. Next day the knitting and watching began
againand lasted all day.

I had not an opportunity of speaking to Agnesfor 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 withinto bear her company. Towards the
twilight I went out by myselfmusing on what I ought to doand
whether I was justified in withholding from Agnesany longerwhat
Uriah Heep had told me in London; for that began to trouble me
againvery much.

I had not walked out far enough to be quite clear of the townupon
the Ramsgate roadwhere there was a good pathwhen I was hailed
through the dustby somebody behind me. The shambling figureand
the scanty great-coatwere not to be mistaken. I stoppedand
Uriah Heep came up.

'Well?' said I.

'How fast you walk!' said he. 'My legs are pretty longbut you've
given 'em quite a job.'

'Where are you going?' said I.

'I am going with youMaster Copperfieldif you'll allow me the
pleasure of a walk with an old acquaintance.' Saying thiswith a
jerk of his bodywhich might have been either propitiatory or
derisivehe fell into step beside me.


'Uriah!' said Ias civilly as I couldafter a silence.

'Master Copperfield!' said Uriah.

'To tell you the truth (at which you will not be offended)I came
Out to walk alonebecause I have had so much company.'

He looked at me sidewaysand said with his hardest grin'You mean
mother.'

'Why yesI do' said I.

'Ah! But you know we're so very umble' he returned. 'And having
such a knowledge of our own umblenesswe must really take care
that we're not pushed to the wall by them as isn't umble. All
stratagems are fair in lovesir.'

Raising his great hands until they touched his chinhe rubbed them
softlyand softly chuckled; looking as like a malevolent baboon
I thoughtas anything human could look.

'You see' he saidstill hugging himself in that unpleasant way
and shaking his head at me'you're quite a dangerous rivalMaster
Copperfield. You always wasyou know.'

'Do you set a watch upon Miss Wickfieldand 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 isUriahas well as I do.'

'Oh no! You must put it into words' he said. 'Ohreally! I
couldn't myself.'

'Do you suppose' said Iconstraining myself to be very temperate
and quiet with himon account of Agnes'that I regard Miss
Wickfield otherwise than as a very dear sister?'

'WellMaster Copperfield' he replied'you perceive I am not
bound to answer that question. You may notyou know. But then
you seeyou may!'

Anything to equal the low cunning of his visageand of his
shadowless eyes without the ghost of an eyelashI never saw.

'Come then!' said I. 'For the sake of Miss Wickfield -'

'My Agnes!' he exclaimedwith a sicklyangular contortion of
himself. 'Would you be so good as call her AgnesMaster
Copperfield!'

'For the sake of Agnes Wickfield - Heaven bless her!'

'Thank you for that blessingMaster Copperfield!'he interposed.

'I will tell you what I shouldunder any other circumstancesas
soon have thought of telling to - Jack Ketch.'

'To whosir?' said Uriahstretching out his neckand shading his
ear with his hand.

'To the hangman' I returned. 'The most unlikely person I could


think of' - though his own face had suggested the allusion quite
as a natural sequence. 'I am engaged to another young lady. I
hope that contents you.'

'Upon your soul?' said Uriah.

I was about indignantly to give my assertion the confirmation he
requiredwhen he caught hold of my handand gave it a squeeze.

'OhMaster Copperfield!' he said. 'If you had only had the
condescension to return my confidence when I poured out the fulness
of my artthe night I put you so much out of the way by sleeping
before your sitting-room fireI never should have doubted you. As
it isI'm sure I'll take off mother directlyand only too appy.
I know you'll excuse the precautions of affectionwon't you? What
a pityMaster Copperfieldthat you didn't condescend to return my
confidence! I'm sure I gave you every opportunity. But you never
have condescended to meas much as I could have wished. I know
you have never liked meas I have liked you!'

All this time he was squeezing my hand with his damp fishy fingers
while I made every effort I decently could to get it away. But I
was quite unsuccessful. He drew it under the sleeve of his
mulberry-coloured great-coatand I walked onalmost upon
compulsionarm-in-arm with him.

'Shall we turn?' said Uriahby and by wheeling me face about
towards the townon which the early moon was now shining
silvering the distant windows.

'Before we leave the subjectyou ought to understand' said I
breaking a pretty long silence'that I believe Agnes Wickfield to
be as far above youand as far removed from all your aspirations
as that moon herself!'

'Peaceful! Ain't she!' said Uriah. 'Very! Now confessMaster
Copperfieldthat you haven't liked me quite as I have liked you.
All along you've thought me too umble nowI shouldn't wonder?'

'I am not fond of professions of humility' I returned'or
professions of anything else.'
'There now!' said Uriahlooking flabby and lead-coloured in the
moonlight. 'Didn't I know it! But how little you think of the
rightful umbleness of a person in my stationMaster Copperfield!
Father and me was both brought up at a foundation school for boys;
and mothershe was likewise brought up at a publicsort of
charitableestablishment. They taught us all a deal of umbleness

-not much else that I know offrom morning to night. We was to
be umble to this personand umble to that; and to pull off our
caps hereand to make bows there; and always to know our place
and abase ourselves before our betters. And we had such a lot of
betters! Father got the monitor-medal by being umble. So did I.
Father got made a sexton by being umble. He had the character
among the gentlefolksof being such a well-behaved manthat they
were determined to bring him in. "Be umbleUriah says father to
me, and you'll get on. It was what was always being dinned into
you and me at school; it's what goes down best. Be umble says
father,and you'll do!" And really it ain't done bad!'
It was the first time it had ever occurred to methat this
detestable cant of false humility might have originated out of the
Heep family. I had seen the harvestbut had never thought of the
seed.


'When I was quite a young boy' said Uriah'I got to know what
umbleness didand I took to it. I ate umble pie with an appetite.
I stopped at the umble point of my learningand says IHold
hard!When you offered to teach me LatinI knew better. "People
like to be above you says father, keep yourself down." I am very
umble to the present momentMaster Copperfieldbut I've got a
little power!'

And he said all this - I knewas I saw his face in the moonlight

-that I might understand he was resolved to recompense himself by
using his power. I had never doubted his meannesshis craft and
malice; but I fully comprehended nowfor the first timewhat a
baseunrelentingand revengeful spiritmust have been engendered
by this earlyand this longsuppression.
His account of himself was so far attended with an agreeable
resultthat it led to his withdrawing his hand in order that he
might have another hug of himself under the chin. Once apart from
himI was determined to keep apart; and we walked backside by
sidesaying very little more by the way. Whether his spirits were
elevated by the communication I had made to himor by his having
indulged in this retrospectI don't know; but they were raised by
some influence. He talked more at dinner than was usual with him;
asked his mother (off dutyfrom the moment of our re-entering the
house) whether he was not growing too old for a bachelor; and once
looked at Agnes sothat I would have given all I hadfor leave to
knock him down.

When we three males were left alone after dinnerhe 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 yesterdaythat he tried to entice Mr. Wickfield to
drink; andinterpreting the look which Agnes had given me as she
went outhad limited myself to one glassand then proposed that
we should follow her. I would have done so again today; but Uriah
was too quick for me.

'We seldom see our present visitorsir' he saidaddressing Mr.
Wickfieldsittingsuch a contrast to himat the end of the
table'and I should propose to give him welcome in another glass
or two of wineif you have no objections. Mr. Copperfieldyour
elth and appiness!'

I was obliged to make a show of taking the hand he stretched across
to me; and thenwith very different emotionsI took the hand of
the broken gentlemanhis partner.

'Comefellow-partner' said Uriah'if I may take the libertynow
suppose you give us something or another appropriate to
Copperfield!'

I pass over Mr. Wickfield's proposing my aunthis proposing Mr.
Dickhis proposing Doctors' Commonshis proposing Uriahhis
drinking everything twice; his consciousness of his own weakness
the ineffectual effort that he made against it; the struggle
between his shame in Uriah's deportmentand his desire to
conciliate him; the manifest exultation with which Uriah twisted
and turnedand held him up before me. It made me sick at heart to
seeand my hand recoils from writing it.

'Comefellow-partner!' said Uriahat last'I'll give you another


oneand I umbly ask for bumpersseeing I intend to make it the
divinest of her sex.'

Her father had his empty glass in his hand. I saw him set it down
look at the picture she was so likeput his hand to his forehead
and shrink back in his elbow-chair.

'I'm an umble individual to give you her elth' proceeded Uriah
'but I admire - adore her.'

No physical pain that her father's grey head could have borneI
thinkcould have been more terrible to methan the mental
endurance I saw compressed now within both his hands.

'Agnes' said Uriaheither not regarding himor not knowing what
the nature of his action was'Agnes Wickfield isI am safe to
saythe divinest of her sex. May I speak outamong friends? To
be her father is a proud distinctionbut to be her usband -'

Spare me from ever again hearing such a cryas that with which her
father rose up from the table!
'What's the matter?' said Uriahturning of a deadly colour. 'You
are not gone madafter allMr. WickfieldI hope? If I say I've
an ambition to make your Agnes my AgnesI have as good a right to
it as another man. I have a better right to it than any other
man!'

I had my arms round Mr. Wickfieldimploring him by everything that
I could think ofoftenest of all by his love for Agnesto calm
himself a little. He was mad for the moment; tearing out his hair
beating his headtrying to force me from himand to force himself
from menot answering a wordnot looking at or seeing anyone;
blindly striving for he knew not whathis face all staring and
distorted - a frightful spectacle.

I conjured himincoherentlybut in the most impassioned manner
not to abandon himself to this wildnessbut to hear me. I
besought him to think of Agnesto connect me with Agnesto
recollect how Agnes and I had grown up togetherhow I honoured her
and loved herhow she was his pride and joy. I tried to bring her
idea before him in any form; I even reproached him with not having
firmness to spare her the knowledge of such a scene as this. I may
have effected somethingor his wildness may have spent itself; but
by degrees he struggled lessand began to look at me - strangely
at firstthen with recognition in his eyes. At length he said'I
knowTrotwood! My darling child and you - I know! But look at
him!'

He pointed to Uriahpale and glowering in a cornerevidently very
much out in his calculationsand taken by surprise.

'Look at my torturer' he replied. 'Before him I have step by step
abandoned name and reputationpeace and quiethouse and home.'

'I have kept your name and reputation for youand your peace and
quietand your house and home too' said Uriahwith a sulky
hurrieddefeated air of compromise. 'Don't be foolishMr.
Wickfield. If I have gone a little beyond what you were prepared
forI can go backI suppose? There's no harm done.'

'I looked for single motives in everyone' said Mr. Wickfieldand
I was satisfied I had bound him to me by motives of interest. But
see what he is - ohsee what he is!'


'You had better stop himCopperfieldif you can' cried Uriah
with his long forefinger pointing towards me. 'He'll say something
presently - mind you! - he'll be sorry to have said afterwardsand
you'll be sorry to have heard!'

'I'll say anything!' cried Mr. Wickfieldwith a desperate air.
'Why should I not be in all the world's power if I am in yours?'

'Mind! I tell you!' said Uriahcontinuing to warn me. 'If you
don't stop his mouthyou're not his friend! Why shouldn't you be
in all the world's powerMr. Wickfield? Because you have got a
daughter. You and me know what we knowdon't we? Let sleeping
dogs lie - who wants to rouse 'em? I don't. Can't you see I am as
umble as I can be? I tell youif I've gone too farI'm sorry.
What would you havesir?'

'OhTrotwoodTrotwood!'exclaimed Mr. Wickfieldwringing his
hands. 'What I have come down to besince I first saw you in this
house! I was on my downward way thenbut the drearydreary road
I have traversed since! Weak indulgence has ruined me. Indulgence
in remembranceand 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.
have brought misery on what I dearly loveI know -you know! I
thought it possible that I could truly love one creature in the
worldand not love the rest; I thought it possible that I could
truly mourn for one creature gone out of the worldand 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
heartand it has preyed on me. Sordid in my griefsordid in my
lovesordid in my miserable escape from the darker side of both
oh see the ruin I amand hate meshun me!'

He dropped into a chairand weakly sobbed. The excitement into
which he had been roused was leaving him. Uriah came out of his
corner.

'I don't know all I have donein my fatuity' said Mr. Wickfield
putting out his handsas if to deprecate my condemnation. 'He
knows best' meaning Uriah Heep'for he has always been at my
elbowwhispering me. You see the millstone that he is about my
neck. You find him in my houseyou find him in my business. You
heard himbut a little time ago. What need have I to say more!'

'You haven't need to say so muchnor half so muchnor anything at
all' observed Uriahhalf defiantand half fawning. 'You
wouldn't have took it up soif it hadn't been for the wine.
You'll think better of it tomorrowsir. If I have said too much
or more than I meantwhat of it? I haven't stood by it!'

The door openedand Agnesgliding inwithout a vestige of colour
in her faceput her arm round his neckand steadily said'Papa
you are not well. Come with me!'

He laid his head upon her shoulderas if he were oppressed with
heavy shameand went out with her. Her eyes met mine for but an
instantyet I saw how much she knew of what had passed.

'I didn't expect he'd cut up so roughMaster Copperfield' said
Uriah. 'But it's nothing. I'll be friends with him tomorrow.
It's for his good. I'm umbly anxious for his good.'

I gave him no answerand went upstairs into the quiet room where
Agnes had so often sat beside me at my books. Nobody came near me


until late at night. I took up a bookand tried to read. I heard
the clocks strike twelveand was still readingwithout knowing
what I readwhen Agnes touched me.

'You will be going early in the morningTrotwood! Let us say
good-byenow!'

She had been weepingbut her face then was so calm and beautiful!

'Heaven bless you!' she saidgiving me her hand.

'Dearest Agnes!' I returned'I see you ask me not to speak of
tonight - but is there nothing to be done?'

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

'Can I do nothing- Iwho come to you with my poor sorrows?'

'And make mine so much lighter' she replied. 'Dear Trotwoodno!'

'Dear Agnes' I said'it is presumptuous for mewho am so poor in
all in which you are so rich - goodnessresolutionall noble
qualities - to doubt or direct you; but you know how much I love
youand how much I owe you. You will never sacrifice yourself to
a mistaken sense of dutyAgnes?'

More agitated for a moment than I had ever seen hershe took her
hands from meand moved a step back.

'Say you have no such thoughtdear Agnes! Much more than sister!
Think of the priceless gift of such a heart as yoursof such a
love as yours!'

Oh! longlong afterwardsI saw that face rise up before mewith
its momentary looknot wonderingnot accusingnot regretting.
Ohlonglong afterwardsI saw that look subsideas it did now
into the lovely smilewith which she told me she had no fear for
herself - I need have none for her - and parted from me by the name
of Brotherand was gone!

It was dark in the morningwhen I got upon the coach at the inn
door. The day was just breaking when we were about to startand
thenas I sat thinking of hercame struggling up the coach side
through the mingled day and nightUriah's head.

'Copperfield!' said hein a croaking whisperas he hung by the
iron on the roof'I thought you'd be glad to hear before you went
offthat there are no squares broke between us. I've been into
his room alreadyand we've made it all smooth. Whythough I'm
umbleI'm useful to himyou know; and he understands his interest
when he isn't in liquor! What an agreeable man he isafter all
Master Copperfield!'

I obliged myself to say that I was glad he had made his apology.

'Ohto be sure!' said Uriah. 'When a person's umbleyou know
what's an apology? So easy! I say! I suppose' with a jerk'you
have sometimes plucked a pear before it was ripeMaster
Copperfield?'

'I suppose I have' I replied.

'I did that last night' said Uriah; 'but it'll ripen yet! It only
wants attending to. I can wait!'


Profuse in his farewellshe got down again as the coachman got up.
For anything I knowhe was eating something to keep the raw
morning air out; but he made motions with his mouth as if the pear
were ripe alreadyand he were smacking his lips over it.

CHAPTER 40
THE WANDERER

We had a very serious conversation in Buckingham Street that night
about the domestic occurrences I have detailed in the last chapter.
My aunt was deeply interested in themand walked up and down the
room with her arms foldedfor more than two hours afterwards.
Whenever she was particularly discomposedshe always performed one
of these pedestrian feats; and the amount of her discomposure might
always be estimated by the duration of her walk. On this occasion
she was so much disturbed in mind as to find it necessary to open
the bedroom doorand make a course for herselfcomprising the
full extent of the bedrooms from wall to wall; and while Mr. Dick
and I sat quietly by the fireshe kept passing in and outalong
this measured trackat an unchanging pacewith the regularity of
a clock-pendulum.

When my aunt and I were left to ourselves by Mr. Dick's going out
to bedI sat down to write my letter to the two old ladies. By
that time she was tired of walkingand sat by the fire with her
dress tucked up as usual. But instead of sitting in her usual
mannerholding her glass upon her kneeshe suffered it to stand
neglected on the chimney-piece; andresting her left elbow on her
right armand her chin on her left handlooked thoughtfully at
me. As often as I raised my eyes from what I was aboutI met
hers. 'I am in the lovingest of tempersmy dear' she would
assure me with a nod'but I am fidgeted and sorry!'

I had been too busy to observeuntil after she was gone to bed
that she had left her night-mixtureas she always called it
untasted on the chimney-piece. She came to her doorwith even
more than her usual affection of mannerwhen I knocked to acquaint
her with this discovery; but only said'I have not the heart to
take itTrottonight' and shook her headand went in again.

She read my letter to the two old ladiesin the morningand
approved of it. I posted itand had nothing to do thenbut wait
as patiently as I couldfor the reply. I was still in this state
of expectationand had beenfor nearly a week; when I left the
Doctor's one snowy nightto walk home.

It had been a bitter dayand a cutting north-east wind had blown
for some time. The wind had gone down with the lightand so the
snow had come on. It was a heavysettled fallI recollectin
great flakes; and it lay thick. The noise of wheels and tread of
people were as hushedas if the streets had been strewn that depth
with feathers.

My shortest way home- and I naturally took the shortest way on
such a night - was through St. Martin's Lane. Nowthe church
which gives its name to the lanestood in a less free situation at
that time; there being no open space before itand the lane
winding down to the Strand. As I passed the steps of the portico
I encounteredat the cornera woman's face. It looked in mine
passed across the narrow laneand disappeared. I knew it. I had


seen it somewhere. But I could not remember where. I had some
association with itthat struck upon my heart directly; but I was
thinking of anything else when it came upon meand was confused.

On the steps of the churchthere was the stooping figure of a man
who had put down some burden on the smooth snowto adjust it; my
seeing the faceand my seeing himwere simultaneous. I don't
think I had stopped in my surprise; butin any caseas I went on
he roseturnedand came down towards me. I stood face to face
with Mr. Peggotty!

Then I remembered the woman. It was Marthato whom Emily had
given the money that night in the kitchen. Martha Endell - side by
side with whomhe would not have seen his dear nieceHam had told
mefor all the treasures wrecked in the sea.

We shook hands heartily. At firstneither of us could speak a
word.

'Mas'r Davy!' he saidgripping me tight'it do my art good to see
yousir. Well metwell met!'

'Well metmy dear old friend!' said I.

'I had my thowts o' coming to make inquiration for yousir
tonight' he said'but knowing as your aunt was living along wi'
you - fur I've been down yonder - Yarmouth way - I was afeerd it
was too late. I should have come early in the morningsirafore
going away.'

'Again?' said I.

'Yessir' he repliedpatiently shaking his head'I'm away
tomorrow.'

'Where were you going now?' I asked.

'Well!' he repliedshaking the snow out of his long hair'I was
a-going to turn in somewheers.'

In those days there was a side-entrance to the stable-yard of the
Golden Crossthe inn so memorable to me in connexion with his
misfortunenearly opposite to where we stood. I pointed out the
gatewayput my arm through hisand we went across. Two or three
public-rooms opened out of the stable-yard; and looking into one of
themand finding it emptyand a good fire burningI took him in
there.

When I saw him in the lightI observednot only that his hair was
long and raggedbut that his face was burnt dark by the sun. He
was greyerthe lines in his face and forehead were deeperand he
had every appearance of having toiled and wandered through all
varieties of weather; but he looked very strongand like a man
upheld by steadfastness of purposewhom nothing could tire out.
He shook the snow from his hat and clothesand brushed it away
from his facewhile I was inwardly making these remarks. As he
sat down opposite to me at a tablewith his back to the door by
which we had enteredhe put out his rough hand againand grasped
mine warmly.

'I'll tell youMas'r Davy' he said- 'wheer all I've beenand
what-all we've heerd. I've been furand we've heerd little; but
I'll tell you!'


I rang the bell for something hot to drink. He would have nothing
stronger than ale; and while it was being broughtand being warmed
at the firehe sat thinking. There was a finemassive gravity in
his faceI did not venture to disturb.

'When she was a child' he saidlifting up his head soon after we
were left alone'she used to talk to me a deal about the seaand
about them coasts where the sea got to be dark blueand to lay
a-shining and a-shining in the sun. I thowtodd timesas her
father being drownded made her think on it so much. I doen't know
you seebut maybe she believed - or hoped - he had drifted out to
them partswhere the flowers is always a-blowingand the country
bright.'

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

'When she was - lost' said Mr. Peggotty'I know'd in my mindas
he would take her to them countries. I know'd in my mindas he'd
have told her wonders of 'emand how she was to be a lady theer
and how he got her to listen to him fustalong o' sech like. When
we see his motherI know'd quite well as I was right. I went
across-channel to Franceand landed theeras if I'd fell down
from the sky.'

I saw the door moveand the snow drift in. I saw it move a little
moreand a hand softly interpose to keep it open.

'I found out an English gen'leman as was in authority' said Mr.
Peggotty'and told him I was a-going to seek my niece. He got me
them papers as I wanted fur to carry me through - I doen't rightly
know how they're called - and he would have give me moneybut that
I was thankful to have no need on. I thank him kindfor all he
doneI'm sure! "I've wrote afore you he says to me, and I
shall speak to many as will come that wayand many will know you
fur distant from herewhen you're a-travelling alone." I told him
best as I was ablewhat my gratitoode wasand went away through
France.'

'Aloneand 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-footand often with some poor soldier or anothertravelling to
see his friends. I couldn't talk to him' said Mr. Peggotty'nor
he to me; but we was company for one anothertooalong the dusty
roads.'

I should have known that by his friendly tone.

'When I come to any town' he pursued'I found the innand waited
about the yard till someone turned up (someone mostly did) as
know'd English. Then I told how that I was on my way to seek my
nieceand they told me what manner of gentlefolks was in the
houseand I waited to see any as seemed like hergoing in or out.
When it warn't Em'lyI went on agen. By little and littlewhen
I come to a new village or thatamong the poor peopleI found
they know'd about me. They would set me down at their cottage
doorsand give me what-not fur to eat and drinkand show me where
to sleep; and many a womanMas'r Davyas has had a daughter of
about Em'ly's ageI've found a-waiting fur meat Our Saviour's
Cross outside the villagefur 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 haggardlistening face
distinctly. My dread was lest he should turn his headand see her
too.

'They would often put their children - particular their little
girls' said Mr. Peggotty'upon my knee; and many a time you might
have seen me sitting at their doorswhen night was coming in
a'most as if they'd been my Darling's children. Ohmy Darling!'

Overpowered by sudden griefhe sobbed aloud. I laid my trembling
hand upon the hand he put before his face. 'Thankeesir' he
said'doen't take no notice.'

In a very little while he took his hand away and put it on his
breastand went on with his story.
'They often walked with me' he said'in the morningmaybe a mile
or two upon my road; and when we partedand I saidI'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 supposefor a seafaring man like me to work his way over
to Italy. When I got theerI wandered on as I had done afore.
The people was just as good to meand I should have gone from town
to townmaybe the country throughbut that I got news of her
being seen among them Swiss mountains yonder. One as know'd his
servant see 'em thereall threeand told me how they travelled
and where they was. I made fur them mountainsMas'r Davyday and
night. Ever so fur as I wentever so fur the mountains seemed to
shift away from me. But I come up with 'emand I crossed 'em.
When I got nigh the place as I had been told ofI began to think
within my own selfWhat shall I do when I see her?'

The listening faceinsensible to the inclement nightstill
drooped at the doorand the hands begged me - prayed me - not to
cast it forth.

'I never doubted her' said Mr. Peggotty. 'No! Not a bit! On'y
let her see my face - on'y let her beer my voice - on'y let my
stanning still afore her bring to her thoughts the home she had
fled away fromand the child she had been - and if she had growed
to be a royal ladyshe'd have fell down at my feet! I know'd it
well! Many a time in my sleep had I heerd her cry outUncle!
and seen her fall like death afore me. Many a time in my sleep had
I raised her upand whispered to herEm'ly, my dear, I am come
fur to bring forgiveness, and to take you home!'

He stopped and shook his headand went on with a sigh.

'He was nowt to me now. Em'ly was all. I bought a country dress
to put upon her; and I know'd thatonce foundshe would walk
beside me over them stony roadsgo where I wouldand never
neverleave me more. To put that dress upon herand to cast off
what she wore - to take her on my arm againand wander towards
home - to stop sometimes upon the roadand heal her bruised feet
and her worse-bruised heart - was all that I thowt of now. I
doen't believe I should have done so much as look at him. But
Mas'r Davyit warn't to be - not yet! I was too lateand they
was gone. WheerI couldn't learn. Some said beersome said
theer. I travelled beerand I travelled theerbut I found no
Em'lyand I travelled home.'

'How long ago?' I asked.

'A matter o' fower days' said Mr. Peggotty. 'I sighted the old
boat arter darkand the light a-shining in the winder. When I


come nigh and looked in through the glassI see the faithful
creetur Missis Gummidge sittin' by the fireas we had fixed upon
alone. I called outDoen'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 breasthe took outwith a very careful
hand a small paper bundle containing two or three letters or little
packetswhich he laid upon the table.

'This fust one come' he saidselecting it from the rest'afore
I had been gone a week. A fifty pound Bank notein a sheet of
paperdirected to meand put underneath the door in the night.
She tried to hide her writingbut she couldn't hide it from Me!'

He folded up the note againwith great patience and carein
exactly the same formand laid it on one side.

'This come to Missis Gummidge' he saidopening another'two or
three months ago.'After looking at it for some momentshe gave it
to meand added in a low voice'Be so good as read itsir.'

I read as follows:

'Oh what will you feel when you see this writingand know it comes
from my wicked hand! But trytry - not for my sakebut for
uncle's goodnesstry to let your heart soften to meonly for a
little little time! Trypray doto relent towards a miserable
girland write down on a bit of paper whether he is welland what
he said about me before you left off ever naming me among
yourselves - and whetherof a nightwhen it is my old time of
coming homeyou ever see him look as if he thought of one he used
to love so dear. Ohmy heart is breaking when I think about it!
I am kneeling down to youbegging and praying you not to be as
hard with me as I deserve - as I wellwellknow I deserve - but
to be so gentle and so goodas to write down something of himand
to send it to me. You need not call me Littleyou need not call
me by the name I have disgraced; but ohlisten to my agonyand
have mercy on me so far as to write me some word of unclenever
never to be seen in this world by my eyes again!

'Dearif your heart is hard towards me - justly hardI know but
listenif it is harddearask him I have wronged the most

-him whose wife I was to have been - before you quite decide
against my poor poor prayer! If he should be so compassionate as
to say that you might write something for me to read - I think he
wouldohI think he wouldif you would only ask himfor he
always was so brave and so forgiving - tell him then (but not
else)that when I hear the wind blowing at nightI feel as if it
was passing angrily from seeing him and uncleand was going up to
God against me. Tell him that if I was to die tomorrow (and ohif
I was fitI would be so glad to die!) I would bless him and uncle
with my last wordsand 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 sumand he refolded it in the same
way. Detailed instructions were added relative to the address of
a replywhichalthough they betrayed the intervention of several
handsand made it difficult to arrive at any very probable
conclusion in reference to her place of concealmentmade 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 scholarsirHam
kindly drawed it outand she made a copy on it. They told her I
was gone to seek herand what my parting words was.'

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

'It's moneysir' said Mr. Peggottyunfolding it a little way.
'Ten poundyou see. And wrote insideFrom a true friend,like
the fust. But the fust was put underneath the doorand this come
by the postday 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 outat Yarmouthsome foreign dealers who knew that country
and they had drawn him a rude map on paperwhich he could very
well understand. He laid it between us on the table; andwith his
chin resting on one handtracked his course upon it with the
other.

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

'He works' he said'as bold as a man can. His name's as goodin
all that partas any man's isanywheres in the wureld. Anyone's
hand is ready to help himyou understandand 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 fellowI can believe it!'

'He ain't no careMas'r Davy' said Mr. Peggotty in a solemn
whisper - 'kinder no care no-how for his life. When a man's wanted
for rough sarvice in rough weatherhe's theer. When there's hard
duty to be done with danger in ithe steps for'ard afore all his
mates. And yet he's as gentle as any child. There ain't a child
in Yarmouth that doen't know him.'

He gathered up the letters thoughtfullysmoothing them with his
hand; put them into their little bundle; and placed it tenderly in
his breast again. The face was gone from the door. I still saw
the snow drifting in; but nothing else was there.

'Well!' he saidlooking to his bag'having seen you tonight
Mas'r Davy (and that doos me good!)I shall away betimes tomorrow
morning. You have seen what I've got heer'; putting his hand on
where the little packet lay; 'all that troubles me isto think
that any harm might come to meafore that money was give back. If
I was to dieand it was lostor stoleor elseways made away
withand it was never know'd by him but what I'd took itI
believe the t'other wureld wouldn't hold me! I believe I must come
back!'

He roseand 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 thatand find my Em'ly
I'm content. If I doen't find hermaybe she'll come to hear
sometimeas her loving uncle only ended his search for her when he
ended his life; and if I know hereven that will turn her home at
last!'


As he went out into the rigorous nightI saw the lonely figure
flit away before us. I turned him hastily on some pretenceand
held him in conversation until it was gone.

He spoke of a traveller's house on the Dover Roadwhere he knew he
could find a cleanplain lodging for the night. I went with him
over Westminster Bridgeand parted from him on the Surrey shore.
Everything seemedto my imaginationto be hushed in reverence for
himas he resumed his solitary journey through the snow.

I returned to the inn yardandimpressed by my remembrance of the
facelooked awfully around for it. It was not there. The snow
had covered our late footprints; my new track was the only one to
be seen; and even that began to die away (it snowed so fast) as I
looked back over my shoulder.

CHAPTER 41
DORA'S AUNTS

At lastan answer came from the two old ladies. They presented
their compliments to Mr. Copperfieldand informed him that they
had given his letter their best consideration'with a view to the
happiness of both parties' - which I thought rather an alarming
expressionnot only because of the use they had made of it in
relation to the family difference before-mentionedbut because I
had (and have all my life) observed that conventional phrases are
a sort of fireworkseasily let offand liable to take a great
variety of shapes and colours not at all suggested by their
original form. The Misses Spenlow added that they begged to
forbear expressing'through the medium of correspondence'an
opinion on the subject of Mr. Copperfield's communication; but that
if Mr. Copperfield would do them the favour to callupon a certain
day (accompaniedif he thought properby a confidential friend)
they would be happy to hold some conversation on the subject.

To this favourMr. Copperfield immediately repliedwith his
respectful complimentsthat he would have the honour of waiting on
the Misses Spenlowat the time appointed; accompaniedin
accordance with their kind permissionby his friend Mr. Thomas
Traddles of the Inner Temple. Having dispatched which missiveMr.
Copperfield fell into a condition of strong nervous agitation; and
so remained until the day arrived.

It was a great augmentation of my uneasiness to be bereavedat
this eventful crisisof the inestimable services of Miss Mills.
But Mr. Millswho was always doing something or other to annoy me
- or I felt as if he werewhich was the same thing - had brought
his conduct to a climaxby taking it into his head that he would
go to India. Why should he go to Indiaexcept to harass me? To
be sure he had nothing to do with any other part of the worldand
had a good deal to do with that part; being entirely in the India
tradewhatever 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 againin the capacity of
resident partner. But this was nothing to me. Howeverit was so
much to him that for India he was boundand Julia with him; and
Julia went into the country to take leave of her relations; and the
house was put into a perfect suit of billsannouncing that it was
to be let or soldand that the furniture (Mangle and all) was to
be taken at a valuation. Sohere was another earthquake of which
I became the sportbefore I had recovered from the shock of its


predecessor!

I was in several minds how to dress myself on the important day;
being divided between my desire to appear to advantageand my
apprehensions of putting on anything that might impair my severely
practical character in the eyes of the Misses Spenlow. I
endeavoured to hit a happy medium between these two extremes; my
aunt approved the result; and Mr. Dick threw one of his shoes after
Traddles and mefor luckas we went downstairs.

Excellent fellow as I knew Traddles to beand warmly attached to
him as I wasI could not help wishingon that delicate occasion
that he had never contracted the habit of brushing his hair so very
upright. It gave him a surprised look - not to say a hearth-broomy
kind of expression - whichmy apprehensions whisperedmight be
fatal to us.

I took the liberty of mentioning it to Traddlesas we were walking
to Putney; and saying that if he WOULD smooth it down a little


'My dear Copperfield' said Traddleslifting off his hatand
rubbing his hair all kinds of ways'nothing would give me greater
pleasure. But it won't.'

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

'No' said Traddles. 'Nothing will induce it. If I was to carry
a half-hundred-weight upon itall the way to Putneyit would be
up again the moment the weight was taken off. You have no idea
what obstinate hair mine isCopperfield. I am quite a fretful
porcupine.'

I was a little disappointedI must confessbut 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
characterfor he had none.

'Oh!' returned Traddleslaughing. 'I assure youit's quite an
old storymy unfortunate hair. My uncle's wife couldn't bear it.
She said it exasperated her. It stood very much in my waytoo
when I first fell in love with Sophy. Very much!'

'Did she object to it?'

'SHE didn't' rejoined Traddles; 'but her eldest sister - the one
that's the Beauty - quite made game of itI understand. In fact
all the sisters laugh at it.'

'Agreeable!' said I.

'Yes' returned Traddles with perfect innocence'it's a joke for
us. They pretend that Sophy has a lock of it in her deskand is
obliged to shut it in a clasped bookto keep it down. We laugh
about it.'

'By the bymy dear Traddles' said I'your experience may suggest
something to me. When you became engaged to the young lady whom
you have just mentioneddid you make a regular proposal to her
family? Was there anything like - what we are going through today
for instance?' I addednervously.

'Why' replied Traddleson whose attentive face a thoughtful shade
had stolen'it was rather a painful transactionCopperfieldin
my case. You seeSophy being of so much use in the familynone


of them could endure the thought of her ever being married.
Indeedthey had quite settled among themselves that she never was
to be marriedand they called her the old maid. Accordinglywhen
I mentioned itwith the greatest precautionto Mrs. Crewler -'

'The mama?' said I.

'The mama' said Traddles - 'Reverend Horace Crewler - when I
mentioned it with every possible precaution to Mrs. Crewlerthe
effect upon her was such that she gave a scream and became
insensible. I couldn't approach the subject againfor months.'

'You did at last?' said I.

'Wellthe Reverend Horace did' said Traddles. 'He is an
excellent manmost exemplary in every way; and he pointed out to
her that she oughtas a Christianto reconcile herself to the
sacrifice (especially as it was so uncertain)and to bear no
uncharitable feeling towards me. As to myselfCopperfieldI give
you my wordI felt a perfect bird of prey towards the family.'

'The sisters took your partI hopeTraddles?'

'WhyI can't say they did' he returned. 'When we had
comparatively reconciled Mrs. Crewler to itwe had to break it to
Sarah. You recollect my mentioning Sarahas the one that has
something the matter with her spine?'

'Perfectly!'

'She clenched both her hands' said Traddleslooking at me in
dismay; 'shut her eyes; turned lead-colour; became perfectly stiff;
and took nothing for two days but toast-and-wateradministered
with a tea-spoon.'

'What a very unpleasant girlTraddles!' I remarked.

'OhI beg your pardonCopperfield!' said Traddles. 'She is a
very charming girlbut she has a great deal of feeling. In fact
they all have. Sophy told me afterwardsthat the self-reproach
she underwent while she was in attendance upon Sarahno words
could describe. I know it must have been severeby my own
feelingsCopperfield; which were like a criminal's. After Sarah
was restoredwe still had to break it to the other eight; and it
produced various effects upon them of a most pathetic nature. The
two little oneswhom Sophy educateshave only just left off
de-testing me.'

'At any ratethey are all reconciled to it nowI hope?' said I.

'Ye-yesI should say they wereon the wholeresigned to it'
said Traddlesdoubtfully. 'The fact iswe avoid mentioning the
subject; and my unsettled prospects and indifferent circumstances
are a great consolation to them. There will be a deplorable scene
whenever we are married. It will be much more like a funeralthan
a wedding. And they'll all hate me for taking her away!'

His honest faceas he looked at me with a serio-comic shake of his
headimpresses me more in the remembrance than it did in the
realityfor I was by this time in a state of such excessive
trepidation and wandering of mindas to be quite unable to fix my
attention on anything. On our approaching the house where the
Misses Spenlow livedI was at such a discount in respect of my
personal looks and presence of mindthat Traddles proposed a


gentle stimulant in the form of a glass of ale. This having been
administered at a neighbouring public-househe conducted mewith
tottering stepsto the Misses Spenlow's door.

I had a vague sensation of beingas it wereon viewwhen the
maid opened it; and of waveringsomehowacross a hall with a
weather-glass in itinto a quiet little drawing-room on the
ground-floorcommanding a neat garden. Also of sitting down here
on a sofaand seeing Traddles's hair start upnow his hat was
removedlike one of those obtrusive little figures made of
springsthat fly out of fictitious snuff-boxes when the lid is
taken off. Also of hearing an old-fashioned clock ticking away on
the chimney-pieceand trying to make it keep time to the jerking
of my heart- which it wouldn't. Also of looking round the room
for any sign of Doraand seeing none. Also of thinking that Jip
once barked in the distanceand was instantly choked by somebody.
Ultimately I found myself backing Traddles into the fireplaceand
bowing in great confusion to two dry little elderly ladiesdressed
in blackand 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 Traddlesand had sat upon something
which was not a cat - my first seat was - I so far recovered my
sightas 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 conferenceinasmuch as she had my letter in her
hand - so familiar as it looked to meand yet so odd! - and was
referring to it through an eye-glass. They were dressed alikebut
this sister wore her dress with a more youthful air than the other;
and perhaps had a trifle more frillor tuckeror broochor
braceletor some little thing of that kindwhich made her look
more lively. They were both upright in their carriageformal
precisecomposedand quiet. The sister who had not my letter
had her arms crossed on her breastand resting on each otherlike
an Idol.

'Mr. CopperfieldI believe' said the sister who had got my
letteraddressing herself to Traddles.

This was a frightful beginning. Traddles had to indicate that I
was Mr. Copperfieldand I had to lay claim to myselfand they had
to divest themselves of a preconceived opinion that Traddles was
Mr. Copperfieldand altogether we were in a nice condition. To
improve itwe all distinctly heard Jip give two short barksand
receive another choke.

'Mr. Copperfield!' said the sister with the letter.

I did something - bowedI suppose - and was all attentionwhen
the other sister struck in.

'My sister Lavinia' said she 'being conversant with matters of
this naturewill state what we consider most calculated to promote
the happiness of both parties.'

I discovered afterwards that Miss Lavinia was an authority in
affairs of the heartby reason of there having anciently existed
a certain Mr. Pidgerwho played short whistand was supposed to
have been enamoured of her. My private opinion isthat this was
entirely a gratuitous assumptionand that Pidger was altogether
innocent of any such sentiments - to which he had never given any


sort of expression that I could ever hear of. Both Miss Lavinia
and Miss Clarissa had a superstitionhoweverthat he would have
declared his passionif he had not been cut short in his youth (at
about sixty) by over-drinking his constitutionand over-doing an
attempt to set it right again by swilling Bath water. They had a
lurking suspicion eventhat he died of secret love; though I must
say there was a picture of him in the house with a damask nose
which concealment did not appear to have ever preyed upon.

'We will not' said Miss Lavinia'enter on the past history of
this matter. Our poor brother Francis's death has cancelled that.'

'We had not' said Miss Clarissa'been in the habit of frequent
association with our brother Francis; but there was no decided
division or disunion between us. Francis took his road; we took
ours. We considered it conducive to the happiness of all parties
that it should be so. And it was so.'

Each of the sisters leaned a little forward to speakshook her
head after speakingand became upright again when silent. Miss
Clarissa never moved her arms. She sometimes played tunes upon
them with her fingers - minuets and marches I should think - but
never moved them.

'Our niece's positionor supposed positionis 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 doubtMr. Copperfieldthat you
are a young gentleman possessed of good qualities and honourable
character; or that you have an affection - or are fully persuaded
that you have an affection - for our niece.'

I repliedas I usually did whenever I had a chancethat nobody
had ever loved anybody else as I loved Dora. Traddles came to my
assistance with a confirmatory murmur.

Miss Lavinia was going on to make some rejoinderwhen Miss
Clarissawho appeared to be incessantly beset by a desire to refer
to her brother Francisstruck in again:

'If Dora's mama' she said'when she married our brother Francis
had at once said that there was not room for the family at the
dinner-tableit 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 subjecton which alone you are competent
to speakI 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 partiesif Dora's mamawhen she married
our brother Francishad mentioned plainly what her intentions
were. We should then have known what we had to expect. We should
have said "Pray do not invite usat any time"; and all possibility
of misunderstanding would have been avoided.'

When Miss Clarissa had shaken her headMiss Lavinia resumed: again
referring to my letter through her eye-glass. They both had little
bright round twinkling eyesby the waywhich were like birds'
eyes. They were not unlike birdsaltogether; having a sharp
brisksudden mannerand a little shortspruce way of adjusting
themselveslike canaries.


Miss Laviniaas I have saidresumed:

'You ask permission of my sister Clarissa and myselfMr.
Copperfieldto visit hereas the accepted suitor of our niece.'

'If our brother Francis' said Miss Clarissabreaking out again
if I may call anything so calm a breaking out'wished to surround
himself with an atmosphere of Doctors' Commonsand of Doctors'
Commons onlywhat right or desire had we to object? NoneI am
sure. We have ever been far from wishing to obtrude ourselves on
anyone. But why not say so? Let our brother Francis and his wife
have their society. Let my sister Lavinia and myself have our
society. We can find it for ourselvesI hope.'

As this appeared to be addressed to Traddles and meboth Traddles
and I made some sort of reply. Traddles was inaudible. I think I
observedmyselfthat it was highly creditable to all concerned.
I don't in the least know what I meant.

'Sister Lavinia' said Miss Clarissahaving now relieved her mind
'you can go onmy dear.'

Miss Lavinia proceeded:

'Mr. Copperfieldmy 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 nieceand discussing it with our
niece. We have no doubt that you think you like her very much.'

'Thinkma'am' I rapturously began'oh! -'

But Miss Clarissa giving me a look (just like a sharp canary)as
requesting that I would not interrupt the oracleI begged pardon.

'Affection' said Miss Laviniaglancing at her sister for
corroborationwhich she gave in the form of a little nod to every
clause'mature affectionhomagedevotiondoes not easily
express itself. Its voice is low. It is modest and retiringit
lies in ambushwaits and waits. Such is the mature fruit.
Sometimes a life glides awayand finds it still ripening in the
shade.'

Of course I did not understand then that this was an allusion to
her supposed experience of the stricken Pidger; but I sawfrom the
gravity with which Miss Clarissa nodded her headthat great weight
was attached to these words.

'The light - for I call themin comparison with such sentiments
the light - inclinations of very young people' pursued Miss
Lavinia'are dustcompared to rocks. It is owing to the
difficulty of knowing whether they are likely to endure or have any
real foundationthat my sister Clarissa and myself have been very
undecided how to actMr. Copperfieldand Mr. -'

'Traddles' said my friendfinding himself looked at.

'I beg pardon. Of the Inner TempleI believe?' said Miss
Clarissaagain glancing at my letter.

Traddles said 'Exactly so' and became pretty red in the face.

Nowalthough I had not received any express encouragement as yet
I fancied that I saw in the two little sistersand particularly in


Miss Laviniaan intensified enjoyment of this new and fruitful
subject of domestic interesta settling down to make the most of
ita disposition to pet itin which there was a good bright ray
of hope. I thought I perceived that Miss Lavinia would have
uncommon satisfaction in superintending two young loverslike Dora
and me; and that Miss Clarissa would have hardly less satisfaction
in seeing her superintend usand in chiming in with her own
particular department of the subject whenever that impulse was
strong upon her. This gave me courage to protest most vehemently
that I loved Dora better than I could tellor anyone believe; that
all my friends knew how I loved her; that my auntAgnesTraddles
everyone who knew meknew how I loved herand how earnest my love
had made me. For the truth of thisI appealed to Traddles. And
Traddlesfiring up as if he were plunging into a Parliamentary
Debatereally did come out nobly: confirming me in good round
termsand in a plain sensible practical mannerthat evidently
made a favourable impression.


'I speakif I may presume to say soas one who has some little
experience of such things' said Traddles'being myself engaged to
a young lady - one of tendown in Devonshire - and seeing no
probabilityat presentof our engagement coming to a
termination.'


'You may be able to confirm what I have saidMr. Traddles'
observed Miss Laviniaevidently taking a new interest in him'of
the affection that is modest and retiring; that waits and waits?'


'Entirelyma'am' said Traddles.


Miss Clarissa looked at Miss Laviniaand shook her head gravely.
Miss Lavinia looked consciously at Miss Clarissaand heaved a
little sigh.
'Sister Lavinia' said Miss Clarissa'take my smelling-bottle.'


Miss Lavinia revived herself with a few whiffs of aromatic vinegar


-Traddles and I looking on with great solicitude the while; and
then went on to sayrather faintly:
'My sister and myself have been in great doubtMr. Traddleswhat
course we ought to take in reference to the likingsor imaginary
likingsof such very young people as your friend Mr. Copperfield
and our niece.'

'Our brother Francis's child' remarked Miss Clarissa. 'If our
brother Francis's wife had found it convenient in her lifetime
(though she had an unquestionable right to act as she thought best)
to invite the family to her dinner-tablewe might have known our
brother Francis's child better at the present moment. Sister
Laviniaproceed.'

Miss Lavinia turned my letterso as to bring the superscription
towards herselfand referred through her eye-glass to some
orderly-looking notes she had made on that part of it.

'It seems to us' said she'prudentMr. Traddlesto bring these
feelings to the test of our own observation. At present we know
nothing of themand 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 proposalas to admit his visits here.'

'I shall neverdear ladies' I exclaimedrelieved of an immense
load of apprehension'forget your kindness!'


'But' pursued Miss Lavinia- 'butwe would prefer to regard
those visitsMr. Traddlesas madeat presentto us. We must
guard ourselves from recognizing any positive engagement between
Mr. Copperfield and our nieceuntil we have had an opportunity -'

'Until YOU have had an opportunitysister Lavinia' said Miss
Clarissa.

'Be it so' assented Miss Laviniawith a sigh - 'until I have had
an opportunity of observing them.'

'Copperfield' said Traddlesturning to me'you feelI 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 Laviniaagain referring
to her notes'and admitting his visits on this understanding only
we must require from Mr. Copperfield a distinct assuranceon his
word of honourthat 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 niecewithout
being first submitted to us -'
'To yousister Lavinia' Miss Clarissa interposed.

'Be it soClarissa!' assented Miss Lavinia resignedly - 'to me and
receiving our concurrence. We must make this a most express
and serious stipulationnot to be broken on any account. We
wished Mr. Copperfield to be accompanied by some confidential
friend today' with an inclination of her head towards Traddles
who bowed'in order that there might be no doubt or misconception
on this subject. If Mr. Copperfieldor if youMr. Traddlesfeel
the least scruplein giving this promiseI beg you to take time
to consider it.'

I exclaimedin a state of high ecstatic fervourthat not a
moment's consideration could be necessary. I bound myself by the
required promisein 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 Laviniaholding up her hand; 'we resolved
before we had the pleasure of receiving you two gentlemento leave
you alone for a quarter of an hourto consider this point. You
will allow us to retire.'

It was in vain for me to say that no consideration was necessary.
They persisted in withdrawing for the specified time. Accordingly
these little birds hopped out with great dignity; leaving me to
receive the congratulations of Traddlesand to feel as if I were
translated to regions of exquisite happiness. Exactly at the
expiration of the quarter of an hourthey reappeared with no less
dignity than they had disappeared. They had gone rustling away as
if their little dresses were made of autumn-leaves: and they came
rustling backin like manner.

I then bound myself once more to the prescribed conditions.

'Sister Clarissa' said Miss Lavinia'the rest is with you.'

Miss Clarissaunfolding her arms for the first timetook the
notes and glanced at them.

'We shall be happy' said Miss Clarissa'to see Mr. Copperfield to


dinnerevery Sundayif it should suit his convenience. Our hour
is three.'

I bowed.

'In the course of the week' said Miss Clarissa'we shall be happy
to see Mr. Copperfield to tea. Our hour is half-past six.'

I bowed again.

'Twice in the week' said Miss Clarissa'butas a rulenot
oftener.'

I bowed again.

'Miss Trotwood' said Miss Clarissa'mentioned in Mr.
Copperfield's letterwill perhaps call upon us. When visiting is
better for the happiness of all partieswe are glad to receive
visitsand 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 Francisand his establishment) that is quite
different.'

I intimated that my aunt would be proud and delighted to make their
acquaintance; though I must say I was not quite sure of their
getting on very satisfactorily together. The conditions being now
closedI expressed my acknowledgements in the warmest manner; and
taking the handfirst of Miss Clarissaand then of Miss Lavinia
pressed itin each caseto my lips.

Miss Lavinia then aroseand begging Mr. Traddles to excuse us for
a minuterequested me to follow her. I obeyedall in a tremble
and was conducted into another room. There I found my blessed
darling stopping her ears behind the doorwith 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 frockand how she sobbed
and cried at firstand wouldn't come out from behind the door!
How fond we were of one anotherwhen she did come out at last; and
what a state of bliss I was inwhen we took Jip out of the
plate-warmerand restored him to the lightsneezing very much
and were all three reunited!

'My dearest Dora! Nowindeedmy own for ever!'

'OhDON'T!' pleaded Dora. 'Please!'

'Are you not my own for everDora?'

'Oh yesof course I am!' cried Dora'but I am so frightened!'

'Frightenedmy own?'

'Oh yes! I don't like him' said Dora. 'Why don't he go?'

'Whomy 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!'


'Ohbut we don't want any best creatures!' pouted Dora.

'My dear' I argued'you will soon know him welland like him of
all things. And here is my aunt coming soon; and you'll like her
of all things toowhen you know her.'

'Noplease don't bring her!' said Doragiving me a horrified
little kissand folding her hands. 'Don't. I know she's a
naughtymischief-making old thing! Don't let her come here
Doady!' which was a corruption of David.

Remonstrance was of no usethen; so I laughedand admiredand
was very much in love and very happy; and she showed me Jip's new
trick of standing on his hind legs in a corner - which he did for
about the space of a flash of lightningand then fell down - and
I don't know how long I should have stayed thereoblivious of
Traddlesif Miss Lavinia had not come in to take me away. Miss
Lavinia was very fond of Dora (she told me Dora was exactly like
what she had been herself at her age - she must have altered a good
deal)and she treated Dora just as if she had been a toy. I
wanted to persuade Dora to come and see Traddlesbut on my
proposing it she ran off to her own room and locked herself in; so
I went to Traddles without herand walked away with him on air.

'Nothing could be more satisfactory' said Traddles; 'and they are
very agreeable old ladiesI am sure. I shouldn't be at all
surprised if you were to be married years before meCopperfield.'

'Does your Sophy play on any instrumentTraddles?' I inquiredin
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.

'Whyshe sings balladssometimesto 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 singand see some of
her flower-painting. He said he should like it very muchand we
went home arm in arm in great good humour and delight. I
encouraged him to talk about Sophyon the way; which he did with
a loving reliance on her that I very much admired. I compared her
in my mind with Dorawith considerable inward satisfaction; but I
candidly admitted to myself that she seemed to be an excellent kind
of girl for Traddlestoo.

Of course my aunt was immediately made acquainted with the
successful issue of the conferenceand with all that had been said
and done in the course of it. She was happy to see me so happy
and promised to call on Dora's aunts without loss of time. But she
took such a long walk up and down our rooms that nightwhile I was
writing to Agnesthat I began to think she meant to walk till
morning.


My letter to Agnes was a fervent and grateful onenarrating all
the good effects that had resulted from my following her advice.
She wroteby return of postto me. Her letter was hopeful
earnestand cheerful. She was always cheerful from that time.

I had my hands more full than evernow. My daily journeys to
Highgate consideredPutney was a long way off; and I naturally
wanted to go there as often as I could. The proposed tea-drinkings
being quite impracticableI compounded with Miss Lavinia for
permission to visit every Saturday afternoonwithout detriment to
my privileged Sundays. Sothe 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 onall things consideredmuch 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 daysDora's aunts called
upon herin due state and form. Similar but more friendly
exchanges took place afterwardsusually at intervals of three or
four weeks. I know that my aunt distressed Dora's aunts very much
by utterly setting at naught the dignity of fly-conveyanceand
walking out to Putney at extraordinary timesas shortly after
breakfast or just before tea; likewise by wearing her bonnet in any
manner that happened to be comfortable to her headwithout at all
deferring to the prejudices of civilization on that subject. But
Dora's aunts soon agreed to regard my aunt as an eccentric and
somewhat masculine ladywith a strong understanding; and although
my aunt occasionally ruffled the feathers of Dora's auntsby
expressing heretical opinions on various points of ceremonyshe
loved me too well not to sacrifice some of her little peculiarities
to the general harmony.

The only member of our small society who positively refused to
adapt himself to circumstanceswas Jip. He never saw my aunt
without immediately displaying every tooth in his headretiring
under a chairand growling incessantly: with now and then a
doleful howlas if she really were too much for his feelings. All
kinds of treatment were tried with himcoaxingscolding
slappingbringing him to Buckingham Street (where he instantly
dashed at the two catsto the terror of all beholders); but he
never could prevail upon himself to bear my aunt's society. He
would sometimes think he had got the better of his objectionand
be amiable for a few minutes; and then would put up his snub nose
and howl to that extentthat there was nothing for it but to blind
him and put him in the plate-warmer. At lengthDora regularly
muffled him in a towel and shut him up therewhenever my aunt was
reported at the door.

One thing troubled me muchafter we had fallen into this quiet
train. It wasthat Dora seemed by one consent to be regarded like
a pretty toy or plaything. My auntwith whom she gradually became
familiaralways called her Little Blossom; and the pleasure of
Miss Lavinia's life was to wait upon hercurl her hairmake
ornaments for herand treat her like a pet child. What Miss
Lavinia didher sister did as a matter of course. It was very odd
to me; but they all seemed to treat Dorain her degreemuch 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 Laviniaafter a
whileto go out walking by ourselves)I said to her that I wished
she could get them to behave towards her differently.


'Because you knowmy darling' I remonstrated'you are not a
child.'

'There!' said Dora. 'Now you're going to be cross!'

'Crossmy 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 happyand
yet be treated rationally.'

Dora gave me a reproachful look - the prettiest look! - and then
began to sobsayingif I didn't like herwhy had I ever wanted
so much to be engaged to her? And why didn't I go awaynowif I
couldn't bear her?

What could I dobut kiss away her tearsand tell her how I doted
on herafter that!

'I am sure I am very affectionate' said Dora; 'you oughtn't to be
cruel to meDoady!'

'Cruelmy precious love! As if I would - or could - be cruel to
youfor the world!'

'Then don't find fault with me' said Doramaking a rosebud of her
mouth; 'and I'll be good.'

I was charmed by her presently asking meof her own accordto
give her that cookery-book I had once spoken ofand to show her
how to keep accounts as I had once promised I would. I brought the
volume with me on my next visit (I got it prettily boundfirstto
make it look less dry and more inviting); and as we strolled about
the CommonI showed her an old housekeeping-book of my aunt'sand
gave her a set of tabletsand a pretty little pencil-case and box
of leadsto practise housekeeping with.

But the cookery-book made Dora's head acheand the figures made
her cry. They wouldn't add upshe said. So she rubbed them out
and drew little nosegays and likenesses of me and Jipall over the
tablets.

Then I playfully tried verbal instruction in domestic mattersas
we walked about on a Saturday afternoon. Sometimesfor example
when we passed a butcher's shopI would say:

'Now supposemy petthat we were marriedand you were going to
buy a shoulder of mutton for dinnerwould you know how to buy it?'

My pretty little Dora's face would falland she would make her
mouth into a bud againas if she would very much prefer to shut
mine with a kiss.

'Would you know how to buy itmy darling?' I would repeat
perhapsif I were very inflexible.

Dora would think a littleand then replyperhapswith great
triumph:

'Whythe butcher would know how to sell itand what need I know?
Ohyou silly boy!'


Sowhen I once asked Dorawith an eye to the cookery-bookwhat
she would doif we were marriedand I were to say I should like
a nice Irish stewshe 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.

Consequentlythe principal use to which the cookery-book was
devotedwas being put down in the corner for Jip to stand upon.
But Dora was so pleasedwhen she had trained him to stand upon it
without offering to come offand at the same time to hold the
pencil-case in his mouththat I was very glad I had bought it.

And we fell back on the guitar-caseand the flower-paintingand
the songs about never leaving off dancingTa ra la! and were as
happy as the week was long. I occasionally wished I could venture
to hint to Miss Laviniathat she treated the darling of my heart
a little too much like a plaything; and I sometimes awokeas it
werewondering to find that I had fallen into the general fault
and treated her like a plaything too - but not often.

CHAPTER 42
MISCHIEF

I feel as if it were not for me to recordeven though this
manuscript is intended for no eyes but minehow hard I worked at
that tremendous short-handand all improvement appertaining to it
in my sense of responsibility to Dora and her aunts. I will only
addto what I have already written of my perseverance at this time
of my lifeand of a patient and continuous energy which then began
to be matured within meand which I know to be the strong part of
my characterif it have any strength at allthat thereon
looking backI find the source of my success. I have been very
fortunate in worldly matters; many men have worked much harderand
not succeeded half so well; but I never could have done what I have
donewithout the habits of punctualityorderand diligence
without the determination to concentrate myself on one object at a
timeno matter how quickly its successor should come upon its
heelswhich I then formed. Heaven knows I write thisin no
spirit of self-laudation. The man who reviews his own lifeas I
do minein going on herefrom page to pagehad need to have been
a good man indeedif he would be spared the sharp consciousness of
many talents neglectedmany opportunities wastedmany erratic and
perverted feelings constantly at war within his breastand
defeating him. I do not hold one natural giftI dare saythat I
have not abused. My meaning simply isthat whatever I have tried
to do in lifeI have tried with all my heart to do well; that
whatever I have devoted myself toI have devoted myself to
completely; that in great aims and in smallI 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 steadyplainhard-working qualitiesand
hope to gain its end. There is no such thing as such fulfilment on
this earth. Some happy talentand some fortunate opportunitymay
form the two sides of the ladder on which some men mountbut the
rounds of that ladder must be made of stuff to stand wear and tear;
and there is no substitute for thorough-goingardentand sincere
earnestness. Never to put one hand to anythingon which I could
throw my whole self; and never to affect depreciation of my work
whatever it was; I findnowto have been my golden rules.


How much of the practice I have just reduced to preceptI owe to
AgnesI 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 friendand the Doctor wished to talk with
himand do him good. It had been matter of conversation with
Agnes when she was last in townand this visit was the result.
She and her father came together. I was not much surprised to hear
from her that she had engaged to find a lodging in the
neighbourhood for Mrs. Heepwhose rheumatic complaint required
change of airand who would be charmed to have it in such company.
Neither was I surprised whenon the very next dayUriahlike a
dutiful sonbrought his worthy mother to take possession.

'You seeMaster Copperfield' said heas he forced himself upon
my company for a turn in the Doctor's garden'where a person
lovesa person is a little jealous - leastwaysanxious to keep an
eye on the beloved one.'

'Of whom are you jealousnow?' said I.

'Thanks to youMaster Copperfield' he returned'of no one in
particular just at present - no male personat least.'

'Do you mean that you are jealous of a female person?'

He gave me a sidelong glance out of his sinister red eyesand
laughed.

'ReallyMaster Copperfield' he said'- I should say Misterbut
I know you'll excuse the abit I've got into - you're so
insinuatingthat you draw me like a corkscrew! WellI don't mind
telling you' putting his fish-like hand on mine'I'm not a lady's
man in generalsirand I never waswith Mrs. Strong.'

His eyes looked green nowas they watched mine with a rascally
cunning.

'What do you mean?' said I.

'Whythough I am a lawyerMaster Copperfield' he repliedwith
a dry grin'I meanjust at presentwhat I say.'

'And what do you mean by your look?' I retortedquietly.

'By my look? Dear meCopperfieldthat's sharp practice! What do
I mean by my look?'

'Yes' said I. 'By your look.'

He seemed very much amusedand laughed as heartily as it was in
his nature to laugh. After some scraping of his chin with his
handhe went on to saywith his eyes cast downward - still
scrapingvery slowly:

'When I was but an umble clerkshe always looked down upon me.
She was for ever having my Agnes backwards and forwards at her
ouseand she was for ever being a friend to youMaster
Copperfield; but I was too far beneath hermyselfto be noticed.'

'Well?' said I; 'suppose you were!'

'- And beneath him too' pursued Uriahvery distinctlyand in a


meditative tone of voiceas he continued to scrape his chin.

'Don't you know the Doctor better' said I'than to suppose him
conscious of your existencewhen you were not before him?'

He directed his eyes at me in that sidelong glance againand he
made his face very lantern-jawedfor the greater convenience of
scrapingas he answered:

'Oh dearI am not referring to the Doctor! Oh nopoor man! I
mean Mr. Maldon!'

My heart quite died within me. All my old doubts and apprehensions
on that subjectall the Doctor's happiness and peaceall the
mingled possibilities of innocence and compromisethat I could not
unravelI sawin a momentat the mercy of this fellow's
twisting.

'He never could come into the officewithout ordering and shoving
me about' said Uriah. 'One of your fine gentlemen he was! I was
very meek and umble - and I am. But I didn't like that sort of
thing - and I don't!'

He left off scraping his chinand sucked in his cheeks until they
seemed to meet inside; keeping his sidelong glance upon me all the
while.

'She is one of your lovely womenshe is' he pursuedwhen he had
slowly restored his face to its natural form; 'and ready to be no
friend to such as meI know. She's just the person as would put
my Agnes up to higher sort of game. NowI ain't one of your
lady's menMaster Copperfield; but I've had eyes in my eda
pretty long time back. We umble ones have got eyesmostly
speaking - and we look out of 'em.'

I endeavoured to appear unconscious and not disquietedbutI saw
in his facewith poor success.

'NowI'm not a-going to let myself be run downCopperfield' he
continuedraising that part of his countenancewhere his red
eyebrows would have been if he had had anywith malignant triumph
'and I shall do what I can to put a stop to this friendship. I
don't approve of it. I don't mind acknowledging to you that I've
got rather a grudging dispositionand want to keep off all
intruders. I ain't a-goingif I know itto run the risk of being
plotted against.'

'You are always plottingand delude yourself into the belief that
everybody else is doing the likeI think' said I.

'Perhaps soMaster Copperfield' he replied. 'But I've got a
motiveas my fellow-partner used to say; and I go at it tooth and
nail. I mustn't be put uponas a numble persontoo much. I
can't allow people in my way. Really they must come out of the
cartMaster Copperfield!'

'I don't understand you' said I.

'Don't youthough?' he returnedwith one of his jerks. 'I'm
astonished at thatMaster Copperfieldyou being usually so quick!
I'll try to be plaineranother time. - Is that Mr. Maldon
a-norsebackringing at the gatesir?'

'It looks like him' I repliedas carelessly as I could.


Uriah stopped shortput his hands between his great knobs of
kneesand doubled himself up with laughter. With perfectly silent
laughter. Not a sound escaped from him. I was so repelled by his
odious behaviourparticularly by this concluding instancethat I
turned away without any ceremony; and left him doubled up in the
middle of the gardenlike a scarecrow in want of support.

It was not on that evening; butas I well rememberon the next
evening but onewhich was a Sunday; that I took Agnes to see Dora.
I had arranged the visitbeforehandwith Miss Lavinia; and Agnes
was expected to tea.

I was in a flutter of pride and anxiety; pride in my dear little
betrothedand anxiety that Agnes should like her. All the way to
PutneyAgnes being inside the stage-coachand I outsideI
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 timeand 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 prettyin any case;
but it fell out that I had never seen her look so well. She was
not in the drawing-room when I presented Agnes to her little aunts
but was shyly keeping out of the way. I knew where to look for
hernow; 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-roomher charming little face was
flushedand had never been so pretty. Butwhen we went into the
roomand it turned paleshe was ten thousand times prettier yet.

Dora was afraid of Agnes. She had told me that she knew Agnes was
'too clever'. But when she saw her looking at once so cheerful and
so earnestand so thoughtfuland so goodshe gave a faint little
cry of pleased surpriseand just put her affectionate arms round
Agnes's neckand 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 togetherside by side. As when I saw my little
darling looking up so naturally to those cordial eyes. As when I
saw the tenderbeautiful regard which Agnes cast upon her.

Miss Lavinia and Miss Clarissa partookin their wayof my joy.
It was the pleasantest tea-table in the world. Miss Clarissa
presided. I cut and handed the sweet seed-cake - the little
sisters had a bird-like fondness for picking up seeds and pecking
at sugar; Miss Lavinia looked on with benignant patronageas if
our happy love were all her work; and we were perfectly contented
with ourselves and one another.

The gentle cheerfulness of Agnes went to all their hearts. Her
quiet interest in everything that interested Dora; her manner of
making acquaintance with Jip (who responded instantly); her
pleasant waywhen Dora was ashamed to come over to her usual seat
by me; her modest grace and easeeliciting a crowd of blushing
little marks of confidence from Dora; seemed to make our circle
quite complete.

'I am so glad' said Doraafter tea'that you like me. I didn't
think you would; and I wantmore than everto be likednow Julia


Mills is gone.'


I have omitted to mention itby the by. Miss Mills had sailed
and Dora and I had gone aboard a great East Indiaman at Gravesend
to see her; and we had had preserved gingerand guavaand other
delicacies of that sort for lunch; and we had left Miss Mills
weeping on a camp-stool on the quarter-deckwith a large new diary
under her armin which the original reflections awakened by the
contemplation of Ocean were to be recorded under lock and key.


Agnes said she was afraid I must have given her an unpromising
character; but Dora corrected that directly.


'Oh no!' she saidshaking her curls at me; 'it was all praise. He
thinks so much of your opinionthat I was quite afraid of it.'


'My good opinion cannot strengthen his attachment to some people
whom he knows' said Agneswith a smile; 'it is not worth their
having.'


'But please let me have it' said Dorain her coaxing way'if you
can!'


We made merry about Dora's wanting to be likedand Dora said I was
a gooseand she didn't like me at any rateand 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 firewhen
Dora came stealing softly into give me that usual precious little
kiss before I went.


'Don't you thinkif I had had her for a friend a long time ago
Doady' said Doraher bright eyes shining very brightlyand her
little right hand idly busying itself with one of the buttons of my
coat'I might have been more clever perhaps?'


'My love!' said I'what nonsense!'


'Do you think it is nonsense?' returned Dorawithout looking at
me. 'Are you sure it is?'


'Of course I am!'
'I have forgotten' said Dorastill turning the button round and
round'what relation Agnes is to youyou 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 Dorabeginning
on another button of my coat.


'Perhaps because I couldn't see youand not love youDora!'


'Suppose you had never seen me at all' said Doragoing to another
button.


'Suppose we had never been born!' said Igaily.


I wondered what she was thinking aboutas I glanced in admiring
silence at the little soft hand travelling up the row of buttons on
my coatand at the clustering hair that lay against my breastand
at the lashes of her downcast eyesslightly rising as they
followed her idle fingers. At length her eyes were lifted up to
mineand she stood on tiptoe to give memore thoughtfully than
usualthat precious little kiss - oncetwicethree times - and



went out of the room.

They all came back together within five minutes afterwardsand
Dora's unusual thoughtfulness was quite gone then. She was
laughingly resolved to put Jip through the whole of his
performancesbefore the coach came. They took some time (not so
much on account of their varietyas 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
foolishshe said)and Agnes was to write to Dora; and they had a
second parting at the coach doorand a third when Dorain spite
of the remonstrances of Miss Laviniawould come running out once
more to remind Agnes at the coach window about writingand to
shake her curls at me on the box.

The stage-coach was to put us down near Covent Gardenwhere we
were to take another stage-coach for Highgate. I was impatient for
the short walk in the intervalthat Agnes might praise Dora to me.
Ah! what praise it was! How lovingly and fervently did it commend
the pretty creature I had wonwith all her artless graces best
displayedto my most gentle care! How thoughtfully remind meyet
with no pretence of doing soof the trust in which I held the
orphan child!

Neverneverhad I loved Dora so deeply and trulyas I loved her
that night. When we had again alightedand were walking in the
starlight along the quiet road that led to the Doctor's houseI
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 nowAgnes.'

'A poor angel' she returned'but faithful.'

The clear tone of her voicegoing straight to my heartmade it
natural to me to say:

'The cheerfulness that belongs to youAgnes (and to no one else
that ever I have seen)is so restoredI have observed todaythat
I have begun to hope you are happier at home?'

'I am happier in myself' she said; 'I am quite cheerful and
light-hearted.'

I glanced at the serene face looking upwardand thought it was the
stars that made it seem so noble.

'There has been no change at home' said Agnesafter a few
moments.

'No fresh reference' said I'to - I wouldn't distress youAgnes
but I cannot help asking - to what we spoke ofwhen we parted
last?'

'Nonone' 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 meTrotwood'
she addedafter a moment; 'the step you dread my takingI shall
never take.'


Although I think I had never really feared itin any season of
cool reflectionit was an unspeakable relief to me to have this
assurance from her own truthful lips. I told her soearnestly.

'And when this visit is over' said I- 'for we may not be alone
another time- how long is it likely to bemy dear Agnesbefore
you come to London again?'

'Probably a long time' she replied; 'I think it will be best - for
papa's sake - to remain at home. We are not likely to meet often
for some time to come; but I shall be a good correspondent of
Dora'sand we shall frequently hear of one another that way.'

We were now within the little courtyard of the Doctor's cottage.
It was growing late. There was a light in the window of Mrs.
Strong's chamberand Agnespointing to itbade me good night.

'Do not be troubled' she saidgiving me her hand'by our
misfortunes and anxieties. I can be happier in nothing than in
your happiness. If you can ever give me helprely upon it I will
ask you for it. God bless you always!'
In her beaming smileand in these last tones of her cheerful
voiceI seemed again to see and hear my little Dora in her
company. I stood awhilelooking through the porch at the stars
with a heart full of love and gratitudeand then walked slowly
forth. I had engaged a bed at a decent alehouse close byand was
going out at the gatewhenhappening to turn my headI saw a
light in the Doctor's study. A half-reproachful fancy came into my
mindthat he had been working at the Dictionary without my help.
With the view of seeing if this were soandin any caseof
bidding him good nightif he were yet sitting among his booksI
turned backand going softly across the halland gently opening
the doorlooked in.

The first person whom I sawto my surpriseby the sober light of
the shaded lampwas Uriah. He was standing close beside itwith
one of his skeleton hands over his mouthand the other resting on
the Doctor's table. The Doctor sat in his study chaircovering
his face with his hands. Mr. Wickfieldsorely troubled and
distressedwas leaning forwardirresolutely touching the Doctor's
arm.

For an instantI supposed that the Doctor was ill. I hastily
advanced a step under that impressionwhen I met Uriah's eyeand
saw what was the matter. I would have withdrawnbut the Doctor
made a gesture to detain meand I remained.

'At any rate' observed Uriahwith a writhe of his ungainly
person'we may keep the door shut. We needn't make it known to
ALL the town.'

Saying whichhe went on his toes to the doorwhich I had left
openand carefully closed it. He then came backand took up his
former position. There was an obtrusive show of compassionate zeal
in his voice and mannermore intolerable - at least to me - than
any demeanour he could have assumed.

'I have felt it incumbent upon meMaster Copperfield' said Uriah
'to point out to Doctor Strong what you and me have already talked
about. You didn't exactly understand methough?'

I gave him a lookbut no other answer; andgoing to my good old
mastersaid a few words that I meant to be words of comfort and
encouragement. He put his hand upon my shoulderas it had been


his custom to do when I was quite a little fellowbut did not lift
his grey head.

'As you didn't understand meMaster Copperfield' resumed Uriah in
the same officious manner'I may take the liberty of umbly
mentioningbeing among friendsthat I have called Doctor Strong's
attention to the goings-on of Mrs. Strong. It's much against the
grain with meI assure youCopperfieldto be concerned in
anything so unpleasant; but reallyas it iswe're all mixing
ourselves up with what oughtn't to be. That was what my meaning
wassirwhen you didn't understand me.'
I wonder nowwhen I recall his leerthat I did not collar him
and try to shake the breath out of his body.

'I dare say I didn't make myself very clear' he went on'nor you
neither. Naturallywe was both of us inclined to give such a
subject a wide berth. Hows'everat last I have made up my mind to
speak plain; and I have mentioned to Doctor Strong that - did you
speaksir?'

This was to the Doctorwho had moaned. The sound might have
touched any heartI thoughtbut it had no effect upon Uriah's.

'- mentioned to Doctor Strong' he proceeded'that anyone may see
that Mr. Maldonand the lovely and agreeable lady as is Doctor
Strong's wifeare too sweet on one another. Really the time is
come (we being at present all mixing ourselves up with what
oughtn't to be)when Doctor Strong must be told that this was full
as plain to everybody as the sunbefore Mr. Maldon went to India;
that Mr. Maldon made excuses to come backfor nothing else; and
that he's always herefor nothing else. When you come insirI
was just putting it to my fellow-partner' towards whom he turned
'to say to Doctor Strong upon his word and honourwhether he'd
ever been of this opinion long agoor not. ComeMr. Wickfield
sir! Would you be so good as tell us? Yes or nosir? Come
partner!'

'For God's sakemy dear Doctor' said Mr. Wickfield again laying
his irresolute hand upon the Doctor's arm'don't attach too much
weight to any suspicions I may have entertained.'

'There!' cried Uriahshaking his head. 'What a melancholy
confirmation: ain't it? Him! Such an old friend! Bless your
soulwhen I was nothing but a clerk in his officeCopperfield
I've seen him twenty timesif I've seen him oncequite in a
taking about it - quite put outyou know (and very proper in him
as a father; I'm sure I can't blame him)to think that Miss Agnes
was mixing herself up with what oughtn't to be.'

'My dear Strong' said Mr. Wickfield in a tremulous voice'my good
friendI needn't tell you that it has been my vice to look for
some one master motive in everybodyand 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 doubtsWickfield' said the Doctorwithout lifting
up his head. 'You have had doubts.'

'Speak upfellow-partner' urged Uriah.

'I hadat one timecertainly' said Mr. Wickfield. 'I - God
forgive me - I thought YOU had.'

'Nonono!' returned the Doctorin a tone of most pathetic


grief.
'I thoughtat one time' said Mr. Wickfield'that you wished to
send Maldon abroad to effect a desirable separation.'


'Nonono!' returned the Doctor. 'To give Annie pleasureby
making some provision for the companion of her childhood. Nothing
else.'


'So I found' said Mr. Wickfield. 'I couldn't doubt itwhen you
told me so. But I thought - I implore you to remember the narrow
construction which has been my besetting sin - thatin a case
where there was so much disparity in point of years -'


'That's the way to put ityou seeMaster Copperfield!' observed
Uriahwith fawning and offensive pity.


'- a lady of such youthand such attractionshowever real her
respect for youmight have been influenced in marryingby worldly
considerations only. I make no allowance for innumerable feelings
and circumstances that may have all tended to good. For Heaven's
sake remember that!'


'How kind he puts it!' said Uriahshaking his head.


'Always observing her from one point of view' said Mr. Wickfield;
'but by all that is dear to youmy old friendI entreat you to
consider what it was; I am forced to confess nowhaving no escape
-'


'No! There's no way out of itMr. Wickfieldsir' observed
Uriah'when it's got to this.'


'- that I did' said Mr. Wickfieldglancing helplessly and
distractedly at his partner'that I did doubt herand think her
wanting in her duty to you; and that I did sometimesif I must say
allfeel averse to Agnes being in such a familiar relation towards
heras to see what I sawor in my diseased theory fancied that I
saw. I never mentioned this to anyone. I never meant it to be
known to anyone. And though it is terrible to you to hear' said
Mr. Wickfieldquite subdued'if you knew how terrible it is for
me to tellyou would feel compassion for me!'


The Doctorin the perfect goodness of his natureput out his
hand. Mr. Wickfield held it for a little while in hiswith his
head bowed down.


'I am sure' said Uriahwrithing himself into the silence like a
Conger-eel'that this is a subject full of unpleasantness to
everybody. But since we have got so farI ought to take the
liberty of mentioning that Copperfield has noticed it too.'


I turned upon himand asked him how he dared refer to me!


'Oh! it's very kind of youCopperfield' returned Uriah
undulating all over'and we all know what an amiable character
yours is; but you know that the moment I spoke to you the other
nightyou 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 itCopperfield.'


I saw the mild eye of the good old Doctor turned upon me for a
momentand 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 againand remained sountil the Doctor rose and
walked twice or thrice across the room. Presently he returned to
where his chair stood; andleaning on the back of itand
occasionally putting his handkerchief to his eyeswith a simple
honesty that did him more honourto my thinkingthan any disguise
he could have effectedsaid:

'I have been much to blame. I believe I have been very much to
blame. I have exposed one whom I hold in my heartto trials and
aspersions - I call them aspersionseven to have been conceived in
anybody's inmost mind - of which she neverbut for mecould have
been the object.'

Uriah Heep gave a kind of snivel. I think to express sympathy.

'Of which my Annie' said the Doctor'neverbut for mecould
have been the object. GentlemenI am old nowas you know; I do
not feeltonightthat I have much to live for. But my life - my
Life - upon the truth and honour of the dear lady who has been the
subject of this conversation!'

I do not think that the best embodiment of chivalrythe
realization of the handsomest and most romantic figure ever
imagined by paintercould have said thiswith a more impressive
and affecting dignity than the plain old Doctor did.

'But I am not prepared' he went on'to deny - perhaps I may have
beenwithout knowing itin some degree prepared to admit - that
I may have unwittingly ensnared that lady into an unhappy marriage.
I am a man quite unaccustomed to observe; and I cannot but believe
that the observation of several peopleof different ages and
positionsall too plainly tending in one direction (and that so
natural)is better than mine.'

I had often admiredas I have elsewhere describedhis benignant
manner towards his youthful wife; but the respectful tenderness he
manifested in every reference to her on this occasionand the
almost reverential manner in which he put away from him the
lightest doubt of her integrityexalted himin my eyesbeyond
description.

'I married that lady' said the Doctor'when she was extremely
young. I took her to myself when her character was scarcely
formed. So far as it was developedit had been my happiness to
form it. I knew her father well. I knew her well. I had taught
her what I couldfor the love of all her beautiful and virtuous
qualities. If I did her wrong; as I fear I didin taking
advantage (but I never meant it) of her gratitude and her
affection; I ask pardon of that ladyin my heart!'

He walked across the roomand came back to the same place; holding
the chair with a grasp that trembledlike his subdued voicein
its earnestness.

'I regarded myself as a refugefor herfrom the dangers and
vicissitudes of life. I persuaded myself thatunequal though we
were in yearsshe would live tranquilly and contentedly with me.
I did not shut out of my consideration the time when I should leave
her freeand still young and still beautifulbut with her
judgement more matured - nogentlemen - 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 tonightI have
had uninterrupted occasion to bless the day on which I did her
great injustice.'

His voicemore and more faltering in the utterance of these words
stopped for a few moments; then he went on:

'Once awakened from my dream - I have been a poor dreamerin one
way or otherall my life - I see how natural it is that she should
have some regretful feeling towards her old companion and her
equal. That she does regard him with some innocent regretwith
some blameless thoughts of what might have beenbut for meisI
feartoo true. Much that I have seenbut not notedhas come
back upon me with new meaningduring this last trying hour. But
beyond thisgentlementhe dear lady's name never must be coupled
with a worda breathof doubt.'

For a little whilehis eye kindled and his voice was firm; for a
little while he was again silent. Presentlyhe proceeded as
before:

'It only remains for meto bear the knowledge of the unhappiness
I have occasionedas submissively as I can. It is she who should
reproach; not I. To save her from misconstructioncruel
misconstructionthat even my friends have not been able to avoid
becomes my duty. The more retired we livethe better I shall
discharge it. And when the time comes - may it come soonif it be
His merciful pleasure! - when my death shall release her from
constraintI shall close my eyes upon her honoured facewith
unbounded confidence and love; and leave herwith no sorrow then
to happier and brighter days.'

I could not see him for the tears which his earnestness and
goodnessso adorned byand so adorningthe perfect simplicity of
his mannerbrought into my eyes. He had moved to the doorwhen
he added:

'GentlemenI have shown you my heart. I am sure you will respect
it. What we have said tonight is never to be said more.
Wickfieldgive me an old friend's arm upstairs!'

Mr. Wickfield hastened to him. Without interchanging a word they
went slowly out of the room togetherUriah looking after them.

'WellMaster Copperfield!' said Uriahmeekly turning to me. 'The
thing hasn't took quite the turn that might have been expectedfor
the old Scholar - what an excellent man! - is as blind as a
brickbat; but this family's out of the cartI think!'

I needed but the sound of his voice to be so madly enraged as I
never was beforeand 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 nowyou false rascalas
if we had been in discussion together?'

As we stoodfront to frontI saw so plainlyin the stealthy
exultation of his facewhat I already so plainly knew; I mean that
he forced his confidence upon meexpressly to make me miserable
and had set a deliberate trap for me in this very matter; that I
couldn't bear it. The whole of his lank cheek was invitingly


before meand I struck it with my open hand with that force that
my fingers tingled as if I had burnt them.

He caught the hand in hisand we stood in that connexionlooking
at each other. We stood soa long time; long enough for me to see
the white marks of my fingers die out of the deep red of his cheek
and leave it a deeper red.

'Copperfield' he said at lengthin a breathless voice'have you
taken leave of your senses?'

'I have taken leave of you' said Iwresting my hand away. 'You
dogI'll know no more of you.'

'Won't you?' said heconstrained by the pain of his cheek to put
his hand there. 'Perhaps you won't be able to help it. Isn't this
ungrateful of younow?'

'I have shown you often enough' said I'that I despise you. I
have shown you nowmore plainlythat 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 blownor the allusionwould have escaped
mebut for the assurance I had had from Agnes that night. It is
no matter.

There was another long pause. His eyesas he looked at meseemed
to take every shade of colour that could make eyes ugly.

'Copperfield' he saidremoving 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 Istill in a towering rage.
'If it is not trueso much the worthier you.'

'And yet I always liked youCopperfield!' he rejoined.

I deigned to make him no reply; andtaking up my hatwas going
out to bedwhen he came between me and the door.

'Copperfield' he said'there must be two parties to a quarrel.
I won't be one.'

'You may go to the devil!' said I.

'Don't say that!' he replied. 'I know you'll be sorry afterwards.
How can you make yourself so inferior to meas to show such a bad
spirit? But I forgive you.'

'You forgive me!' I repeated disdainfully.

'I doand you can't help yourself' replied Uriah. 'To think of
your going and attacking methat have always been a friend to you!
But there can't be a quarrel without two partiesand I won't be
one. I will be a friend to youin spite of you. So now you know
what you've got to expect.'

The necessity of carrying on this dialogue (his part in which was
very slow; mine very quick) in a low tonethat the house might not
be disturbed at an unseasonable hourdid not improve my temper;
though my passion was cooling down. Merely telling him that I


should expect from him what I always had expectedand had never
yet been disappointed inI opened the door upon himas if he had
been a great walnut put there to be crackedand went out of the
house. But he slept out of the house tooat his mother's lodging;
and before I had gone many hundred yardscame up with me.

'You knowCopperfield' he saidin my ear (I did not turn my
head)'you're in quite a wrong position'; which I felt to be true
and that made me chafe the more; 'you can't make this a brave
thingand you can't help being forgiven. I don't intend to
mention it to mothernor 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 meit would have
been a relief and a justification; but he had put me on a slow
fireon which I lay tormented half the night.

In the morningwhen I came outthe early church-bell was ringing
and he was walking up and down with his mother. He addressed me as
if nothing had happenedand I could do no less than reply. I had
struck him hard enough to give him the toothacheI suppose. At
all events his face was tied up in a black silk handkerchief
whichwith his hat perched on the top of itwas far from
improving his appearance. I heard that he went to a dentist's in
London on the Monday morningand had a tooth out. I hope it was
a double one.

The Doctor gave out that he was not quite well; and remained alone
for a considerable part of every dayduring the remainder of the
visit. Agnes and her father had been gone a weekbefore we
resumed our usual work. On the day preceding its resumptionthe
Doctor gave me with his own hands a folded note not sealed. It was
addressed to myself; and laid an injunction on mein a few
affectionate wordsnever to refer to the subject of that evening.
I had confided it to my auntbut to no one else. It was not a
subject I could discuss with Agnesand Agnes certainly had not the
least suspicion of what had passed.

NeitherI felt convincedhad Mrs. Strong then. Several weeks
elapsed before I saw the least change in her. It came on slowly
like a cloud when there is no wind. At firstshe seemed to wonder
at the gentle compassion with which the Doctor spoke to herand at
his wish that she should have her mother with herto relieve the
dull monotony of her life. Oftenwhen we were at workand she
was sitting byI would see her pausing and looking at him with
that memorable face. AfterwardsI sometimes observed her rise
with her eyes full of tearsand go out of the room. Graduallyan
unhappy shadow fell upon her beautyand deepened every day. Mrs.
Markleham was a regular inmate of the cottage then; but she talked
and talkedand saw nothing.

As this change stole on Annieonce like sunshine in the Doctor's
housethe Doctor became older in appearanceand more grave; but
the sweetness of his temperthe placid kindness of his mannerand
his benevolent solicitude for herif they were capable of any
increasewere increased. I saw him onceearly on the morning of
her birthdaywhen she came to sit in the window while we were at
work (which she had always donebut now began to do with a timid
and uncertain air that I thought very touching)take her forehead
between his handskiss itand go hurriedly awaytoo much moved
to remain. I saw her stand where he had left herlike a statue;
and then bend down her headand clasp her handsand weepI


cannot say how sorrowfully.

Sometimesafter thatI fancied that she tried to speak even to
mein intervals when we were left alone. But she never uttered a
word. The Doctor always had some new project for her participating
in amusements away from homewith her mother; and Mrs. Markleham
who was very fond of amusementsand very easily dissatisfied with
anything elseentered into them with great good-willand was loud
in her commendations. But Anniein a spiritless unhappy wayonly
went whither she was ledand seemed to have no care for anything.

I did not know what to think. Neither did my aunt; who must have
walkedat various timesa hundred miles in her uncertainty. What
was strangest of all wasthat 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 subjector what his observation was
I am as unable to explainas I dare say he would have been to
assist me in the task. Butas I have recorded in the narrative of
my school dayshis veneration for the Doctor was unbounded; and
there is a subtlety of perception in real attachmenteven when it
is borne towards man by one of the lower animalswhich leaves the
highest intellect behind. To this mind of the heartif I may call
it soin Mr. Dicksome bright ray of the truth shot straight.

He had proudly resumed his privilegein 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 statethan 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 performancethe Dictionaryto him; he was
now quite miserable unless the Doctor pulled it out of his pocket
and began. When the Doctor and I were engagedhe now fell into
the custom of walking up and down with Mrs. Strongand helping her
to trim her favourite flowersor weed the beds. I dare say he
rarely spoke a dozen words in an hour: but his quiet interestand
his wistful facefound immediate response in both their breasts;
each knew that the other liked himand that he loved both; and he
became what no one else could be - a link between them.

When I think of himwith his impenetrably wise facewalking up
and down with the Doctordelighted to be battered by the hard
words in the Dictionary; when I think of him carrying huge
watering-pots after Annie; kneeling downin very paws of gloves
at patient microscopic work among the little leaves; expressing as
no philosopher could have expressedin everything he dida
delicate desire to be her friend; showering sympathytrustfulness
and affectionout of every hole in the watering-pot; when I think
of him never wandering in that better mind of his to which
unhappiness addressed itselfnever bringing the unfortunate King
Charles into the gardennever wavering in his grateful service
never diverted from his knowledge that there was something wrong
or from his wish to set it right- I really feel almost ashamed of
having known that he was not quite in his witstaking account of
the utmost I have done with mine.

'Nobody but myselfTrotknows what that man is!' my aunt would
proudly remarkwhen we conversed about it. 'Dick will distinguish
himself yet!'

I must refer to one other topic before I close this chapter. While
the visit at the Doctor's was still in progressI observed that


the postman brought two or three letters every morning for Uriah
Heepwho remained at Highgate until the rest went backit being
a leisure time; and that these were always directed in a
business-like manner by Mr. Micawberwho now assumed a round legal
hand. I was glad to inferfrom these slight premisesthat Mr.
Micawber was doing well; and consequently was much surprised to
receiveabout this timethe following letter from his amiable
wife.

'CANTERBURYMonday Evening.

'You will doubtless be surprisedmy dear Mr. Copperfieldto
receive this communication. Still more soby its contents. Still
more soby the stipulation of implicit confidence which I beg to
impose. But my feelings as a wife and mother require relief; and
as I do not wish to consult my family (already obnoxious to the
feelings of Mr. Micawber)I know no one of whom I can better ask
advice than my friend and former lodger.

'You may be awaremy dear Mr. Copperfieldthat between myself and
Mr. Micawber (whom I will never desert)there has always been
preserved a spirit of mutual confidence. Mr. Micawber may have
occasionally given a bill without consulting meor he may have
misled me as to the period when that obligation would become due.
This has actually happened. Butin generalMr. Micawber has had
no secrets from the bosom of affection - I allude to his wife - and
has invariablyon our retirement to restrecalled the events of
the day.

'You will picture to yourselfmy dear Mr. Copperfieldwhat the
poignancy of my feelings must bewhen I inform you that Mr.
Micawber is entirely changed. He is reserved. He is secret. His
life is a mystery to the partner of his joys and sorrows - I again
allude to his wife - and if I should assure you that beyond knowing
that it is passed from morning to night at the officeI now know
less of it than I do of the man in the southconnected with whose
mouth the thoughtless children repeat an idle tale respecting cold
plum porridgeI should adopt a popular fallacy to express an
actual fact.

'But this is not all. Mr. Micawber is morose. He is severe. He
is estranged from our eldest son and daughterhe has no pride in
his twinshe looks with an eye of coldness even on the unoffending
stranger who last became a member of our circle. The pecuniary
means of meeting our expenseskept down to the utmost farthing
are obtained from him with great difficultyand 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
meknowing my feeble powers such as they arehow you think it
will be best to exert them in a dilemma so unwontedyou will add
another friendly obligation to the many you have already rendered
me. With loves from the childrenand a smile from the
happily-unconscious strangerI remaindear Mr. Copperfield

Your afflicted

'EMMA MICAWBER.'


I did not feel justified in giving a wife of Mrs. Micawber's
experience any other recommendationthan that she should try to
reclaim Mr. Micawber by patience and kindness (as I knew she would
in any case); but the letter set me thinking about him very much.

CHAPTER 43
ANOTHER RETROSPECT

Once againlet me pause upon a memorable period of my life. Let
me stand asideto see the phantoms of those days go by me
accompanying the shadow of myselfin dim procession.

Weeksmonthsseasonspass along. They seem little more than a
summer day and a winter evening. Nowthe Common where I walk with
Dora is all in blooma field of bright gold; and now the unseen
heather lies in mounds and bunches underneath a covering of snow.
In a breaththe river that flows through our Sunday walks is
sparkling in the summer sunis ruffled by the winter windor
thickened with drifting heaps of ice. Faster than ever river ran
towards the seait flashesdarkensand rolls away.

Not a thread changesin the house of the two little bird-like
ladies. The clock ticks over the fireplacethe weather-glass
hangs in the hall. Neither clock nor weather-glass is ever right;
but we believe in bothdevoutly.

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 artand am joined with
eleven others in reporting the debates in Parliament for a Morning
Newspaper. Night after nightI record predictions that never come
to passprofessions that are never fulfilledexplanations that
are only meant to mystify. I wallow in words. Britanniathat
unfortunate femaleis always before melike a trussed fowl:
skewered through and through with office-pensand 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 itand
shall never be converted.

My dear old Traddles has tried his hand at the same pursuitbut it
is not in Traddles's way. He is perfectly good-humoured respecting
his failureand reminds me that he always did consider himself
slow. He has occasional employment on the same newspaperin
getting up the facts of dry subjectsto 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 togetherto fee a Conveyancer whose chambers he attends.
A great deal of very hot port wine was consumed at his call; and
considering the figureI 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 somethingin secret
and sent it to a magazineand it was published in the magazine.
Since thenI have taken heart to write a good many trifling
pieces. NowI am regularly paid for them. AltogetherI am well
offwhen I tell my income on the fingers of my left handI pass


the third finger and take in the fourth to the middle joint.

We have removedfrom Buckingham Streetto a pleasant little
cottage very near the one I looked atwhen my enthusiasm first
came on. My aunthowever (who has sold the house at Doverto
good advantage)is not going to remain herebut 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 flutterthey are. Miss Laviniaself-charged with the
superintendence of my darling's wardrobeis constantly cutting out
brown-paper cuirassesand differing in opinion from a highly
respectable young manwith a long bundleand a yard measure under
his arm. A dressmakeralways stabbed in the breast with a needle
and threadboards and lodges in the house; and seems to me
eatingdrinkingor sleepingnever 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 eveningbut some intrusive female knocks at the
doorand says'Ohif you pleaseMiss Dorawould you step
upstairs!'

Miss Clarissa and my aunt roam all over Londonto find out
articles of furniture for Dora and me to look at. It would be
better for them to buy the goods at oncewithout this ceremony of
inspection; forwhen we go to see a kitchen fender and
meat-screenDora sees a Chinese house for Jipwith little bells
on the topand prefers that. And it takes a long time to accustom
Jip to his new residenceafter we have bought it; whenever he goes
in or outhe makes all the little bells ringand is horribly
frightened.

Peggotty comes up to make herself usefuland falls to work
immediately. Her department appears to beto clean everything
over and over again. She rubs everything that can be rubbeduntil
it shineslike her own honest foreheadwith perpetual friction.
And now it isthat I begin to see her solitary brother passing
through the dark streets at nightand lookingas he goesamong
the wandering faces. I never speak to him at such an hour. I know
too wellas his grave figure passes onwardwhat he seeksand
what he dreads.

Why does Traddles look so important when he calls upon me this
afternoon in the Commons - where I still occasionally attendfor
form's sakewhen I have time? The realization of my boyish
day-dreams is at hand. I am going to take out the licence.

It is a little document to do so much; and Traddles contemplates
itas it lies upon my deskhalf in admirationhalf in awe.
There are the namesin the sweet old visionary connexionDavid
Copperfield and Dora Spenlow; and therein the corneris that
Parental Institutionthe Stamp Officewhich is so benignantly
interested in the various transactions of human lifelooking down
upon our Union; and there is the Archbishop of Canterbury invoking
a blessing on us in printand doing it as cheap as could possibly
be expected.

NeverthelessI am in a dreama flusteredhappyhurried dream.
I can't believe that it is going to be; and yet I can't believe but
that everyone I pass in the streetmust have some kind of
perceptionthat I am to be married the day after tomorrow. The
Surrogate knows mewhen I go down to be sworn; and disposes of me


easilyas if there were a Masonic understanding between us.
Traddles is not at all wantedbut is in attendance as my general
backer.

'I hope the next time you come heremy 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 wishesmy dear Copperfield' he replies.
'I hope so too. It's a satisfaction to know that she'll wait for
me any length of timeand that she really is the dearest girl -'

'When are you to meet her at the coach?' I ask.

'At seven' says Traddleslooking at his plain old silver watch the
very watch he once took a wheel out ofat schoolto make a
water-mill. 'That is about Miss Wickfield's timeis it not?'

'A little earlier. Her time is half past eight.'
'I assure youmy dear boy' says Traddles'I am almost as pleased
as if I were going to be married myselfto 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 occasionand inviting her to be a bridesmaid in
conjunction with Miss Wickfielddemands my warmest thanks. I am
extremely sensible of it.'

I hear himand shake hands with him; and we talkand walkand
dineand so on; but I don't believe it. Nothing is real.

Sophy arrives at the house of Dora's auntsin due course. She has
the most agreeable of faces- not absolutely beautifulbut
extraordinarily pleasant- and is one of the most genial
unaffectedfrankengaging creatures I have ever seen. Traddles
presents her to us with great pride; and rubs his hands for ten
minutes by the clockwith every individual hair upon his head
standing on tiptoewhen I congratulate him in a corner on his
choice.

I have brought Agnes from the Canterbury coachand her cheerful
and beautiful face is among us for the second time. Agnes has a
great liking for Traddlesand it is capital to see them meetand
to observe the glory of Traddles as he commends the dearest girl in
the world to her acquaintance.

Still I don't believe it. We have a delightful eveningand are
supremely happy; but I don't believe it yet. I can't collect
myself. I can't check off my happiness as it takes place. I feel
in a misty and unsettled kind of state; as if I had got up very
early in the morning a week or two agoand had never been to bed
since. I can't make out when yesterday was. I seem to have been
carrying the licence aboutin my pocketmany months.

Next daytoowhen we all go in a flock to see the house - our
house - Dora's and mine - I am quite unable to regard myself as its
master. I seem to be thereby permission of somebody else. I
half expect the real master to come home presentlyand say he is
glad to see me. Such a beautiful little house as it iswith
everything so bright and new; with the flowers on the carpets
looking as if freshly gatheredand the green leaves on the paper
as if they had just come out; with the spotless muslin curtains
and the blushing rose-coloured furnitureand Dora's garden hat
with the blue ribbon - do I remembernowhow I loved her in such
another hat when I first knew her! - already hanging on its little


peg; the guitar-case quite at home on its heels in a corner; and
everybody tumbling over Jip's pagodawhich is much too big for the
establishment. Another happy eveningquite as unreal as all the
rest of itand 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 inand tells me mysteriously that she will not
be long. She is rather longnotwithstanding; but by and by I hear
a rustling at the doorand someone taps.


I say'Come in!' but someone taps again.


I go to the doorwondering who it is; thereI meet a pair of
bright eyesand a blushing face; they are Dora's eyes and face
and Miss Lavinia has dressed her in tomorrow's dressbonnet and
allfor me to see. I take my little wife to my heart; and Miss
Lavinia gives a little scream because I tumble the bonnetand Dora
laughs and cries at oncebecause I am so pleased; and I believe it
less than ever.


'Do you think it prettyDoady?' says Dora.


Pretty! I should rather think I did.


'And are you sure you like me very much?' says Dora.


The topic is fraught with such danger to the bonnetthat Miss
Lavinia gives another little screamand begs me to understand that
Dora is only to be looked atand on no account to be touched. So
Dora stands in a delightful state of confusion for a minute or two
to be admired; and then takes off her bonnet - looking so natural
without it! - and runs away with it in her hand; and comes dancing
down again in her own familiar dressand asks Jip if I have got a
beautiful little wifeand whether he'll forgive her for being
marriedand kneels down to make him stand upon the cookery-book
for the last time in her single life.


I go homemore incredulous than everto a lodging that I have
hard by; and get up very early in the morningto ride to the
Highgate road and fetch my aunt.


I have never seen my aunt in such state. She is dressed in
lavender-coloured silkand has a white bonnet onand is amazing.
Janet has dressed herand is there to look at me. Peggotty is
ready to go to churchintending to behold the ceremony from the
gallery. Mr. Dickwho is to give my darling to me at the altar
has had his hair curled. Traddleswhom I have taken up by
appointment at the turnpikepresents a dazzling combination of
cream colour and light blue; and both he and Mr. Dick have a
general effect about them of being all gloves.


No doubt I see thisbecause I know it is so; but I am astrayand
seem to see nothing. Nor do I believe anything whatever. Still
as we drive along in an open carriagethis fairy marriage is real
enough to fill me with a sort of wondering pity for the unfortunate
people who have no part in itbut are sweeping out the shopsand
going to their daily occupations.


My aunt sits with my hand in hers all the way. When we stop a
little way short of the churchto put down Peggottywhom we have
brought on the boxshe gives it a squeezeand me a kiss.


'God bless youTrot! My own boy never could be dearer. I think
of poor dear Baby this morning.'
'So do I. And of all I owe to youdear aunt.'



'Tutchild!' says my aunt; and gives her hand in overflowing
cordiality to Traddleswho then gives his to Mr. Dickwho then
gives his to mewho then gives mine to Traddlesand then we come
to the church door.

The church is calm enoughI am sure; but it might be a steam-power
loom in full actionfor any sedative effect it has on me. I am
too far gone for that.

The rest is all a more or less incoherent dream.

A dream of their coming in with Dora; of the pew-opener arranging
uslike a drill-sergeantbefore the altar rails; of my wondering
even thenwhy pew-openers must always be the most disagreeable
females procurableand whether there is any religious dread of a
disastrous infection of good-humour which renders it indispensable
to set those vessels of vinegar upon the road to Heaven.

Of the clergyman and clerk appearing; of a few boatmen and some
other people strolling in; of an ancient mariner behind me
strongly flavouring the church with rum; of the service beginning
in a deep voiceand our all being very attentive.

Of Miss Laviniawho acts as a semi-auxiliary bridesmaidbeing the
first to cryand of her doing homage (as I take it) to the memory
of Pidgerin sobs; of Miss Clarissa applying a smelling-bottle; of
Agnes taking care of Dora; of my aunt endeavouring to represent
herself as a model of sternnesswith tears rolling down her face;
of little Dora trembling very muchand making her responses in
faint whispers.

Of our kneeling down togetherside by side; of Dora's trembling
less and lessbut always clasping Agnes by the hand; of the
service being got throughquietly and gravely; of our all looking
at each other in an April state of smiles and tearswhen it is
over; of my young wife being hysterical in the vestryand crying
for her poor papaher dear papa.

Of her soon cheering up againand 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 cornerand telling me she
saw my own dear mother married; of its being overand our going
away.

Of my walking so proudly and lovingly down the aisle with my sweet
wife upon my armthrough a mist of half-seen peoplepulpits
monumentspewsfontsorgansand church windowsin which there
flutter faint airs of association with my childish church at home
so long ago.

Of their whisperingas we passwhat a youthful couple we areand
what a pretty little wife she is. Of our all being so merry and
talkative in the carriage going back. Of Sophy telling us that
when she saw Traddles (whom I had entrusted with the licence) asked
for itshe almost faintedhaving been convinced that he would
contrive to lose itor to have his pocket picked. Of Agnes
laughing gaily; and of Dora being so fond of Agnes that she will
not be separated from herbut still keeps her hand.

Of there being a breakfastwith abundance of thingspretty and
substantialto eat and drinkwhereof I partakeas I should do in
any other dreamwithout the least perception of their flavour;
eating and drinkingas I may saynothing but love and marriage


and no more believing in the viands than in anything else.

Of my making a speech in the same dreamy fashionwithout having an
idea of what I want to saybeyond 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 cakeand its not agreeing with him afterwards.

Of the pair of hired post-horses being readyand of Dora's going
away to change her dress. Of my aunt and Miss Clarissa remaining
with us; and our walking in the garden; and my auntwho has made
quite a speech at breakfast touching Dora's auntsbeing mightily
amused with herselfbut a little proud of it too.

Of Dora's being readyand 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 Dorawhen at last she begins to say
good-byelookingwith their bright colours and ribbonslike a
bed of flowers. Of my darling being almost smothered among the
flowersand coming outlaughing and crying both togetherto my
jealous arms.

Of my wanting to carry Jip (who is to go along with us)and Dora's
saying nothat she must carry himor else he'll think she don't
like him any morenow she is marriedand will break his heart.
Of our goingarm in armand Dora stopping and looking backand
saying'If I have ever been cross or ungrateful to anybodydon't
remember it!' and bursting into tears.

Of her waving her little handand our going away once more. Of
her once more stoppingand looking backand hurrying to Agnes
and giving Agnesabove all the othersher last kisses and
farewells.

We drive away togetherand I awake from the dream. I believe it
at last. It is my deardearlittle wife beside mewhom I love
so well!

'Are you happy nowyou foolish boy?' says Dora'and sure you
don't repent?'

I have stood aside to see the phantoms of those days go by me.
They are goneand I resume the journey of my story.

CHAPTER 44
OUR HOUSEKEEPING

It was a strange condition of thingsthe honeymoon being overand
the bridesmaids gone homewhen I found myself sitting down in my
own small house with Dora; quite thrown out of employmentas I may
sayin 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 hernot
to have any occasion to be tormenting myself about hernot to have
to write to hernot to be scheming and devising opportunities of


being alone with her. Sometimes of an eveningwhen I looked up
from my writingand saw her seated oppositeI would lean back in
my chairand think how queer it was that there we werealone
together as a matter of course - nobody's business any more - all
the romance of our engagement put away upon a shelfto rust - no
one to please but one another - one another to pleasefor life.

When there was a debateand I was kept out very lateit seemed so
strange to meas I was walking hometo think that Dora was at
home! It was such a wonderful thingat firstto have her coming
softly down to talk to me as I ate my supper. It was such a
stupendous thing to know for certain that she put her hair in
papers. It was altogether such an astonishing event to see her do
it!

I doubt whether two young birds could have known less about keeping
housethan I and my pretty Dora did. We had a servantof course.
She kept house for us. I have still a latent belief that she must
have been Mrs. Crupp's daughter in disguisewe had such an awful
time of it with Mary Anne.

Her name was Paragon. Her nature was represented to uswhen we
engaged heras being feebly expressed in her name. She had a
written characteras large as a proclamation; andaccording to
this documentcould do everything of a domestic nature that ever
I heard ofand a great many things that I never did hear of. She
was a woman in the prime of life; of a severe countenance; and
subject (particularly in the arms) to a sort of perpetual measles
or fiery rash. She had a cousin in the Life-Guardswith such long
legs that he looked like the afternoon shadow of somebody else.
His shell-jacket was as much too little for him as he was too big
for the premises. He made the cottage smaller than it need have
beenby being so very much out of proportion to it. Besides
whichthe walls were not thickandwhenever he passed the
evening at our housewe 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
inexperienceand were unable to help ourselves. We should have
been at her mercyif she had had any; but she was a remorseless
womanand 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?'

'WhyDoady?' inquired Doralooking upinnocentlyfrom her
drawing.

'My lovebecause it's fiveand we were to have dined at four.'

Dora glanced wistfully at the clockand hinted that she thought it
was too fast.

'On the contrarymy love' said Ireferring to my watch'it's a
few minutes too slow.'

My little wife came and sat upon my kneeto coax me to be quiet
and drew a line with her pencil down the middle of my nose; but I


couldn't dine off thatthough it was very agreeable.


'Don't you thinkmy dear' said I'it would be better for you to
remonstrate with Mary Anne?'


'Oh noplease! I couldn'tDoady!' said Dora.


'Why notmy love?' I gently asked.


'Ohbecause I am such a little goose' said Dora'and she knows
I am!'


I thought this sentiment so incompatible with the establishment of
any system of check on Mary Annethat I frowned a little.


'Ohwhat ugly wrinkles in my bad boy's forehead!' said Doraand
still being on my kneeshe traced them with her pencil; putting it
to her rosy lips to make it mark blackerand working at my
forehead with a quaint little mockery of being industriousthat
quite delighted me in spite of myself.


'There's a good child' said Dora'it makes its face so much
prettier to laugh.'
'Butmy love' said I.


'Nono! please!' cried Dorawith a kiss'don't be a naughty Blue
Beard! Don't be serious!'


'my precious wife' said I'we must be serious sometimes. Come!
Sit down on this chairclose beside me! Give me the pencil!
There! Now let us talk sensibly. You knowdear'; what a little
hand it was to holdand what a tiny wedding-ring it was to see!
'You knowmy loveit is not exactly comfortable to have to go out
without one's dinner. Nowis it?'


'N-n-no!' replied Dorafaintly.


'My lovehow you tremble!'


'Because I KNOW you're going to scold me' exclaimed Dorain a
piteous voice.


'My sweetI am only going to reason.'


'Ohbut reasoning is worse than scolding!' exclaimed Dorain
despair. 'I didn't marry to be reasoned with. If you meant to
reason with such a poor little thing as I amyou ought to have
told me soyou cruel boy!'


I tried to pacify Dorabut she turned away her faceand shook her
curls from side to sideand said'You cruelcruel boy!' so many
timesthat I really did not exactly know what to do: so I took a
few turns up and down the room in my uncertaintyand came back
again.


'Doramy darling!'


'NoI am not your darling. Because you must be sorry that you
married meor 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.


'Nowmy own Dora' said I'you are very childishand are talking



nonsense. You must rememberI am surethat I was obliged to go
out yesterday when dinner was half over; and thatthe day before
I was made quite unwell by being obliged to eat underdone veal in
a hurry; todayI don't dine at all - and I am afraid to say how
long we waited for breakfast - and then the water didn't boil. I
don't mean to reproach youmy dearbut this is not comfortable.'

'Ohyou cruelcruel boyto say I am a disagreeable wife!' cried
Dora.

'Nowmy dear Dorayou must know that I never said that!'

'You saidI wasn't comfortable!' cried Dora.
'I said the housekeeping was not comfortable!'

'It's exactly the same thing!' cried Dora. And she evidently
thought sofor she wept most grievously.

I took another turn across the roomfull of love for my pretty
wifeand distracted by self-accusatory inclinations to knock my
head against the door. I sat down againand said:

'I am not blaming youDora. We have both a great deal to learn.
I am only trying to show youmy dearthat you must - you really
must' (I was resolved not to give this up) - 'accustom yourself to
look after Mary Anne. Likewise to act a little for yourselfand
me.'

'I wonderI doat your making such ungrateful speeches' sobbed
Dora. 'When you know that the other daywhen you said you would
like a little bit of fishI went out myselfmiles and milesand
ordered itto surprise you.'

'And it was very kind of youmy own darling' said I. 'I felt it
so much that I wouldn't on any account have even mentioned that you
bought a Salmon - which was too much for two. Or that it cost one
pound six - which was more than we can afford.'

'You enjoyed it very much' sobbed Dora. 'And you said I was a
Mouse.'

'And I'll say so againmy love' I returned'a thousand times!'

But I had wounded Dora's soft little heartand she was not to be
comforted. She was so pathetic in her sobbing and bewailingthat
I felt as if I had said I don't know what to hurt her. I was
obliged to hurry away; I was kept out late; and I felt all night
such pangs of remorse as made me miserable. I had the conscience
of an assassinand was haunted by a vague sense of enormous
wickedness.

It was two or three hours past midnight when I got home. I found
my auntin our housesitting up for me.

'Is anything the matteraunt?' said Ialarmed.

'NothingTrot' she replied. 'Sit downsit down. Little Blossom
has been rather out of spiritsand I have been keeping her
company. That's all.'

I leaned my head upon my hand; and felt more sorry and downcastas
I sat looking at the firethan I could have supposed possible so
soon after the fulfilment of my brightest hopes. As I sat
thinkingI happened to meet my aunt's eyeswhich were resting on


my face. There was an anxious expression in thembut it cleared
directly.

'I assure youaunt' said I'I have been quite unhappy myself all
nightto 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 patienceTrot' said she.

'Of course. Heaven knows I don't mean to be unreasonableaunt!'

'Nono' said my aunt. 'But Little Blossom is a very tender
little blossomand the wind must be gentle with her.'

I thanked my good auntin my heartfor her tenderness towards my
wife; and I was sure that she knew I did.

'Don't you thinkaunt' said Iafter some further contemplation
of the fire'that you could advise and counsel Dora a littlefor
our mutual advantagenow and then?'

'Trot' returned my auntwith some emotion'no! Don't ask me
such a thing.'

Her tone was so very earnest that I raised my eyes in surprise.

'I look back on my lifechild' said my aunt'and I think of some
who are in their graveswith whom I might have been on kinder
terms. If I judged harshly of other people's mistakes in marriage
it may have been because I had bitter reason to judge harshly of my
own. Let that pass. I have been a grumpyfrumpywayward sort of
a womana good many years. I am stilland I always shall be.
But you and I have done one another some goodTrot- at all
eventsyou have done me goodmy dear; and division must not come
between usat this time of day.'

'Division between us!' cried I.

'Childchild!' said my auntsmoothing her dress'how soon it
might come between usor how unhappy I might make our Little
Blossomif I meddled in anythinga prophet couldn't say. I want
our pet to like meand be as gay as a butterfly. Remember your
own homein that second marriage; and never do both me and her the
injury you have hinted at!'

I comprehendedat oncethat my aunt was right; and I comprehended
the full extent of her generous feeling towards my dear wife.

'These are early daysTrot' she pursued'and Rome was not built
in a daynor in a year. You have chosen freely for yourself'; a
cloud passed over her face for a momentI thought; 'and you have
chosen a very pretty and a very affectionate creature. It will be
your dutyand it will be your pleasure too - of course I know
that; I am not delivering a lecture - to estimate her (as you chose
her) by the qualities she hasand not by the qualities she may not
have. The latter you must develop in herif you can. And if you
cannotchild' here my aunt rubbed her nose'you must just
accustom yourself to do without 'em. But remembermy dearyour
future is between you two. No one can assist you; you are to work
it out for yourselves. This is marriageTrot; and Heaven bless
you bothin itfor a pair of babes in the wood as you are!'


My aunt said this in a sprightly wayand gave me a kiss to ratify
the blessing.

'Now' said she'light my little lanternand see me into my
bandbox by the garden path'; for there was a communication between
our cottages in that direction. 'Give Betsey Trotwood's love to
Blossomwhen you come back; and whatever you doTrotnever dream
of setting Betsey up as a scarecrowfor if I ever saw her in the
glassshe's quite grim enough and gaunt enough in her private
capacity!'

With this my aunt tied her head up in a handkerchiefwith which
she was accustomed to make a bundle of it on such occasions; and I
escorted her home. As she stood in her gardenholding up her
little lantern to light me backI thought her observation of me
had an anxious air again; but I was too much occupied in pondering
on what she had saidand too much impressed - for the first time
in reality - by the conviction that Dora and I had indeed to work
out our future for ourselvesand that no one could assist usto
take much notice of it.

Dora came stealing down in her little slippersto meet menow
that I was alone; and cried upon my shoulderand said I had been
hard-hearted and she had been naughty; and I said much the same
thing in effectI believe; and we made it upand agreed that our
first little difference was to be our lastand that we were never
to have another if we lived a hundred years.

The next domestic trial we went throughwas the Ordeal of
Servants. Mary Anne's cousin deserted into our coal-holeand was
brought outto our great amazementby a piquet of his companions
in armswho took him away handcuffed in a procession that covered
our front-garden with ignominy. This nerved me to get rid of Mary
Annewho went so mildlyon receipt of wagesthat I was
surpriseduntil I found out about the tea-spoonsand also about
the little sums she had borrowed in my name of the tradespeople
without authority. After an interval of Mrs. Kidgerbury - the
oldest inhabitant of Kentish TownI believewho went out charing
but was too feeble to execute her conceptions of that art - we
found another treasurewho 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 trayand almost plunged into the parlour
as into a bathwith the tea-things. The ravages committed by this
unfortunaterendering her dismissal necessaryshe was succeeded
(with intervals of Mrs. Kidgerbury) by a long line of Incapables;
terminating in a young person of genteel appearancewho 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 lobsterit was full of
water. All our meat turned out to be toughand there was hardly
any crust to our loaves. In search of the principle on which
joints ought to be roastedto be roasted enoughand not too much
I myself referred to the Cookery Bookand found it there
established as the allowance of a quarter of an hour to every
poundand say a quarter over. But the principle always failed us
by some curious fatalityand we never could hit any medium between
redness and cinders.

I had reason to believe that in accomplishing these failures we
incurred a far greater expense than if we had achieved a series of
triumphs. It appeared to meon looking over the tradesmen's


booksas if we might have kept the basement storey paved with
buttersuch 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 marketI should say several
families must have left off using it. And the most wonderful fact
of all wasthat we never had anything in the house.

As to the washerwoman pawning the clothesand coming in a state of
penitent intoxication to apologizeI suppose that might have
happened several times to anybody. Also the chimney on firethe
parish engineand perjury on the part of the Beadle. But I
apprehend that we were personally fortunate in engaging a servant
with a taste for cordialswho swelled our running account for
porter at the public-house by such inexplicable items as 'quartern
rum shrub (Mrs. C.)'; 'Half-quartern gin and cloves (Mrs. C.)';
'Glass rum and peppermint (Mrs. C.)' - the parentheses always
referring to Dorawho was supposedit appeared on explanationto
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 townand asked him to walk out with me
that afternoon. He readily consentingI wrote to Dorasaying I
would bring him home. It was pleasant weatherand on the road we
made my domestic happiness the theme of conversation. Traddles was
very full of it; and saidthatpicturing himself with such a
homeand Sophy waiting and preparing for himhe could think of
nothing wanting to complete his bliss.

I could not have wished for a prettier little wife at the opposite
end of the tablebut I certainly could have wishedwhen we sat
downfor a little more room. I did not know how it wasbut
though there were only two of uswe were at once always cramped
for roomand yet had always room enough to lose everything in. I
suspect it may have been because nothing had a place of its own
except Jip's pagodawhich invariably blocked up the main
thoroughfare. On the present occasionTraddles was so hemmed in
by the pagoda and the guitar-caseand Dora's flower-paintingand
my writing-tablethat I had serious doubts of the possibility of
his using his knife and fork; but he protestedwith his own
good-humour'Oceans of roomCopperfield! I assure youOceans!'

There was another thing I could have wishednamelythat Jip had
never been encouraged to walk about the tablecloth during dinner.
I began to think there was something disorderly in his being there
at alleven if he had not been in the habit of putting his foot in
the salt or the melted butter. On this occasion he seemed to think
he was introduced expressly to keep Traddles at bay; and he barked
at my old friendand made short runs at his platewith such
undaunted pertinacitythat he may be said to have engrossed the
conversation.

Howeveras I knew how tender-hearted my dear Dora wasand how
sensitive she would be to any slight upon her favouriteI hinted
no objection. For similar reasons I made no allusion to the
skirmishing plates upon the floor; or to the disreputable
appearance of the castorswhich were all at sixes and sevensand
looked drunk; or to the further blockade of Traddles by wandering
vegetable dishes and jugs. I could not help wondering in my own
mindas I contemplated the boiled leg of mutton before me
previous to carving ithow it came to pass that our joints of meat
were of such extraordinary shapes - and whether our butcher
contracted for all the deformed sheep that came into the world; but
I kept my reflections to myself.


'My love' said I to Dora'what have you got in that dish?'

I could not imagine why Dora had been making tempting little faces
at meas if she wanted to kiss me.

'Oystersdear' said Doratimidly.

'Was that YOUR thought?' said Idelighted.

'Ye-yesDoady' said Dora.

'There never was a happier one!' I exclaimedlaying down the
carving-knife and fork. 'There is nothing Traddles likes so much!'

'Ye-yesDoady' said Dora'and so I bought a beautiful little
barrel of themand the man said they were very good. But I - I am
afraid there's something the matter with them. They don't seem
right.' Here Dora shook her headand diamonds twinkled in her
eyes.

'They are only opened in both shells' said I. 'Take the top one
offmy love.'

'But it won't come off!' said Doratrying very hardand looking
very much distressed.

'Do you knowCopperfield' said Traddlescheerfully examining the
dish'I think it is in consequence - they are capital oystersbut
I think it is in consequence - of their never having been opened.'

They never had been opened; and we had no oyster-knives - and
couldn't have used them if we had; so we looked at the oysters and
ate the mutton. At least we ate as much of it as was doneand
made up with capers. If I had permitted himI am satisfied that
Traddles would have made a perfect savage of himselfand eaten a
plateful of raw meatto express enjoyment of the repast; but I
would hear of no such immolation on the altar of friendshipand we
had a course of bacon instead; there happeningby good fortuneto
be cold bacon in the larder.

My poor little wife was in such affliction when she thought I
should be annoyedand in such a state of joy when she found I was
notthat the discomfiture I had subduedvery soon vanishedand
we passed a happy evening; Dora sitting with her arm on my chair
while Traddles and I discussed a glass of wineand taking every
opportunity of whispering in my ear that it was so good of me not
to be a cruelcross old boy. By and by she made tea for us; which
it was so pretty to see her doas if she was busying herself with
a set of doll's tea-thingsthat 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 whileit 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 awayand I came back into the parlour from
seeing him outmy wife planted her chair close to mineand sat
down by my side. 'I am very sorry' she said. 'Will you try to
teach meDoady?'

'I must teach myself firstDora' said I. 'I am as bad as you
love.'

'Ah! But you can learn' she returned; 'and you are a clever


clever man!'

'Nonsensemouse!' said I.

'I wish' resumed my wifeafter a long silence'that I could have
gone down into the country for a whole yearand lived with Agnes!'

Her hands were clasped upon my shoulderand her chin rested on
themand her blue eyes looked quietly into mine.

'Why so?' I asked.

'I think she might have improved meand I think I might have
learned from her' said Dora.

'All in good timemy love. Agnes has had her father to take care
of for these many yearsyou should remember. Even when she was
quite a childshe 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 saidshaking 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 movingotherwise than as the
arm I twined about her may have brought her blue eyes nearer to me:

'I don't meanyou silly fellowthat 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 mesay to yourselfit's only
my child-wife!When I am very disappointingsayI knew, a long
time ago, that she would make but a child-wife!When you miss what
I should like to beand I think can never besaystill my
foolish child-wife loves me!For indeed I do.'

I had not been serious with her; having no idea until nowthat she
was serious herself. But her affectionate nature was so happy in
what I now said to her with my whole heartthat 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
Houseringing all the little bells one after anotherto punish
Jip for his recent bad behaviour; while Jip lay blinking in the
doorway with his head outeven 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
lovedto come out from the mists and shadows of the pastand turn
its gentle head towards me once again; and I can still declare that
this one little speech was constantly in my memory. I may not have
used it to the best account; I was young and inexperienced; but I
never turned a deaf ear to its artless pleading.

Dora told meshortly afterwardsthat she was going to be a
wonderful housekeeper. Accordinglyshe polished the tablets
pointed the pencilbought an immense account-bookcarefully
stitched up with a needle and thread all the leaves of the Cookery
Book which Jip had tornand made quite a desperate little attempt
'to be good'as she called it. But the figures had the old
obstinate propensity - they WOULD NOT add up. When she had entered
two or three laborious items in the account-bookJip would walk


over the pagewagging his tailand 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.

Sometimesof an eveningwhen I was at home and at work - for I
wrote a good deal nowand was beginning in a small way to be known
as a writer - I would lay down my penand watch my child-wife
trying to be good. First of allshe would bring out the immense
account-bookand lay it down upon the tablewith a deep sigh.
Then she would open it at the place where Jip had made it illegible
last nightand call Jip upto look at his misdeeds. This would
occasion a diversion in Jip's favourand some inking of his nose
perhapsas a penalty. Then she would tell Jip to lie down on the
table instantly'like a lion' - which was one of his tricks
though I cannot say the likeness was striking - andif he were in
an obedient humourhe would obey. Then she would take up a pen
and begin to writeand find a hair in it. Then she would take up
another penand begin to writeand find that it spluttered. Then
she would take up another penand begin to writeand say in a low
voice'Ohit's a talking penand will disturb Doady!' And then
she would give it up as a bad joband put the account-book away
after pretending to crush the lion with it.

Orif she were in a very sedate and serious state of mindshe
would sit down with the tabletsand a little basket of bills and
other documentswhich looked more like curl-papers than anything
elseand endeavour to get some result out of them. After severely
comparing one with anotherand making entries on the tabletsand
blotting them outand counting all the fingers of her left hand
over and over againbackwards and forwardsshe would be so vexed
and discouragedand would look so unhappythat it gave me pain to
see her bright face clouded - and for me! - and I would go softly
to herand say:

'What's the matterDora?'

Dora would look up hopelesslyand reply'They won't come right.
They make my head ache so. And they won't do anything I want!'

Then I would say'Now let us try together. Let me show you
Dora.'

Then I would commence a practical demonstrationto which Dora
would pay profound attentionperhaps for five minutes; when she
would begin to be dreadfully tiredand would lighten the subject
by curling my hairor trying the effect of my face with my
shirt-collar turned down. If I tacitly checked this playfulness
and persistedshe would look so scared and disconsolateas she
became more and more bewilderedthat the remembrance of her
natural gaiety when I first strayed into her pathand of her being
my child-wifewould come reproachfully upon me; and I would lay
the pencil downand call for the guitar.

I had a great deal of work to doand had many anxietiesbut the
same considerations made me keep them to myself. I am far from
surenowthat it was right to do thisbut I did it for my
child-wife's sake. I search my breastand I commit its secrets
if I know themwithout any reservation to this paper. The old
unhappy loss or want of something hadI am conscioussome place
in my heart; but not to the embitterment of my life. When I walked
alone in the fine weatherand thought of the summer days when all
the air had been filled with my boyish enchantmentI did miss
something of the realization of my dreams; but I thought it was a
softened glory of the Pastwhich nothing could have thrown upon


the present time. I did feelsometimesfor a little whilethat
I could have wished my wife had been my counsellor; had had more
character and purposeto 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 happinessthat never had been meant to beand 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 wrongas I may have done muchI did
it in mistaken loveand in my want of wisdom. I write the exact
truth. It would avail me nothing to extenuate it now.


Thus it was that I took upon myself the toils and cares of our
lifeand had no partner in them. We lived much as beforein
reference to our scrambling household arrangements; but I had got
used to thoseand Dora I was pleased to see was seldom vexed now.
She was bright and cheerful in the old childish wayloved me
dearlyand was happy with her old trifles.


When the debates were heavy - I mean as to lengthnot qualityfor
in the last respect they were not often otherwise - and I went home
lateDora would never rest when she heard my footstepsbut would
always come downstairs to meet me. When my evenings were
unoccupied by the pursuit for which I had qualified myself with so
much painsand I was engaged in writing at homeshe would sit
quietly near mehowever late the hourand be so mutethat I
would often think she had dropped asleep. But generallywhen I
raised my headI saw her blue eyes looking at me with the quiet
attention of which I have already spoken.


'Ohwhat a weary boy!' said Dora one nightwhen I met her eyes as
I was shutting up my desk.


'What a weary girl!' said I. 'That's more to the purpose. You
must go to bed another timemy love. It's far too late for you.'


'Nodon't send me to bed!' pleaded Doracoming to my side.
'Praydon't do that!'


'Dora!' To my amazement she was sobbing on my neck. 'Not wellmy
dear! not happy!'


'Yes! quite welland very happy!' said Dora. 'But say you'll let
me stopand see you write.'


'Whywhat a sight for such bright eyes at midnight!' I replied.


'Are they brightthough?' returned Doralaughing. '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 wellbefore she told me so.


'If you think them prettysay I may always stopand see you
write!' said Dora. 'Do you think them pretty?'


'Very pretty.'


'Then let me always stop and see you write.'


'I am afraid that won't improve their brightnessDora.'



'Yesit will! Becauseyou clever boyyou'll not forget me then
while you are full of silent fancies. Will you mind itif I say
something veryvery silly? - more than usual?' inquired Dora
peeping over my shoulder into my face.

'What wonderful thing is that?' said I.

'Please let me hold the pens' said Dora. 'I want to have
something to do with all those many hours when you are so
industrious. May I hold the pens?'

The remembrance of her pretty joy when I said yesbrings tears
into my eyes. The next time I sat down to writeand regularly
afterwardsshe sat in her old placewith a spare bundle of pens
at her side. Her triumph in this connexion with my workand her
delight when I wanted a new pen - which I very often feigned to do

-suggested to me a new way of pleasing my child-wife. I
occasionally made a pretence of wanting a page or two of manuscript
copied. Then Dora was in her glory. The preparations she made for
this great workthe aprons she put onthe bibs she borrowed from
the kitchen to keep off the inkthe time she tookthe innumerable
stoppages she made to have a laugh with Jip as if he understood it
allher conviction that her work was incomplete unless she signed
her name at the endand the way in which she would bring it to me
like a school-copyand thenwhen I praised itclasp me round the
neckare touching recollections to mesimple as they might appear
to other men.
She took possession of the keys soon after thisand went jingling
about the house with the whole bunch in a little baskettied to
her slender waist. I seldom found that the places to which they
belonged were lockedor that they were of any use except as a
plaything for Jip - but Dora was pleasedand 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-housefor a joke.

So we went on. Dora was hardly less affectionate to my aunt than
to meand 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 Jipthough Jip never
responded; listenedday after dayto the guitarthough 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 purchaseas surprisesany trifles that she
found out Dora wanted; and never came in by the gardenand missed
her from the roombut she would call outat the foot of the
stairsin a voice that sounded cheerfully all over the house:

'Where's Little Blossom?'

CHAPTER 45
Mr. Dick fulfils my aunt's Predictions

It was some time nowsince I had left the Doctor. Living in his
neighbourhoodI saw him frequently; and we all went to his house
on two or three occasions to dinner or tea. The Old Soldier was in
permanent quarters under the Doctor's roof. She was exactly the
same as everand the same immortal butterflies hovered over her
cap.


Like some other motherswhom I have known in the course of my
lifeMrs. Markleham was far more fond of pleasure than her
daughter was. She required a great deal of amusementandlike a
deep old soldierpretendedin consulting her own inclinationsto
be devoting herself to her child. The Doctor's desire that Annie
should be entertainedwas therefore particularly acceptable to
this excellent parent; who expressed unqualified approval of his
discretion.

I have no doubtindeedthat she probed the Doctor's wound without
knowing it. Meaning nothing but a certain matured frivolity and
selfishnessnot always inseparable from full-blown yearsI think
she confirmed him in his fear that he was a constraint upon his
young wifeand that there was no congeniality of feeling between
themby so strongly commending his design of lightening the load
of her life.

'My dear soul' she said to him one day when I was present'you
know there is no doubt it would be a little pokey for Annie to be
always shut up here.'

The Doctor nodded his benevolent head. 'When she comes to her
mother's age' said Mrs. Marklehamwith a flourish of her fan
'then it'll be another thing. You might put ME into a Jailwith
genteel society and a rubberand I should never care to come out.
But I am not Annieyou know; and Annie is not her mother.'

'Surelysurely' said the Doctor.

'You are the best of creatures - noI beg your pardon!' for the
Doctor made a gesture of deprecation'I must say before your face
as I always say behind your backyou are the best of creatures;
but of course you don't - now do you? - enter into the same
pursuits and fancies as Annie?'

'No' said the Doctorin a sorrowful tone.

'Noof course not' retorted the Old Soldier. 'Take your
Dictionaryfor example. What a useful work a Dictionary is! What
a necessary work! The meanings of words! Without Doctor Johnson
or somebody of that sortwe might have been at this present moment
calling an Italian-irona bedstead. But we can't expect a
Dictionary - especially when it's making - to interest Anniecan
we?'

The Doctor shook his head.

'And that's why I so much approve' said Mrs. Marklehamtapping
him on the shoulder with her shut-up fan'of your thoughtfulness.
It shows that you don't expectas many elderly people do expect
old heads on young shoulders. You have studied Annie's character
and you understand it. That's what I find so charming!'

Even the calm and patient face of Doctor Strong expressed some
little sense of painI thoughtunder the infliction of these
compliments.

'Thereforemy dear Doctor' said the Old Soldiergiving him
several affectionate taps'you may command meat all times and
seasons. Nowdo understand that I am entirely at your service.
I am ready to go with Annie to operasconcertsexhibitionsall
kinds of places; and you shall never find that I am tired. Duty
my dear Doctorbefore 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 pleasureand she never flinched in her
perseverance in the cause. She seldom got hold of the newspaper
(which she settled herself down in the softest chair in the house
to read through an eye-glassevery dayfor two hours)but she
found out something that she was certain Annie would like to see.
It was in vain for Annie to protest that she was weary of such
things. Her mother's remonstrance always was'Nowmy dear Annie
I am sure you know better; and I must tell youmy lovethat you
are not making a proper return for the kindness of Doctor Strong.'

This was usually said in the Doctor's presenceand appeared to me
to constitute Annie's principal inducement for withdrawing her
objections when she made any. But in general she resigned herself
to her motherand went where the Old Soldier would.

It rarely happened now that Mr. Maldon accompanied them. Sometimes
my aunt and Dora were invited to do soand accepted the
invitation. Sometimes Dora only was asked. The time had been
when I should have been uneasy in her going; but reflection on what
had passed that former night in the Doctor's studyhad made a
change in my mistrust. I believed that the Doctor was rightand
I had no worse suspicions.

My aunt rubbed her nose sometimes when she happened to be alone
with meand 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 butterfliesand give 'em to the chimney-sweepers for
May-dayit 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 headshe said; and if he could only once pen it up
into a cornerwhich was his great difficultyhe would distinguish
himself in some extraordinary manner.

Unconscious of this predictionMr. 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 foundationlike a building; and
I must confess that my faith in his ever Movingwas not much
greater than if he had been a building.

But one nightwhen I had been married some monthsMr. Dick put
his head into the parlourwhere I was writing alone (Dora having
gone out with my aunt to take tea with the two little birds)and
saidwith a significant cough:

'You couldn't speak to me without inconveniencing yourself
TrotwoodI am afraid?'

'CertainlyMr. Dick' said I; 'come in!'

'Trotwood' said Mr. Dicklaying his finger on the side of his
noseafter he had shaken hands with me. 'Before I sit downI
wish to make an observation. You know your aunt?'

'A little' I replied.

'She is the most wonderful woman in the worldsir!'


After the delivery of this communicationwhich he shot out of
himself as if he were loaded with itMr. Dick sat down with
greater gravity than usualand looked at me.


'Nowboy' said Mr. Dick'I am going to put a question to you.'


'As many as you please' said I.


'What do you consider mesir?' asked Mr. Dickfolding his arms.


'A dear old friend' said I.
'Thank youTrotwood' returned Mr. Dicklaughingand reaching
across in high glee to shake hands with me. 'But I meanboy'
resuming his gravity'what do you consider me in this respect?'
touching his forehead.


I was puzzled how to answerbut he helped me with a word.


'Weak?' said Mr. Dick.


'Well' I replieddubiously. 'Rather so.'


'Exactly!' cried Mr. Dickwho seemed quite enchanted by my reply.
'That isTrotwoodwhen they took some of the trouble out of
you-know-who's headand put it you know wherethere was a -' Mr.
Dick made his two hands revolve very fast about each other a great
number of timesand then brought them into collisionand rolled
them over and over one anotherto express confusion. 'There was
that sort of thing done to me somehow. Eh?'


I nodded at himand he nodded back again.


'In shortboy' said Mr. Dickdropping his voice to a whisper'I
am simple.'


I would have qualified that conclusionbut he stopped me.


'YesI 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 friendsirI should
have been shut upto lead a dismal life these many years. But
I'll provide for her! I never spend the copying money. I put it
in a box. I have made a will. I'll leave it all to her. She
shall be rich - noble!'


Mr. Dick took out his pocket-handkerchiefand wiped his eyes. He
then folded it up with great carepressed it smooth between his
two handsput it in his pocketand seemed to put my aunt away
with it.


'Now you are a scholarTrotwood' said Mr. Dick. 'You are a fine
scholar. You know what a learned manwhat a great manthe Doctor
is. You know what honour he has always done me. Not proud in his
wisdom. Humblehumble - condescending even to poor Dickwho is
simple and knows nothing. I have sent his name upon a scrap of
paperto the kitealong the stringwhen it has been in the sky
among the larks. The kite has been glad to receive itsirand
the sky has been brighter with it.'


I delighted him by sayingmost heartilythat the Doctor was
deserving of our best respect and highest esteem.


'And his beautiful wife is a star' said Mr. Dick. 'A shining
star. I have seen her shinesir. But' bringing his chair
nearerand laying one hand upon my knee - 'cloudssir - clouds.'



I answered the solicitude which his face expressedby conveying
the same expression into my ownand shaking my head.

'What clouds?' said Mr. Dick.

He looked so wistfully into my faceand was so anxious to
understandthat I took great pains to answer him slowly and
distinctlyas I might have entered on an explanation to a child.

'There is some unfortunate division between them' I replied.
'Some unhappy cause of separation. A secret. It may be
inseparable from the discrepancy in their years. It may have grown
up out of almost nothing.'

Mr. Dickwho had told off every sentence with a thoughtful nod
paused when I had doneand sat consideringwith his eyes upon my
faceand his hand upon my knee.

'Doctor not angry with herTrotwood?' he saidafter some time.

'No. Devoted to her.'

'ThenI have got itboy!' said Mr. Dick.

The sudden exultation with which he slapped me on the kneeand
leaned back in his chairwith his eyebrows lifted up as high as he
could possibly lift themmade me think him farther out of his wits
than ever. He became as suddenly grave againand leaning forward
as beforesaid - first respectfully taking out his
pocket-handkerchiefas if it really did represent my aunt:

'Most wonderful woman in the worldTrotwood. Why has she done
nothing to set things right?'

'Too delicate and difficult a subject for such interference' I
replied.

'Fine scholar' said Mr. Dicktouching me with his finger. 'Why
has HE done nothing?'

'For the same reason' I returned.

'ThenI have got itboy!' said Mr. Dick. And he stood up before
memore exultingly than beforenodding his headand striking
himself repeatedly upon the breastuntil one might have supposed
that he had nearly nodded and struck all the breath out of his
body.

'A poor fellow with a crazesir' said Mr. Dick'a simpletona
weak-minded person - present companyyou know!' striking himself
again'may do what wonderful people may not do. I'll bring them
togetherboy. I'll try. They'll not blame me. They'll not
object to me. They'll not mind what I doif it's wrong. I'm only
Mr. Dick. And who minds Dick? Dick's nobody! Whoo!' He blew a
slightcontemptuous breathas if he blew himself away.

It was fortunate he had proceeded so far with his mysteryfor we
heard the coach stop at the little garden gatewhich brought my
aunt and Dora home.

'Not a wordboy!' he pursued in a whisper; 'leave all the blame
with Dick - simple Dick - mad Dick. I have been thinkingsirfor
some timethat I was getting itand now I have got it. After


what you have said to meI 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 surpriseI heard no more about it for some two or three
weeksthough I was sufficiently interested in the result of his
endeavours; descrying a strange gleam of good sense - I say nothing
of good feelingfor that he always exhibited - in the conclusion
to which he had come. At last I began to believethatin the
flighty and unsettled state of his mindhe had either forgotten
his intention or abandoned it.

One fair eveningwhen Dora was not inclined to go outmy aunt and
I strolled up to the Doctor's cottage. It was autumnwhen 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
footand how the oldunhappy feelingseemed to go byon the
sighing wind.

It was twilight when we reached the cottage. Mrs. Strong was just
coming out of the gardenwhere Mr. Dick yet lingeredbusy with
his knifehelping the gardener to point some stakes. The Doctor
was engaged with someone in his study; but the visitor would be
gone directlyMrs. Strong saidand begged us to remain and see
him. We went into the drawing-room with herand sat down by the
darkening window. There was never any ceremony about the visits of
such old friends and neighbours as we were.

We had not sat here many minuteswhen Mrs. Marklehamwho usually
contrived to be in a fuss about somethingcame bustling inwith
her newspaper in her handand saidout of breath'My goodness
graciousAnniewhy didn't you tell me there was someone in the
Study!'

'My dear mama' she quietly returned'how could I know that you
desired the information?'

'Desired the information!' said Mrs. Marklehamsinking on the
sofa. 'I never had such a turn in all my life!'

'Have you been to the Studythenmama?' asked Annie.

'BEEN to the Studymy dear!' she returned emphatically. 'Indeed
I have! I came upon the amiable creature - if you'll imagine my
feelingsMiss Trotwood and David - in the act of making his will.'

Her daughter looked round from the window quickly.

'In the actmy dear Annie' repeated Mrs. Marklehamspreading the
newspaper on her lap like a table-clothand patting her hands upon
it'of making his last Will and Testament. The foresight and
affection of the dear! I must tell you how it was. I really must
in justice to the darling - for he is nothing less! - tell you how
it was. Perhaps you knowMiss Trotwoodthat there is never a
candle lighted in this houseuntil 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 housein which a paper can
be what I callreadexcept one in the Study. This took me to the
Studywhere I saw a light. I opened the door. In company with
the dear Doctor were two professional peopleevidently connected
with the lawand they were all three standing at the table: the
darling Doctor pen in hand. "This simply expresses then said the
Doctor - Annie, my love, attend to the very words - this simply


expresses thengentlementhe confidence I have in Mrs. Strong
and gives her all unconditionally?" One of the professional people
repliedAnd gives her all unconditionally.Upon thatwith the
natural feelings of a motherI saidGood God, I beg your
pardon!fell over the door-stepand came away through the little
back passage where the pantry is.'

Mrs. Strong opened the windowand went out into the verandah
where she stood leaning against a pillar.

'But now isn't itMiss Trotwoodisn't itDavidinvigorating'
said Mrs. Marklehammechanically following her with her eyes'to
find a man at Doctor Strong's time of lifewith the strength of
mind to do this kind of thing? It only shows how right I was. I
said to Anniewhen Doctor Strong paid a very flattering visit to
myselfand made her the subject of a declaration and an offerI
saidMy dear, there is no doubt whatever, in my opinion, with
reference to a suitable provision for you, that Doctor Strong will
do more than he binds himself to do.'

Here the bell rangand we heard the sound of the visitors' feet as
they went out.

'It's all overno doubt' said the Old Soldierafter listening;
'the dear creature has signedsealedand deliveredand his
mind's at rest. Well it may be! What a mind! Anniemy loveI
am going to the Study with my paperfor I am a poor creature
without news. Miss TrotwoodDavidpray come and see the Doctor.'

I was conscious of Mr. Dick's standing in the shadow of the room
shutting up his knifewhen we accompanied her to the Study; and of
my aunt's rubbing her nose violentlyby the wayas a mild vent
for her intolerance of our military friend; but who got first into
the Studyor how Mrs. Markleham settled herself in a moment in her
easy-chairor how my aunt and I came to be left together near the
door (unless her eyes were quicker than mineand she held me
back)I have forgottenif I ever knew. But this I know- that
we saw the Doctor before he saw ussitting at his tableamong the
folio volumes in which he delightedresting his head calmly on his
hand. Thatin the same momentwe saw Mrs. Strong glide inpale
and trembling. That Mr. Dick supported her on his arm. That he
laid his other hand upon the Doctor's armcausing him to look up
with an abstracted air. Thatas the Doctor moved his headhis
wife dropped down on one knee at his feetandwith her hands
imploringly liftedfixed upon his face the memorable look I had
never forgotten. That at this sight Mrs. Markleham dropped the
newspaperand stared more like a figure-head intended for a ship
to be called The Astonishmentthan anything else I can think of.

The gentleness of the Doctor's manner and surprisethe dignity
that mingled with the supplicating attitude of his wifethe
amiable concern of Mr. Dickand the earnestness with which my aunt
said to herself'That man mad!' (triumphantly expressive of the
misery from which she had saved him) - I see and hearrather than
rememberas I write about it.

'Doctor!' said Mr. Dick. 'What is it that's amiss? Look here!'

'Annie!' cried the Doctor. 'Not at my feetmy dear!'

'Yes!' she said. 'I beg and pray that no one will leave the room!
Ohmy husband and fatherbreak this long silence. Let us both
know what it is that has come between us!'


Mrs. Marklehamby this time recovering the power of speechand
seeming to swell with family pride and motherly indignationhere
exclaimed'Annieget up immediatelyand don't disgrace everybody
belonging to you by humbling yourself like thatunless you wish to
see me go out of my mind on the spot!'

'Mama!' returned Annie. 'Waste no words on mefor my appeal is to
my husbandand even you are nothing here.'

'Nothing!' exclaimed Mrs. Markleham. 'Menothing! 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 wifeto give any heed to
this request; and it made no impression on anybody else; so Mrs.
Markleham pantedstaredand fanned herself.

'Annie!' said the Doctortenderly taking her in his hands. 'My
dear! If any unavoidable change has comein the sequence of time
upon our married lifeyou are not to blame. The fault is mine
and only mine. There is no change in my affectionadmirationand
respect. I wish to make you happy. I truly love and honour you.
RiseAnniepray!'

But she did not rise. After looking at him for a little whileshe
sank down closer to himlaid her arm across his kneeand dropping
her head upon itsaid:

'If I have any friend herewho can speak one word for meor for
my husband in this matter; if I have any friend herewho can give
a voice to any suspicion that my heart has sometimes whispered to
me; if I have any friend herewho honours my husbandor has ever
cared for meand has anything within his knowledgeno matter what
it isthat may help to mediate between usI implore that friend
to speak!'

There was a profound silence. After a few moments of painful
hesitationI broke the silence.

'Mrs. Strong' I said'there is something within my knowledge
which I have been earnestly entreated by Doctor Strong to conceal
and have concealed until tonight. ButI believe the time has come
when it would be mistaken faith and delicacy to conceal it any
longerand when your appeal absolves me from his injunction.'

She turned her face towards me for a momentand I knew that I was
right. I could not have resisted its entreatyif 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 youor anyonecan tell mewill show my husband's
noble heart in any other light than one. Howsoever it may seem to
you to touch medisregard that. I will speak for myselfbefore
himand before God afterwards.'

Thus earnestly besoughtI made no reference to the Doctor for his
permissionbutwithout any other compromise of the truth than a
little softening of the coarseness of Uriah Heeprelated plainly
what had passed in that same room that night. The staring of Mrs.
Markleham during the whole narrationand the shrillsharp
interjections with which she occasionally interrupted itdefy
description.

When I had finishedAnnie remainedfor some few momentssilent


with her head bent downas I have described. Thenshe took the
Doctor's hand (he was sitting in the same attitude as when we had
entered the room)and pressed it to her breastand kissed it.
Mr. Dick softly raised her; and she stoodwhen she began to speak
leaning on himand looking down upon her husband - from whom she
never turned her eyes.

'All that has ever been in my mindsince I was married' she said
in a lowsubmissivetender voice'I will lay bare before you.
I could not live and have one reservationknowing what I know
now.'

'NayAnnie' said the Doctormildly'I have never doubted you
my child. There is no need; indeed there is no needmy dear.'

'There is great need' she answeredin the same way'that I
should open my whole heart before the soul of generosity and truth
whomyear by yearand day by dayI have loved and venerated more
and moreas Heaven knows!'

'Really' interrupted Mrs. Markleham'if I have any discretion at
all -'

('Which you haven'tyou Marplot' observed my auntin an
indignant whisper.)

-'I must be permitted to observe that it cannot be requisite to
enter into these details.'
'No one but my husband can judge of thatmama' said Annie without
removing her eyes from his face'and he will hear me. If I say
anything to give you painmamaforgive me. I have borne pain
firstoften and longmyself.'

'Upon my word!' gasped Mrs. Markleham.

'When I was very young' said Annie'quite a little childmy
first associations with knowledge of any kind were inseparable from
a patient friend and teacher - the friend of my dead father - who
was always dear to me. I can remember nothing that I knowwithout
remembering him. He stored my mind with its first treasuresand
stamped his character upon them all. They never could have been
I thinkas good as they have been to meif I had taken them from
any other hands.'

'Makes her mother nothing!' exclaimed Mrs. Markleham.

'Not so mama' said Annie; 'but I make him what he was. I must do
that. As I grew uphe occupied the same place still. I was proud
of his interest: deeplyfondlygratefully attached to him. I
looked up to himI can hardly describe how - as a fatheras a
guideas one whose praise was different from all other praiseas
one in whom I could have trusted and confidedif I had doubted all
the world. You knowmamahow young and inexperienced I waswhen
you presented him before meof a suddenas a lover.'

'I have mentioned the factfifty times at leastto everybody
here!' said Mrs. Markleham.

('Then hold your tonguefor the Lord's sakeand don't mention it
any more!' muttered my aunt.)

'It was so great a change: so great a lossI felt itat first'
said Anniestill 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
himI 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
worthyand we were married.'
'- At Saint AlphageCanterbury' observed Mrs. Markleham.

('Confound the woman!' said my aunt'she WON'T be quiet!')

'I never thought' proceeded Anniewith a heightened colour'of
any worldly gain that my husband would bring to me. My young heart
had no room in its homage for any such poor reference. Mama
forgive me when I say that it was you who first presented to my
mind the thought that anyone could wrong meand wrong himby such
a cruel suspicion.'

'Me!' cried Mrs. Markleham.

('Ah! Youto be sure!' observed my aunt'and you can't fan it
awaymy military friend!')

'It was the first unhappiness of my new life' said Annie. 'It was
the first occasion of every unhappy moment I have known. These
moments have been moreof latethan I can count; but not - my
generous husband! - not for the reason you suppose; for in my heart
there is not a thoughta recollectionor a hopethat any power
could separate from you!'

She raised her eyesand clasped her handsand looked as beautiful
and trueI thoughtas any Spirit. The Doctor looked on her
henceforthas steadfastly as she on him.

'Mama is blameless' she went on'of having ever urged you for
herselfand she is blameless in intention every wayI am surebut
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. Wickfieldwho had your welfare very much at heart
resented it; the first sense of my exposure to the mean suspicion
that my tenderness was bought - and sold to youof all men on
earth - fell upon me like unmerited disgracein which I forced you
to participate. I cannot tell you what it was - mama cannot
imagine what it was - to have this dread and trouble always on my
mindyet know in my own soul that on my marriage-day I crowned the
love and honour of my life!'

'A specimen of the thanks one gets' cried Mrs. Marklehamin
tears'for taking care of one's family! I wish I was a Turk!'

('I wish you werewith all my heart - and in your native country!'
said my aunt.)

'It was at that time that mama was most solicitous about my Cousin
Maldon. I had liked him': she spoke softlybut without any
hesitation: 'very much. We had been little lovers once. If
circumstances had not happened otherwiseI might have come to
persuade myself that I really loved himand might have married
himand been most wretched. There can be no disparity in marriage
like unsuitability of mind and purpose.'

I pondered on those wordseven while I was studiously attending to
what followedas if they had some particular interestor some
strange application that I could not divine. 'There can be no
disparity in marriage like unsuitability of mind and purpose' -'no
disparity in marriage like unsuitability of mind and purpose.'


'There is nothing' said Annie'that we have in common. I have
long found that there is nothing. If I were thankful to my husband
for no moreinstead of for so muchI should be thankful to him
for having saved me from the first mistaken impulse of my
undisciplined heart.'

She stood quite stillbefore the Doctorand 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 munificenceso
freely bestowed for my sakeand when I was unhappy in the
mercenary shape I was made to wearI thought it would have become
him better to have worked his own way on. I thought that if I had
been heI would have tried to do itat the cost of almost any
hardship. But I thought no worse of himuntil the night of his
departure for India. That night I knew he had a false and
thankless heart. I saw a double meaningthenin Mr. Wickfield's
scrutiny of me. I perceivedfor the first timethe dark
suspicion that shadowed my life.'

'SuspicionAnnie!' said the Doctor. 'Nonono!'

'In your mind there was noneI knowmy husband!' she returned.
'And when I came to youthat nightto lay down all my load of
shame and griefand knew that I had to tell thatunderneath your
roofone of my own kindredto whom you had been a benefactorfor
the love of mehad spoken to me words that should have found no
utteranceeven if I had been the weak and mercenary wretch he
thought me - my mind revolted from the taint the very tale
conveyed. It died upon my lipsand from that hour till now has
never passed them.'

Mrs. Marklehamwith a short groanleaned back in her easy-chair;
and retired behind her fanas if she were never coming out any
more.

'I have neverbut in your presenceinterchanged a word with him
from that time; thenonly when it has been necessary for the
avoidance of this explanation. Years have passed since he knew
from mewhat his situation here was. The kindnesses you have
secretly done for his advancementand then disclosed to mefor my
surprise and pleasurehave beenyou will believebut
aggravations of the unhappiness and burden of my secret.'

She sunk down gently at the Doctor's feetthough he did his utmost
to prevent her; and saidlooking uptearfullyinto his face:

'Do not speak to me yet! Let me say a little more! Right or
wrongif this were to be done againI think I should do just the
same. You never can know what it was to be devoted to youwith
those old associations; to find that anyone could be so hard as to
suppose that the truth of my heart was bartered awayand to be
surrounded by appearances confirming that belief. I was very
youngand had no adviser. Between mama and mein all relating to
youthere was a wide division. If I shrunk into myselfhiding
the disrespect I had undergoneit was because I honoured you so
muchand so much wished that you should honour me!'

'Anniemy pure heart!' said the Doctor'my dear girl!'

'A little more! a very few words more! I used to think there were
so many whom you might have marriedwho would not have brought


such charge and trouble on youand who would have made your home
a worthier home. I used to be afraid that I had better have
remained your pupiland almost your child. I used to fear that I
was so unsuited to your learning and wisdom. If all this made me
shrink within myself (as indeed it did)when I had that to tell
it was still because I honoured you so muchand hoped that you
might one day honour me.'

'That day has shone this long timeAnnie' said the Doctorand
can have but one long nightmy dear.'

'Another word! I afterwards meant - steadfastly meantand
purposed to myself - to bear the whole weight of knowing the
unworthiness of one to whom you had been so good. And now a last
worddearest and best of friends! The cause of the late change in
youwhich I have seen with so much pain and sorrowand have
sometimes referred to my old apprehension - at other times to
lingering suppositions nearer to the truth - has been made clear
tonight; and by an accident I have also come to knowtonightthe
full measure of your noble trust in meeven under that mistake.
I do not hope that any love and duty I may render in returnwill
ever make me worthy of your priceless confidence; but with all this
knowledge fresh upon meI can lift my eyes to this dear face
revered as a father'sloved as a husband'ssacred to me in my
childhood as a friend'sand solemnly declare that in my lightest
thought I have never wronged you; never wavered in the love and the
fidelity I owe you!'

She had her arms around the Doctor's neckand he leant his head
down over hermingling his grey hair with her dark brown tresses.

'Ohhold me to your heartmy husband! Never cast me out! Do not
think or speak of disparity between usfor there is noneexcept
in all my many imperfections. Every succeeding year I have known
this betteras I have esteemed you more and more. Ohtake me to
your heartmy husbandfor my love was founded on a rockand it
endures!'

In the silence that ensuedmy aunt walked gravely up to Mr. Dick
without at all hurrying herselfand gave him a hug and a sounding
kiss. And it was very fortunatewith a view to his creditthat
she did so; for I am confident that I detected him at that moment
in the act of making preparations to stand on one legas an
appropriate expression of delight.

'You are a very remarkable manDick!' said my auntwith an air of
unqualified approbation; 'and never pretend to be anything else
for I know better!'

With thatmy aunt pulled him by the sleeveand nodded to me; and
we three stole quietly out of the roomand came away.

'That's a settler for our military friendat any rate' said my
aunton the way home. 'I should sleep the better for thatif
there was nothing else to be glad of!'

'She was quite overcomeI am afraid' said Mr. Dickwith great
commiseration.

'What! Did you ever see a crocodile overcome?' inquired my aunt.

'I don't think I ever saw a crocodile' returned Mr. Dickmildly.

'There never would have been anything the matterif it hadn't been


for that old Animal' said my auntwith strong emphasis. 'It's
very much to be wished that some mothers would leave their
daughters alone after marriageand not be so violently
affectionate. They seem to think the only return that can be made
them for bringing an unfortunate young woman into the world - God
bless my soulas if she asked to be broughtor wanted to come! is
full liberty to worry her out of it again. What are you
thinking ofTrot?'

I was thinking of all that had been said. My mind was still
running on some of the expressions used. 'There can be no
disparity in marriage like unsuitability of mind and purpose.'
'The first mistaken impulse of an undisciplined heart.' 'My love
was founded on a rock.' But we were at home; and the trodden
leaves were lying under-footand the autumn wind was blowing.

CHAPTER 46
Intelligence

I must have been marriedif I may trust to my imperfect memory for
datesabout a year or sowhen one eveningas I was returning
from a solitary walkthinking of the book I was then writing - for
my success had steadily increased with my steady applicationand
I was engaged at that time upon my first work of fiction - I came
past Mrs. Steerforth's house. I had often passed it beforeduring
my residence in that neighbourhoodthough never when I could
choose another road. Howbeitit did sometimes happen that it was
not easy to find anotherwithout making a long circuit; and so I
had passed that wayupon the wholepretty often.

I had never done more than glance at the houseas 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 narrowheavily-framed
old-fashioned windowsnever cheerful under any circumstances
looked very dismalclose shutand with their blinds always drawn
down. There was a covered way across a little paved courtto an
entrance that was never used; and there was one round staircase
windowat odds with all the restand the only one unshaded by a
blindwhich had the same unoccupied blank look. I do not remember
that I ever saw a light in all the house. If I had been a casual
passer-byI should have probably supposed that some childless
person lay dead in it. If I had happily possessed no knowledge of
the placeand had seen it often in that changeless stateI should
have pleased my fancy with many ingenious speculationsI dare say.

As it wasI thought as little of it as I might. But my mind could
not go by it and leave itas my body did; and it usually awakened
a long train of meditations. Coming before meon this particular
evening that I mentionmingled with the childish recollections and
later fanciesthe ghosts of half-formed hopesthe broken shadows
of disappointments dimly seen and understoodthe blending of
experience and imaginationincidental to the occupation with which
my thoughts had been busyit was more than commonly suggestive.
I fell into a brown study as I walked onand a voice at my side
made me start.

It was a woman's voicetoo. I was not long in recollecting Mrs.
Steerforth's little parlour-maidwho had formerly worn blue
ribbons in her cap. She had taken them out nowto adapt herself
I supposeto the altered character of the house; and wore but one
or two disconsolate bows of sober brown.


'If you pleasesirwould you have the goodness to walk inand
speak to Miss Dartle?'

'Has Miss Dartle sent you for me?' I inquired.

'Not tonightsirbut it's just the same. Miss Dartle saw you
pass
a night or two ago; and I was to sit at work on the staircaseand
when I saw you pass againto ask you to step in and speak to her.'

I turned backand inquired of my conductoras we went alonghow
Mrs. Steerforth was. She said her lady was but poorlyand kept
her own room a good deal.

When we arrived at the houseI was directed to Miss Dartle in the
gardenand left to make my presence known to her myself. She was
sitting on a seat at one end of a kind of terraceoverlooking the
great city. It was a sombre eveningwith a lurid light in the
sky; and as I saw the prospect scowling in the distancewith here
and there some larger object starting up into the sullen glareI
fancied it was no inapt companion to the memory of this fierce
woman.

She saw me as I advancedand rose for a moment to receive me. I
thought herthenstill more colourless and thin than when I had
seen her last; the flashing eyes still brighterand the scar still
plainer.

Our meeting was not cordial. We had parted angrily on the last
occasion; and there was an air of disdain about herwhich she took
no pains to conceal.

'I am told you wish to speak to meMiss Dartle' said Istanding
near herwith my hand upon the back of the seatand 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 meas if they were
eager to load her with reproaches.

'Run away?' I repeated.

'Yes! From him' she saidwith 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 glanceI 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 muchMiss Dartle.'

She condescended to make no replybutturning on me with another
scornful laughsaid:

'The friends of this excellent and much-injured young lady are
friends of yours. You are their championand assert their rights.
Do you wish to know what is known of her?'


'Yes' said I.

She rose with an ill-favoured smileand taking a few steps towards
a wall of holly that was near at handdividing the lawn from a
kitchen-gardensaidin a louder voice'Come here!' - as if she
were calling to some unclean beast.

'You will restrain any demonstrative championship or vengeance in
this placeof courseMr. Copperfield?' said shelooking over her
shoulder at me with the same expression.

I inclined my headwithout knowing what she meant; and she said
'Come here!' again; and returnedfollowed by the respectable Mr.
Littimerwhowith undiminished respectabilitymade me a bowand
took up his position behind her. The air of wicked grace: of
triumphin whichstrange to saythere was yet something feminine
and alluring: with which she reclined upon the seat between usand
looked at mewas worthy of a cruel Princess in a Legend.

'Now' said sheimperiouslywithout glancing at himand touching
the old wound as it throbbed: perhapsin this instancewith
pleasure rather than pain. 'Tell Mr. Copperfield about the
flight.'

'Mr. James and myselfma'am -'

'Don't address yourself to me!' she interrupted with a frown.

'Mr. James and myselfsir -'

'Nor to meif you please' said I.

Mr. Littimerwithout being at all discomposedsignified by a
slight obeisancethat 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 womanever
since she left Yarmouth under Mr. james's protection. We have been
in a variety of placesand seen a deal of foreign country. We
have been in FranceSwitzerlandItalyin factalmost all
parts.'

He looked at the back of the seatas if he were addressing himself
to that; and softly played upon it with his handsas if he were
striking chords upon a dumb piano.

'Mr. James took quite uncommonly to the young woman; and was more
settledfor a length of timethan I have known him to be since I
have been in his service. The young woman was very improvableand
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 herand slightly smile to himself.

'Very much admiredindeedthe young woman was. What with her
dress; what with the air and sun; what with being made so much of;
what with thisthatand the other; her merits really attracted
general notice.'

He made a short pause. Her eyes wandered restlessly over the
distant prospectand she bit her nether lip to stop that busy


mouth.

Taking his hands from the seatand placing one of them within the
otheras he settled himself on one legMr. Littimer proceeded
with his eyes cast downand his respectable head a little
advancedand a little on one side:

'The young woman went on in this manner for some timebeing
occasionally low in her spiritsuntil I think she began to weary
Mr. James by giving way to her low spirits and tempers of that
kind; and things were not so comfortable. Mr. James he began to be
restless again. The more restless he gotthe worse she got; and
I must sayfor myselfthat I had a very difficult time of it
indeed between the two. Still matters were patched up hereand
made good thereover and over again; and altogether lastedI am
surefor a longer time than anybody could have expected.'

Recalling her eyes from the distanceshe looked at me again now
with her former air. Mr. Littimerclearing his throat behind his
hand with a respectable short coughchanged legsand went on:

'At lastwhen there had beenupon the wholea good many words
and reproachesMr. James he set off one morningfrom the
neighbourhood of Napleswhere we had a villa (the young woman
being very partial to the sea)andunder pretence of coming back
in a day or soleft it in charge with me to break it outthat
for the general happiness of all concernedhe was' - here an
interruption of the short cough - 'gone. But Mr. JamesI must
saycertainly did behave extremely honourable; for he proposed
that the young woman should marry a very respectable personwho
was fully prepared to overlook the pastand who wasat leastas
good as anybody the young woman could have aspired to in a regular
way: her connexions being very common.'

He changed legs againand wetted his lips. I was convinced that
the scoundrel spoke of himselfand I saw my conviction reflected
in Miss Dartle's face.

'This I also had it in charge to communicate. I was willing to do
anything to relieve Mr. James from his difficultyand to restore
harmony between himself and an affectionate parentwho has
undergone so much on his account. Therefore I undertook the
commission. The young woman's violence when she came toafter I
broke the fact of his departurewas beyond all expectations. She
was quite madand had to be held by force; orif she couldn't
have got to a knifeor got to the seashe'd have beaten her head
against the marble floor.'

Miss Dartleleaning back upon the seatwith a light of exultation
in her faceseemed 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. Littimerrubbing his hands uneasily'which anybody
might have supposed would have beenat all eventsappreciated as
a kind intentionthen the young woman came out in her true
colours. A more outrageous person I never did see. Her conduct
was surprisingly bad. She had no more gratitudeno more feeling
no more patienceno more reason in herthan a stock or a stone.
If I hadn't been upon my guardI am convinced she would have had
my blood.'

'I think the better of her for it' said Iindignantly.


Mr. Littimer bent his headas much as to say'Indeedsir? But
you're young!' and resumed his narrative.

'It was necessaryin shortfor a timeto take away everything
nigh herthat she could do herselfor anybody elsean injury
withand to shut her up close. Notwithstanding whichshe got out
in the night; forced the lattice of a windowthat I had nailed up
myself; dropped on a vine that was trailed below; and never has
been seen or heard ofto my knowledgesince.'

'She is deadperhaps' said Miss Dartlewith a smileas if she
could have spurned the body of the ruined girl.

'She may have drowned herselfmiss' returned Mr. Littimer
catching at an excuse for addressing himself to somebody. 'It's
very possible. Orshe 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 Dartleand sitting by their boats. I have known her do it
when Mr. James has been awaywhole days. Mr. James was far from
pleased to find outoncethat she had told the children she was
a boatman's daughterand that in her own countrylong agoshe
had roamed about the beachlike them.'

OhEmily! Unhappy beauty! What a picture rose before me of her
sitting on the far-off shoreamong the children like herself when
she was innocentlistening 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 seawith its eternal 'Never more!'

'When it was clear that nothing could be doneMiss Dartle -'

'Did I tell you not to speak to me?' she saidwith stern contempt.

'You spoke to memiss' he replied. 'I beg your pardon. But it
is my service to obey.'

'Do your service' she returned. 'Finish your storyand go!'

'When it was clear' he saidwith infinite respectability and an
obedient bow'that she was not to be foundI 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
consequenceand I felt it due to my character to leave him. I
could bearand I have bornea great deal from Mr. James; but he
insulted me too far. He hurt me. Knowing the unfortunate
difference between himself and his motherand what her anxiety of
mind was likely to beI took the liberty of coming home to
Englandand relating -'

'For money which I paid him' said Miss Dartle to me.

'Just soma'am - and relating what I knew. I am not aware' said
Mr. Littimerafter a moment's reflection'that there is anything
else. I am at present out of employmentand should be happy to
meet with a respectable situation.'

Miss Dartle glanced at meas though she would inquire if there
were anything that I desired to ask. As there was something which
had occurred to my mindI said in reply:

'I could wish to know from this - creature' I could not bring
myself to utter any more conciliatory word'whether they
intercepted a letter that was written to her from homeor whether


he supposes that she received it.'

He remained calm and silentwith his eyes fixed on the groundand
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 pardonmiss' he saidawakening from his abstraction
'buthowever submissive to youI have my positionthough a
servant. Mr. Copperfield and youmissare different people. If
Mr. Copperfield wishes to know anything from meI take the liberty
of reminding Mr. Copperfield that he can put a question to me. I
have a character to maintain.'

After a momentary struggle with myselfI turned my eyes upon him
and said'You have heard my question. Consider it addressed to
yourselfif you choose. What answer do you make?'

'Sir' he rejoinedwith an occasional separation and reunion of
those delicate tips'my answer must be qualified; becauseto
betray Mr. james's confidence to his motherand to betray it to
youare two different actions. It is not probableI consider
that Mr. James would encourage the receipt of letters likely to
increase low spirits and unpleasantness; but further than that
sirI should wish to avoid going.'

'Is that all?' inquired Miss Dartle of me.

I indicated that I had nothing more to say. 'Except' I addedas
I saw him moving off'that I understand this fellow's part in the
wicked storyand thatas I shall make it known to the honest man
who has been her father from her childhoodI would recommend him
to avoid going too much into public.'

He had stopped the moment I beganand had listened with his usual
repose of manner.

'Thank yousir. But you'll excuse me if I saysirthat there
are neither slaves nor slave-drivers in this countryand that
people are not allowed to take the law into their own hands. If
they doit is more to their own perilI believethan to other
people's. Consequently speakingI am not at all afraid of going
wherever I may wishsir.'

With thathe made a polite bow; andwith another to Miss Dartle
went away through the arch in the wall of holly by which he had
come. Miss Dartle and I regarded each other for a little while in
silence; her manner being exactly what it waswhen she had
produced the man.

'He says besides' she observedwith a slow curling of her lip
'that his masteras he hearsis coasting Spain; and this doneis
away to gratify his seafaring tastes till he is weary. But this is
of no interest to you. Between these two proud personsmother and
sonthere is a wider breach than beforeand little hope of its
healingfor they are one at heartand 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 meand her passionate
finger up'may be alive- for I believe some common things are
hard to die. If she isyou will desire to have a pearl of such
price found and taken care of. We desire thattoo; that he may


not by any chance be made her prey again. So farwe are united in
one interest; and that is why Iwho would do her any mischief that
so coarse a wretch is capable of feelinghave sent for you to hear
what you have heard.'

I sawby the change in her facethat someone was advancing behind
me. It was Mrs. Steerforthwho gave me her hand more coldly than
of yoreand with an augmentation of her former stateliness of
mannerbut stillI perceived - and I was touched by it - with an
ineffaceable remembrance of my old love for her son. She was
greatly altered. Her fine figure was far less uprighther
handsome face was deeply markedand her hair was almost white.
But when she sat down on the seatshe was a handsome lady still;
and well I knew the bright eye with its lofty lookthat had been
a light in my very dreams at school.

'Is Mr. Copperfield informed of everythingRosa?'

'Yes.'

'And has he heard Littimer himself?'

'Yes; I have told him why you wished it.'
'You are a good girl. I have had some slight correspondence with
your former friendsir' addressing me'but it has not restored
his sense of duty or natural obligation. Therefore I have no other
object in thisthan what Rosa has mentioned. Ifby the course
which may relieve the mind of the decent man you brought here (for
whom I am sorry - I can say no more)my son may be saved from
again falling into the snares of a designing enemywell!'

She drew herself upand sat looking straight before herfar 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 sayeven to youhaving known this injured family from
childhoodthat if you suppose the girlso deeply wrongedhas not
been cruelly deludedand would not rather die a hundred deaths
than take a cup of water from your son's hand nowyou cherish a
terrible mistake.'

'WellRosawell!' said Mrs. Steerforthas the other was about to
interpose'it is no matter. Let it be. You are marriedsirI
am told?'

I answered that I had been some time married.

'And are doing well? I hear little in the quiet life I leadbut
I understand you are beginning to be famous.'

'I have been very fortunate' I said'and find my name connected
with some praise.'

'You have no mother?' - in a softened voice.

'No.'

'It is a pity' she returned. 'She would have been proud of you.
Good night!'

I took the hand she held out with a dignifiedunbending airand
it was as calm in mine as if her breast had been at peace. Her
pride could still its very pulsesit appearedand draw the placid
veil before her facethrough which she sat looking straight before


her on the far distance.

As I moved away from them along the terraceI could not help
observing how steadily they both sat gazing on the prospectand
how it thickened and closed around them. Here and theresome
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 interposeda mist was
rising like a seawhichmingling with the darknessmade it seem
as if the gathering waters would encompass them. I have reason to
remember thisand think of it with awe; for before I looked upon
those two againa stormy sea had risen to their feet.

Reflecting on what had been thus told meI 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 placewith his one object of recovering his niece
before him; but was more in London than elsewhere. Often and
oftennowhad I seen him in the dead of night passing along the
streetssearchingamong the few who loitered out of doors at
those untimely hoursfor what he dreaded to find.

He kept a lodging over the little chandler's shop in Hungerford
Marketwhich I have had occasion to mention more than onceand
from which he first went forth upon his errand of mercy. Hither I
directed my walk. On making inquiry for himI learned from the
people of the house that he had not gone out yetand I should find
him in his room upstairs.

He was sitting reading by a window in which he kept a few plants.
The room was very neat and orderly. I saw in a moment that it was
always kept prepared for her receptionand that he never went out
but he thought it possible he might bring her home. He had not
heard my tap at the doorand only raised his eyes when I laid my
hand upon his shoulder.

'Mas'r Davy! Thankeesir! thankee heartyfor this visit! Sit ye
down. You're kindly welcomesir!'

'Mr. Peggotty' said Itaking the chair he handed me'don't
expect much! I have heard some news.'

'Of Em'ly!'

He put his handin a nervous manneron his mouthand turned
paleas he fixed his eyes on mine.

'It gives no clue to where she is; but she is not with him.'

He sat downlooking intently at meand listened in profound
silence to all I had to tell. I well remember the sense of
dignitybeauty evenwith which the patient gravity of his face
impressed mewhenhaving gradually removed his eyes from minehe
sat looking downwardleaning his forehead on his hand. He offered
no interruptionbut remained throughout perfectly still. He
seemed to pursue her figure through the narrativeand to let every
other shape go by himas if it were nothing.

When I had donehe shaded his faceand continued silent. I
looked out of the window for a little whileand occupied myself
with the plants.

'How do you fare to feel about itMas'r Davy?' he inquired at
length.


'I think that she is living' I replied.

'I doen't know. Maybe the first shock was too roughand in the
wildness of her art -! That there blue water as she used to speak
on. Could she have thowt o' that so many yearbecause it was to
be her grave!'

He said thismusingin a lowfrightened voice; and walked across
the little room.

'And yet' he added'Mas'r DavyI have felt so sure as she was
living - I have know'dawake and sleepingas it was so trew that
I should find her - I have been so led on by itand held up by it

-that I doen't believe I can have been deceived. No! Em'ly's
alive!'
He put his hand down firmly on the tableand set his sunburnt face
into a resolute expression.

'My nieceEm'lyis alivesir!' he saidsteadfastly. 'I doen't
know wheer it comes fromor how 'tisbut I am told as she's
alive!'

He looked almost like a man inspiredas he said it. I waited for
a few momentsuntil he could give me his undivided attention; and
then proceeded to explain the precautionthatit had occurred to
me last nightit would be wise to take.

'Nowmy dear friend -'I began.

'Thankeethankeekind sir' he saidgrasping my hand in both of
his.

'If she should make her way to Londonwhich is likely - for where
could she lose herself so readily as in this vast city; and what
would she wish to dobut lose and hide herselfif she does not go
home? -'

'And she won't go home' he interposedshaking his head
mournfully. 'If she had left of her own accordshe might; not as
It wassir.'

'If she should come here' said I'I believe there is one person
heremore likely to discover her than any other in the world. Do
you remember - hear what I saywith fortitude - think of your
great object! - do you remember Martha?'

'Of our town?'

I needed no other answer than his face.

'Do you know that she is in London?'

'I have seen her in the streets' he answeredwith a shiver.

'But you don't know' said I'that Emily was charitable to her
with Ham's helplong before she fled from home. Northatwhen
we met one nightand spoke together in the room yonderover the
wayshe 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 backafter
parting from youto speak to herbut she was gone. I was
unwilling to mention her to you thenand I am now; but she is the
person of whom I speakand with whom I think we should
communicate. Do you understand?'

'Too wellsir' he replied. We had sunk our voicesalmost to a
whisperand 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 thinkMas'r DavyI know wheer to look.'

'It is dark. Being togethershall we go out nowand try to find
her tonight?'

He assentedand prepared to accompany me. Without appearing to
observe what he was doingI saw how carefully he adjusted the
little roomput a candle ready and the means of lighting it
arranged the bedand finally took out of a drawer one of her
dresses (I remember to have seen her wear it)neatly folded with
some other garmentsand a bonnetwhich he placed upon a chair.
He made no allusion to these clothesneither did I. There they
had been waiting for hermany and many a nightno doubt.

'The time wasMas'r Davy' he saidas we came downstairs'when
I thowt this girlMarthaa'most like the dirt underneath my
Em'ly's feet. God forgive metheer's a difference now!'

As we went alongpartly to hold him in conversationand partly to
satisfy myselfI asked him about Ham. He saidalmost in the same
words as formerlythat Ham was just the same'wearing away his
life with kiender no care nohow for 't; but never murmuringand
liked by all'.

I asked him what he thought Ham's state of mind wasin reference
to the cause of their misfortunes? Whether he believed it was
dangerous? What he supposedfor exampleHam would doif he and
Steerforth ever should encounter?

'I doen't knowsir' he replied. 'I have thowt of it oftentimes
but I can't awize myself of itno matters.'

I recalled to his remembrance the morning after her departurewhen
we were all three on the beach. 'Do you recollect' said I'a
certain wild way in which he looked out to seaand spoke about
the end of it?'

'Sure I do!' said he.

'What do you suppose he meant?'

'Mas'r Davy' he replied'I've put the question to myself a mort
o' timesand never found no answer. And theer's one curious thing

-thatthough he is so pleasantI 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 beand it ain't
likely as he'd begin to speak any other ways now; but it's fur from
being fleet water in his mindwhere them thowts lays. It's deep
sirand I can't see down.'
'You are right' said I'and that has sometimes made me anxious.'


'And me tooMas'r Davy' he rejoined. 'Even more soI do assure
youthan his ventersome waysthough both belongs to the
alteration in him. I doen't know as he'd do violence under any
circumstancesbut I hope as them two may be kep asunders.'

We had comethrough Temple Barinto the city. Conversing no more
nowand walking at my sidehe yielded himself up to the one aim
of his devoted lifeand went onwith that hushed concentration of
his faculties which would have made his figure solitary in a
multitude. We were not far from Blackfriars Bridgewhen he turned
his head and pointed to a solitary female figure flitting along the
opposite side of the street. I knew itreadilyto be the figure
that we sought.

We crossed the roadand were pressing on towards herwhen it
occurred to me that she might be more disposed to feel a woman's
interest in the lost girlif we spoke to her in a quieter place
aloof from the crowdand where we should be less observed. I
advised my companionthereforethat we should not address her
yetbut follow her; consulting in thislikewisean indistinct
desire I hadto know where she went.

He acquiescingwe followed at a distance: never losing sight of
herbut never caring to come very nearas she frequently looked
about. Onceshe stopped to listen to a band of music; and then we
stopped too.

She went on a long way. Still we went on. It was evidentfrom
the manner in which she held her coursethat she was going to some
fixed destination; and thisand her keeping in the busy streets
and I suppose the strange fascination in the secrecy and mystery of
so following anyonemade me adhere to my first purpose. At length
she turned into a dulldark streetwhere the noise and crowd were
lost; and I said'We may speak to her now'; andmending our pace
we went after her.

CHAPTER 47
MARTHA

We were now down in Westminster. We had turned back to follow her
having encountered her coming towards us; and Westminster Abbey was
the point at which she passed from the lights and noise of the
leading streets. She proceeded so quicklywhen she got free of
the two currents of passengers setting towards and from the bridge
thatbetween this and the advance she had of us when she struck
offwe were in the narrow water-side street by Millbank before we
came up with her. At that moment she crossed the roadas if to
avoid the footsteps that she heard so close behind; andwithout
looking backpassed on even more rapidly.

A glimpse of the river through a dull gatewaywhere some waggons
were housed for the nightseemed to arrest my feet. I touched my
companion without speakingand we both forbore to cross after her
and both followed on that opposite side of the way; keeping as
quietly as we could in the shadow of the housesbut keeping very
near her.

There wasand is when I writeat the end of that low-lying
streeta dilapidated little wooden buildingprobably an obsolete
old ferry-house. Its position is just at that point where the
street ceasesand the road begins to lie between a row of houses
and the river. As soon as she came hereand saw the watershe


stopped as if she had come to her destination; and presently went
slowly along by the brink of the riverlooking intently at it.

All the way hereI had supposed that she was going to some house;
indeedI 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 riverthrough the gatewayhad instinctively
prepared me for her going no farther.

The neighbourhood was a dreary one at that time; as oppressive
sadand solitary by nightas 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 partcarcases of houses
inauspiciously begun and never finishedrotted away. In another
the ground was cumbered with rusty iron monsters of steam-boilers
wheelscrankspipesfurnacespaddlesanchorsdiving-bells
windmill-sailsand I know not what strange objectsaccumulated by
some speculatorand grovelling in the dustunderneath which having
sunk into the soil of their own weight in wet weather - they
had the appearance of vainly trying to hide themselves. The clash
and glare of sundry fiery Works upon the river-sidearose by night
to disturb everything except the heavy and unbroken smoke that
poured out of their chimneys. Slimy gaps and causewayswinding
among old wooden pileswith a sickly substance clinging to the
latterlike green hairand the rags of last year's handbills
offering rewards for drowned men fluttering above high-water mark
led down through the ooze and slush to the ebb-tide. There was a
story that one of the pits dug for the dead in the time of the
Great Plague was hereabout; and a blighting influence seemed to
have proceeded from it over the whole place. Or else it looked as
if it had gradually decomposed into that nightmare conditionout
of the overflowings of the polluted stream.

As if she were a part of the refuse it had cast outand left to
corruption and decaythe girl we had followed strayed down to the
river's brinkand stood in the midst of this night-picturelonely
and stilllooking at the water.

There were some boats and barges astrand in the mudand these
enabled us to come within a few yards of her without being seen.
I then signed to Mr. Peggotty to remain where he wasand emerged
from their shade to speak to her. I did not approach her solitary
figure without trembling; for this gloomy end to her determined
walkand the way in which she stoodalmost within the cavernous
shadow of the iron bridgelooking at the lights crookedly
reflected in the strong tideinspired a dread within me.

I think she was talking to herself. I am surealthough absorbed
in gazing at the waterthat her shawl was off her shouldersand
that she was muffling her hands in itin an unsettled and
bewildered waymore like the action of a sleep-walker than a
waking person. I knowand never can forgetthat there was that
in her wild manner which gave me no assurance but that she would
sink before my eyesuntil I had her arm within my grasp.

At the same moment I said 'Martha!'

She uttered a terrified screamand 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 wasshe made but one more effort
and dropped down between us. We carried her away from the water to


where there were some dry stonesand there laid her downcrying
and moaning. In a little while she sat among the stonesholding
her wretched head with both her hands.

'Ohthe river!' she cried passionately. 'Ohthe river!'

'Hushhush!' said I. 'Calm yourself.'

But she still repeated the same wordscontinually exclaiming'Oh
the river!' over and over again.

'I know it's like me!' she exclaimed. 'I know that I belong to it.
I know that it's the natural company of such as I am! It comes from
country placeswhere there was once no harm in it - and it creeps
through the dismal streetsdefiled and miserable - and it goes
awaylike my lifeto a great seathat is always troubled - and
I feel that I must go with it!'
I have never known what despair wasexcept 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. Ohthe dreadful river!'

The thought passed through my mind that in the face of my
companionas he looked upon her without speech or motionI might
have read his niece's historyif I had known nothing of it. I
never sawin any painting or realityhorror and compassion so
impressively blended. He shook as if he would have fallen; and his
hand - I touched it with my ownfor his appearance alarmed me was
deadly cold.

'She is in a state of frenzy' I whispered to him. 'She will speak
differently in a little time.'

I don't know what he would have said in answer. He made some
motion with his mouthand seemed to think he had spoken; but he
had only pointed to her with his outstretched hand.

A new burst of crying came upon her nowin which she once more hid
her face among the stonesand lay before usa prostrate image of
humiliation and ruin. Knowing that this state must passbefore we
could speak to her with any hopeI ventured to restrain him when
he would have raised herand we stood by in silence until she
became more tranquil.

'Martha' said I thenleaning downand helping her to rise - she
seemed to want to rise as if with the intention of going awaybut
she was weakand leaned against a boat. 'Do you know who this is
who is with me?'

She said faintly'Yes.'

'Do you know that we have followed you a long way tonight?'

She shook her head. She looked neither at him nor at mebut stood
in a humble attitudeholding her bonnet and shawl in one hand
without appearing conscious of themand pressing the other
clenchedagainst her forehead.

'Are you composed enough' said I'to speak on the subject which
so interested you - I hope Heaven may remember it! - that snowy
night?'


Her sobs broke out afreshand she murmured some inarticulate
thanks to me for not having driven her away from the door.

'I want to say nothing for myself' she saidafter a few moments.
'I am badI am lost. I have no hope at all. But tell himsir'
she had shrunk away from him'if you don't feel too hard to me to
do itthat I never was in any way the cause of his misfortune.'
'It has never been attributed to you' I returnedearnestly
responding to her earnestness.

'It was youif I don't deceive myself' she saidin a broken
voice'that came into the kitchenthe night she took such pity on
me; was so gentle to me; didn't shrink away from me like all the
restand gave me such kind help! Was it yousir?'

'It was' said I.

'I should have been in the river long ago' she saidglancing 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
nightif I had not been free of any share in that!'

'The cause of her flight is too well understood' I said. 'You are
innocent of any part in itwe thoroughly believe- we know.'

'OhI might have been much the better for herif I had had a
better heart!' exclaimed the girlwith 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 myselfknowing what I am myselfso well? When I lost
everything that makes life dearthe worst of all my thoughts was
that I was parted for ever from her!'

Mr. Peggottystanding with one hand on the gunwale of the boat
and his eyes cast downput his disengaged hand before his face.

'And when I heard what had happened before that snowy nightfrom
some belonging to our town' cried Martha'the bitterest thought
in all my mind wasthat the people would remember she once kept
company with meand would say I had corrupted her! WhenHeaven
knowsI would have died to have brought back her good name!'

Long unused to any self-controlthe piercing agony of her remorse
and grief was terrible.

'To have diedwould not have been much - what can I say? - I
would have lived!' she cried. 'I would have lived to be oldin
the wretched streets - and to wander aboutavoidedin the dark and
to see the day break on the ghastly line of housesand
remember how the same sun used to shine into my roomand wake me
once - I would have done even thatto save her!'

Sinking on the stonesshe took some in each handand clenched
them upas if she would have ground them. She writhed into some
new posture constantly: stiffening her armstwisting them before
her faceas though to shut out from her eyes the little light
there wasand drooping her headas if it were heavy with
insupportable recollections.

'What shall I ever do!' she saidfighting thus with her despair.
'How can I go on as I ama solitary curse to myselfa living
disgrace to everyone I come near!' Suddenly she turned to my
companion. 'Stamp upon mekill me! When she was your prideyou
would have thought I had done her harm if I had brushed against her


in the street. You can't believe - why should you? - a syllable
that comes out of my lips. It would be a burning shame upon you
even nowif she and I exchanged a word. I don't complain. I
don't say she and I are alike - I know there is a longlong way
between us. I only saywith all my guilt and wretchedness upon my
headthat I am grateful to her from my souland love her. Oh
don't think that all the power I had of loving anything is quite
worn out! Throw me awayas all the world does. Kill me for being
what I amand having ever known her; but don't think that of me!'

He looked upon herwhile she made this supplicationin a wild
distracted manner; andwhen she was silentgently raised her.

'Martha' said Mr. Peggotty'God forbid as I should judge you.
Forbid as Iof all menshould do thatmy girl! You doen't know
half the change that's comein course of timeupon mewhen you
think it likely. Well!' he paused a momentthen 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 stoodshrinkingly
before himas 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 meth' night when it snew so hardyou know as I
have been - wheer not - fur to seek my dear niece. My dear niece'
he repeated steadily. 'Fur she's more dear to me nowMarthathan
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 motherlesswith no friend fur to takein a rough
seafaring-waytheir place. Maybe you can guess that if you'd had
such a friendyou'd have got into a way of being fond of him in
course of timeand that my niece was kiender daughter-like to me.'

As she was silently tremblinghe put her shawl carefully about
hertaking it up from the ground for that purpose.

'Whereby' said he'I knowboth as she would go to the wureld's
furdest end with meif 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 loveand doen't - and
doen't' he repeatedwith a quiet assurance of the truth of what
he said'there's shame steps inand keeps betwixt us.'

I readin every word of his plain impressive way of delivering
himselfnew evidence of his having thought of this one topicin
every feature it presented.

'According to our reckoning' he proceeded'Mas'r Davy's hereand
mineshe is likeone dayto make her own poor solitary course to
London. We believe - Mas'r Davymeand all of us - that you are
as innocent of everything that has befell heras the unborn child.
You've spoke of her being pleasantkindand gentle to you. Bless
herI knew she was! I knew she always wasto all. You're
thankful to herand you love her. Help us all you can to find
herand may Heaven reward you!'

She looked at him hastilyand for the first timeas if she were
doubtful of what he had said.


'Will you trust me?' she askedin a low voice of astonishment.

'Full and free!' said Mr. Peggotty.

'To speak to herif I should ever find her; shelter herif I have
any shelter to divide with her; and thenwithout her knowledge
come to youand bring you to her?' she asked hurriedly.

We both replied together'Yes!'

She lifted up her eyesand solemnly declared that she would devote
herself to this taskfervently and faithfully. That she would
never waver in itnever be diverted from itnever relinquish it
while there was any chance of hope. If she were not true to it
might the object she now had in lifewhich bound her to something
devoid of evilin its passing away from herleave her more
forlorn and more despairingif that were possiblethan she had
been upon the river's brink that night; and then might all help
human and Divinerenounce her evermore!

She did not raise her voice above her breathor address usbut
said this to the night sky; then stood profoundly quietlooking at
the gloomy water.

We judged it expedientnowto tell her all we knew; which I
recounted at length. She listened with great attentionand with
a face that often changedbut had the same purpose in all its
varying expressions. Her eyes occasionally filled with tearsbut
those she repressed. It seemed as if her spirit were quite
alteredand she could not be too quiet.

She askedwhen all was toldwhere we were to be communicated
withif occasion should arise. Under a dull lamp in the roadI
wrote our two addresses on a leaf of my pocket-bookwhich I tore
out and gave to herand which she put in her poor bosom. I asked
her where she lived herself. She saidafter a pausein no place
long. It were better not to know.

Mr. Peggotty suggesting to mein a whisperwhat had already
occurred to myselfI took out my purse; but I could not prevail
upon her to accept any moneynor 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 calledfor one in his condition
poor; and that the idea of her engaging in this searchwhile
depending on her own resourcesshocked us both. She continued
steadfast. In this particularhis influence upon her was equally
powerless with mine. She gratefully thanked him but remained
inexorable.

'There may be work to be got' she said. 'I'll try.'

'At least take some assistance' I returned'until you have
tried.'

'I could not do what I have promisedfor money' she replied. 'I
could not take itif I was starving. To give me money would be to
take away your trustto take away the object that you have given
meto 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 timedismiss that terrible idea! We
can all do some goodif we will.'


She trembledand her lip shookand her face was paleras she
answered:

'It has been put into your heartsperhapsto save a wretched
creature for repentance. I am afraid to think so; it seems too
bold. If any good should come of meI might begin to hope; for
nothing but harm has ever come of my deeds yet. I am to be
trustedfor the first time in a long whilewith my miserable
lifeon account of what you have given me to try for. I know no
moreand I can say no more.'

Again she repressed the tears that had begun to flow; andputting
out her trembling handand touching Mr. Peggottyas if there was
some healing virtue in himwent away along the desolate road. She
had been illprobably for a long time. I observedupon that
closer opportunity of observationthat she was worn and haggard
and that her sunken eyes expressed privation and endurance.

We followed her at a short distanceour way lying in the same
directionuntil we came back into the lighted and populous
streets. I had such implicit confidence in her declarationthat
I then put it to Mr. Peggottywhether it would not seemin the
onsetlike distrusting herto follow her any farther. He being
of the same mindand equally reliant on herwe suffered her to
take her own roadand took ourswhich was towards Highgate. He
accompanied me a good part of the way; and when we partedwith a
prayer for the success of this fresh effortthere was a new and
thoughtful compassion in him that I was at no loss to interpret.

It was midnight when I arrived at home. I had reached my own gate
and was standing listening for the deep bell of St. Paul'sthe
sound of which I thought had been borne towards me among the
multitude of striking clockswhen I was rather surprised to see
that the door of my aunt's cottage was openand 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
alarmsand might be watching the progress of some imaginary
conflagration in the distanceI went to speak to her. It was with
very great surprise that I saw a man standing in her little garden.

He had a glass and bottle in his handand was in the act of
drinking. I stopped shortamong the thick foliage outsidefor
the moon was up nowthough obscured; and I recognized the man whom
I had once supposed to be a delusion of Mr. Dick'sand had once
encountered with my aunt in the streets of the city.

He was eating as well as drinkingand seemed to eat with a hungry
appetite. He seemed curious regarding the cottagetooas if it
were the first time he had seen it. After stooping to put the
bottle on the groundhe looked up at the windowsand looked
about; though with a covert and impatient airas if he was anxious
to be gone.

The light in the passage was obscured for a momentand my aunt
came out. She was agitatedand told some money into his hand.
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 auntwith 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 doto free myself for ever of your visitsbut
to abandon you to your deserts?'

'And why don't you abandon me to my deserts?' said he.

'You ask me why!' returned my aunt. 'What a heart you must have!'

He stood moodily rattling the moneyand shaking his headuntil at
length he said:

'Is this all you mean to give methen?'

'It is all I CAN give you' said my aunt. 'You know I have had
lossesand am poorer than I used to be. I have told you so.
Having got itwhy do you give me the pain of looking at you for
another momentand seeing what you have become?'

'I have become shabby enoughif 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 worldyears and
years. You treated me falselyungratefullyand cruelly. Goand
repent of it. Don't add new injuries to the longlong list of
injuries you have done me!'

'Aye!' he returned. 'It's all very fine - Well! I must do the best
I canfor the presentI suppose.'

In spite of himselfhe appeared abashed by my aunt's indignant
tearsand came slouching out of the garden. Taking two or three
quick stepsas if I had just come upI met him at the gateand
went in as he came out. We eyed one another narrowly in passing
and with no favour.

'Aunt' said Ihurriedly. 'This man alarming you again! Let me
speak to him. Who is he?'

'Child' returned my aunttaking my arm'come inand don't speak
to me for ten minutes.'

We sat down in her little parlour. My aunt retired behind the
round green fan of former dayswhich was screwed on the back of a
chairand occasionally wiped her eyesfor about a quarter of an
hour. Then she came outand took a seat beside me.

'Trot' said my auntcalmly'it's my husband.'

'Your husbandaunt? I thought he had been dead!'

'Dead to me' returned my aunt'but living.'

I sat in silent amazement.

'Betsey Trotwood don't look a likely subject for the tender
passion' said my auntcomposedly'but the time wasTrotwhen
she believed in that man most entirely. When she loved himTrot
right well. When there was no proof of attachment and affection
that she would not have given him. He repaid her by breaking her
fortuneand nearly breaking her heart. So she put all that sort
of sentimentonce and for everin a graveand filled it upand


flattened it down.'

'My deargood aunt!'

'I left him' my aunt proceededlaying her hand as usual on the
back of mine'generously. I may say at this distance of time
Trotthat I left him generously. He had been so cruel to methat
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 himsank
lower and lowermarried another womanI believebecame an
adventurera gamblerand a cheat. What he is nowyou see. But
he was a fine-looking man when I married him' said my auntwith
an echo of her old pride and admiration in her tone; 'and I
believed him - I was a fool! - to be the soul of honour!'

She gave my hand a squeezeand shook her head.

'He is nothing to me nowTrot- less than nothing. Butsooner
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
affordat intervals when he reappearsto go away. I was a fool
when I married him; and I am so far an incurable fool on that
subjectthatfor the sake of what I once believed him to beI
wouldn't have even this shadow of my idle fancy hardly dealt with.
For I was in earnestTrotif ever a woman was.'

MY aunt dismissed the matter with a heavy sighand smoothed her
dress.

'Theremy dear!' she said. 'Now you know the beginningmiddle
and endand all about it. We won't mention the subject to one
another any more; neitherof coursewill you mention it to
anybody else. This is my grumpyfrumpy storyand we'll keep it
to ourselvesTrot!'

CHAPTER 48
DOMESTIC

I laboured hard at my bookwithout 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 earsnotwithstanding that I was keenly alive to itand
thought better of my own performanceI have little doubtthan
anybody else did. It has always been in my observation of human
naturethat 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 reasonI retained my
modesty in very self-respect; and the more praise I gotthe more
I tried to deserve.

It is not my purposein this recordthough in all other
essentials it is my written memoryto pursue the history of my own
fictions. They express themselvesand I leave them to themselves.
When I refer to themincidentallyit is only as a part of my
progress.

Having some foundation for believingby this timethat nature and
accident had made me an authorI pursued my vocation with
confidence. Without such assurance I should certainly have left it
aloneand bestowed my energy on some other endeavour. I should
have tried to find out what nature and accident really had made me


and to be thatand nothing else.
I had been writingin the newspaper and elsewhereso
prosperouslythat when my new success was achievedI considered
myself reasonably entitled to escape from the dreary debates. One
joyful nightthereforeI noted down the music of the
parliamentary bagpipes for the last timeand I have never heard it
since; though I still recognize the old drone in the newspapers
without any substantial variation (exceptperhapsthat there is
more of it)all the livelong session.

I now write of the time when I had been marriedI supposeabout
a year and a half. After several varieties of experimentwe had
given up the housekeeping as a bad job. The house kept itselfand
we kept a page. The principal function of this retainer was to
quarrel with the cook; in which respect he was a perfect
Whittingtonwithout his cator the remotest chance of being made
Lord Mayor.

He appears to me to have lived in a hail of saucepan-lids. His
whole existence was a scuffle. He would shriek for help on the
most improper occasions- as when we had a little dinner-partyor
a few friends in the evening- and would come tumbling out of the
kitchenwith iron missiles flying after him. We wanted to get rid
of himbut he was very much attached to usand wouldn't go. He
was a tearful boyand broke into such deplorable lamentations
when a cessation of our connexion was hinted atthat we were
obliged to keep him. He had no mother - no anything in the way of
a relativethat I could discoverexcept a sisterwho 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 stateand was always rubbing his
eyes with the sleeve of his jacketor stooping to blow his nose on
the extreme corner of a little pocket-handkerchiefwhich he never
would take completely out of his pocketbut always economized and
secreted.

This unlucky pageengaged in an evil hour at six pounds ten per
annumwas a source of continual trouble to me. I watched him as
he grew - and he grew like scarlet beans - with painful
apprehensions of the time when he would begin to shave; even of the
days when he would be bald or grey. I saw no prospect of ever
getting rid of him; andprojecting myself into the futureused to
think what an inconvenience he would be when he was an old man.

I never expected anything lessthan this unfortunate's manner of
getting me out of my difficulty. He stole Dora's watchwhich
like everything else belonging to ushad no particular place of
its own; andconverting it into moneyspent 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 rememberon the completion of his fifteenth journey;
when four-and-sixpenceand a second-hand fife which he couldn't
playwere found upon his person.

The surprise and its consequences would have been much less
disagreeable to me if he had not been penitent. But he was very
penitent indeedand in a peculiar way - not in the lumpbut by
instalments. For example: the day after that on which I was
obliged to appear against himhe made certain revelations touching
a hamper in the cellarwhich we believed to be full of winebut
which had nothing in it except bottles and corks. We supposed he
had now eased his mindand told the worst he knew of the cook;
buta day or two afterwardshis conscience sustained a new
twingeand he disclosed how she had a little girlwhoearly


every morningtook away our bread; and also how he himself had
been suborned to maintain the milkman in coals. In two or three
days moreI was informed by the authorities of his having led to
the discovery of sirloins of beef among the kitchen-stuffand
sheets in the rag-bag. A little while afterwardshe broke out in
an entirely new directionand confessed to a knowledge of
burglarious intentions as to our premiseson the part of the
pot-boywho was immediately taken up. I got to be so ashamed of
being such a victimthat I would have given him any money to hold
his tongueor would have offered a round bribe for his being
permitted to run away. It was an aggravating circumstance in the
case that he had no idea of thisbut conceived that he was making
me amends in every new discovery: not to sayheaping obligations
on my head.

At last I ran away myselfwhenever 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 quietbut was always writing us letters; and wanted so
much to see Dora before he went awaythat 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 expatriatedand made (as I
afterwards heard) a shepherd of'up the country' somewhere; I have
no geographical idea where.

All this led me into some serious reflectionsand presented our
mistakes in a new aspect; as I could not help communicating to Dora
one eveningin spite of my tenderness for her.

'My love' said I'it is very painful to me to think that our want
of system and managementinvolves not only ourselves (which we
have got used to)but other people.'

'You have been silent for a long timeand now you are going to be
cross!' said Dora.

'Nomy dearindeed! Let me explain to you what I mean.'

'I think I don't want to know' said Dora.

'But I want you to knowmy love. Put Jip down.'

Dora put his nose to mineand said 'Boh!' to drive my seriousness
away; butnot succeedingordered him into his Pagodaand sat
looking at mewith her hands foldedand a most resigned little
expression of countenance.

'The fact ismy dear' I began'there is contagion in us. We
infect everyone about us.'

I might have gone on in this figurative mannerif 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 vaccinationor other
medical remedyfor this unwholesome state of ours. Therefore I
checked myselfand made my meaning plainer.

'It is not merelymy pet' said I'that we lose money and
comfortand even temper sometimesby not learning to be more
careful; but that we incur the serious responsibility of spoiling
everyone who comes into our serviceor has any dealings with us.
I begin to be afraid that the fault is not entirely on one side
but that these people all turn out ill because we don't turn out
very well ourselves.'


'Ohwhat an accusation' exclaimed Doraopening 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 welland compared me to him.'

'To whom?' I asked.

'To the page' sobbed Dora. 'Ohyou cruel fellowto 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 sayyou
hard-hearted thingthat you were convinced I was worse than a
transported page? Ohwhat a dreadful opinion to have of me! Oh
my goodness!'

'NowDoramy love' I returnedgently trying to remove the
handkerchief she pressed to her eyes'this is not only very
ridiculous of youbut very wrong. In the first placeit's not
true.'

'You always said he was a story-teller' sobbed Dora. 'And now you
say the same of me! Ohwhat shall I do! What shall I do!'

'My darling girl' I retorted'I really must entreat you to be
reasonableand listen to what I did sayand do say. My dear
Doraunless we learn to do our duty to those whom we employthey
will never learn to do their duty to us. I am afraid we present
opportunities to people to do wrongthat never ought to be
presented. Even if we were as lax as we arein all our
arrangementsby choice - which we are not - even if we liked it
and found it agreeable to be so - which we don't - I am persuaded
we should have no right to go on in this way. We are positively
corrupting people. We are bound to think of that. I can't help
thinking of itDora. It is a reflection I am unable to dismiss
and it sometimes makes me very uneasy. Theredearthat's all.
Come now. Don't be foolish!'

Dora would not allow mefor a long timeto remove the
handkerchief. She sat sobbing and murmuring behind itthatif I
was uneasywhy had I ever been married? Why hadn't I saideven
the day before we went to churchthat I knew I should be uneasy
and I would rather not? If I couldn't bear herwhy didn't I send
her away to her aunts at Putneyor to Julia Mills in India? Julia
would be glad to see herand would not call her a transported
page; Julia never had called her anything of the sort. In short
Dora was so afflictedand so afflicted me by being in that
conditionthat I felt it was of no use repeating this kind of
effortthough never so mildlyand 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 soundand
I resolved to form Dora's mind.

I began immediately. When Dora was very childishand I would have
infinitely preferred to humour herI tried to be grave - and
disconcerted herand myself too. I talked to her on the subjects
which occupied my thoughts; and I read Shakespeare to her - and
fatigued her to the last degree. I accustomed myself to giving
heras it were quite casuallylittle scraps of useful
informationor sound opinion - and she started from them when I
let them offas if they had been crackers. No matter how


incidentally or naturally I endeavoured to form my little wife's
mindI could not help seeing that she always had an instinctive
perception of what I was aboutand became a prey to the keenest
apprehensions. In particularit was clear to methat she thought
Shakespeare a terrible fellow. The formation went on very slowly.

I pressed Traddles into the service without his knowledge; and
whenever he came to see usexploded my mines upon him for the
edification of Dora at second hand. The amount of practical wisdom
I bestowed upon Traddles in this manner was immenseand of the
best quality; but it had no other effect upon Dora than to depress
her spiritsand make her always nervous with the dread that it
would be her turn next. I found myself in the condition of a
schoolmastera trapa pitfall; of always playing spider to Dora's
flyand always pouncing out of my hole to her infinite
disturbance.

Stilllooking forward through this intermediate stageto the time
when there should be a perfect sympathy between Dora and meand
when I should have 'formed her mind' to my entire satisfactionI
perseveredeven for months. Finding at lasthoweverthat
although I had been all this time a very porcupine or hedgehog
bristling all over with determinationI had effected nothingit
began to occur to me that perhaps Dora's mind was already formed.

On further consideration this appeared so likelythat I abandoned
my schemewhich had had a more promising appearance in words than
in action; resolving henceforth to be satisfied with my child-wife
and to try to change her into nothing else by any process. I was
heartily tired of being sagacious and prudent by myselfand of
seeing my darling under restraint; so I bought a pretty pair of
ear-rings for herand a collar for Jipand went home one day to
make myself agreeable.

Dora was delighted with the little presentsand kissed me
joyfully; but there was a shadow between ushowever slightand I
had made up my mind that it should not be there. If there must be
such a shadow anywhereI would keep it for the future in my own
breast.

I sat down by my wife on the sofaand put the ear-rings in her
ears; and then I told her that I feared we had not been quite as
good company latelyas we used to beand that the fault was mine.
Which I sincerely feltand which indeed it was.

'The truth isDoramy life' I said; 'I have been trying to be
wise.'

'And to make me wise too' said Doratimidly. 'Haven't you
Doady?'

I nodded assent to the pretty inquiry of the raised eyebrowsand
kissed the parted lips.

'It's of not a bit of use' said Dorashaking her headuntil the
ear-rings rang again. 'You know what a little thing I amand what
I wanted you to call me from the first. If you can't do soI am
afraid you'll never like me. Are you sure you don't think
sometimesit would have been better to have -'

'Done whatmy dear?' For she made no effort to proceed.

'Nothing!' said Dora.


'Nothing?' I repeated.

She put her arms round my neckand laughedand called herself by
her favourite name of a gooseand 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 nothingthan
to have tried to form my little wife's mind?' said Ilaughing at
myself. 'Is that the question? YesindeedI do.'

'Is that what you have been trying?' cried Dora. 'Oh what a
shocking boy!'

'But I shall never try any more' said I. 'For I love her dearly
as she is.'

'Without a story - really?' inquired Doracreeping 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 selfmy sweet Dora; and we'll try no conceited
experimentsbut go back to our old wayand be happy.'

'And be happy!' returned Dora. 'Yes! All day! And you won't mind
things going a tiny morsel wrongsometimes?'

'Nono' said I. 'We must do the best we can.'

'And you won't tell meany morethat we make other people bad'
coaxed Dora; 'will you? Because you know it's so dreadfully
cross!'

'Nono' said I.

'it's better for me to be stupid than uncomfortableisn't it?'
said Dora.

'Better to be naturally Dora than anything else in the world.'

'In the world! AhDoadyit's a large place!'

She shook her headturned her delighted bright eyes up to mine
kissed mebroke into a merry laughand sprang away to put on
Jip's new collar.

So ended my last attempt to make any change in Dora. I had been
unhappy in trying it; I could not endure my own solitary wisdom; I
could not reconcile it with her former appeal to me as my
child-wife. I resolved to do what I couldin a quiet wayto
improve our proceedings myselfbut I foresaw that my utmost would
be very littleor I must degenerate into the spider againand be
for ever lying in wait.

And the shadow I have mentionedthat was not to be between us any
morebut was to rest wholly on my own heart? How did that fall?

The old unhappy feeling pervaded my life. It was deepenedif it
were changed at all; but it was as undefined as everand addressed
me like a strain of sorrowful music faintly heard in the night.
loved my wife dearlyand I was happy; but the happiness I had
vaguely anticipatedoncewas not the happiness I enjoyedand
there was always something wanting.


In fulfilment of the compact I have made with myselfto reflect my
mind on this paperI again examine itcloselyand bring its
secrets to the light. What I missedI still regarded - I always
regarded - as something that had been a dream of my youthful fancy;
that was incapable of realization; that I was now discovering to be
sowith some natural painas all men did. But that it would have
been better for me if my wife could have helped me moreand shared
the many thoughts in which I had no partner; and that this might
have been; I knew.

Between these two irreconcilable conclusions: the onethat what I
felt was general and unavoidable; the otherthat it was particular
to meand might have been different: I balanced curiouslywith no
distinct sense of their opposition to each other. When I thought
of the airy dreams of youth that are incapable of realizationI
thought of the better state preceding manhood that I had outgrown;
and then the contented days with Agnesin the dear old house
arose before melike spectres of the deadthat might have some
renewal in another worldbut never more could be reanimated here.

Sometimesthe speculation came into my thoughtsWhat might have
happenedor what would have happenedif Dora and I had never
known each other? But she was so incorporated with my existence
that it was the idlest of all fanciesand would soon rise out of
my reach and sightlike gossamer floating in the air.

I always loved her. What I am describingslumberedand half
awokeand slept againin the innermost recesses of my mind.
There was no evidence of it in me; I know of no influence it had in
anything I said or did. I bore the weight of all our little cares
and all my projects; Dora held the pens; and we both felt that our
shares were adjusted as the case required. She was truly fond of
meand proud of me; and when Agnes wrote a few earnest words in
her letters to Doraof the pride and interest with which my old
friends heard of my growing reputationand read my book as if they
heard me speaking its contentsDora read them out to me with tears
of joy in her bright eyesand said I was a dear old cleverfamous
boy.

'The first mistaken impulse of an undisciplined heart.' Those
words of Mrs. Strong's were constantly recurring to meat this
time; were almost always present to my mind. I awoke with them
oftenin the night; I remember to have even read themin dreams
inscribed upon the walls of houses. For I knewnowthat my own
heart was undisciplined when it first loved Dora; and that if it
had been disciplinedit never could have feltwhen we were
marriedwhat it had felt in its secret experience.

'There can be no disparity in marriagelike unsuitability of mind
and purpose.' Those words I remembered too. I had endeavoured to
adapt Dora to myselfand found it impracticable. It remained for
me to adapt myself to Dora; to share with her what I couldand be
happy; to bear on my own shoulders what I mustand be happy still.
This was the discipline to which I tried to bring my heartwhen I
began to think. It made my second year much happier than my first;
andwhat was better stillmade Dora's life all sunshine.

Butas that year wore onDora was not strong. I had hoped that
lighter hands than mine would help to mould her characterand 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 prisonandunconscious of captivitytook
wing.


'When I can run about againas I used to doaunt' said Dora'I
shall make Jip race. He is getting quite slow and lazy.'

'I suspectmy dear' said my aunt quietly working by her side'he
has a worse disorder than that. AgeDora.'

'Do you think he is old?' said Doraastonished. 'Ohhow strange
it seems that Jip should be old!'

'It's a complaint we are all liable toLittle Oneas we get on in
life' said my auntcheerfully; 'I don't feel more free from it
than I used to beI assure you.'

'But Jip' said Doralooking at him with compassion'even little
Jip! Ohpoor fellow!'

'I dare say he'll last a long time yetBlossom' said my aunt
patting Dora on the cheekas she leaned out of her couch to look
at Jipwho responded by standing on his hind legsand 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
winterand 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 catand was on the point of
losing 'em allhe'd bark at me with his last breathI believe!'

Dora had helped him up on the sofa; where he really was defying my
aunt to such a furious extentthat he couldn't keep straightbut
barked himself sideways. The more my aunt looked at himthe more
he reproached her; for she had lately taken to spectaclesand for
some inscrutable reason he considered the glasses personal.

Dora made him lie down by herwith a good deal of persuasion; and
when he was quietdrew one of his long ears through and through
her handrepeating thoughtfully'Even little Jip! Ohpoor
fellow!'

'His lungs are good enough' said my auntgaily'and his dislikes
are not at all feeble. He has a good many years before himno
doubt. But if you want a dog to race withLittle Blossomhe has
lived too well for thatand I'll give you one.'

'Thank youaunt' said Dorafaintly. 'But don'tplease!'

'No?' said my aunttaking off her spectacles.

'I couldn't have any other dog but Jip' said Dora. 'It would be
so unkind to Jip! BesidesI couldn't be such friends with any
other dog but Jip; because he wouldn't have known me before I was
marriedand wouldn't have barked at Doady when he first came to
our house. I couldn't care for any other dog but JipI am afraid
aunt.'

'To be sure!' said my auntpatting her cheek again. 'You are
right.'

'You are not offended' said Dora. 'Are you?'

'Whywhat a sensitive pet it is!' cried my auntbending over her
affectionately. 'To think that I could be offended!'

'NonoI didn't really think so' returned Dora; 'but I am a
little tiredand it made me silly for a moment - I am always a
silly little thingyou knowbut it made me more silly - to talk


about Jip. He has known me in all that has happened to mehaven't
youJip? And I couldn't bear to slight himbecause he was a
little altered - could IJip?'

Jip nestled closer to his mistressand lazily licked her hand.

'You are not so oldJipare youthat you'll leave your mistress
yet?' said Dora. 'We may keep one another company a little
longer!'

My pretty Dora! When she came down to dinner on the ensuing Sunday
and was so glad to see old Traddles (who always dined with us on
Sunday)we thought she would be 'running about as she used to do'
in a few days. But they saidwait a few days more; and thenwait
a few days more; and still she neither ran nor walked. She looked
very prettyand was very merry; but the little feet that used to
be so nimble when they danced round Jipwere dull and motionless.

I began to carry her downstairs every morningand upstairs every
night. She would clasp me round the neck and laughthe whileas
if I did it for a wager. Jip would bark and caper round usand go
on beforeand look back on the landingbreathing shortto see
that we were coming. My auntthe best and most cheerful of
nurseswould trudge after usa moving mass of shawls and pillows.
Mr. Dick would not have relinquished his post of candle-bearer to
anyone alive. Traddles would be often at the bottom of the
staircaselooking onand taking charge of sportive messages from
Dora to the dearest girl in the world. We made quite a gay
procession of itand my child-wife was the gayest there.

Butsometimeswhen I took her upand felt that she was lighter
in my armsa dead blank feeling came upon meas if I were
approaching to some frozen region yet unseenthat numbed my life.
I avoided the recognition of this feeling by any nameor by any
communing with myself; until one nightwhen it was very strong
upon meand my aunt had left her with a parting cry of 'Good
nightLittle Blossom' I sat down at my desk aloneand cried to
thinkOh what a fatal name it wasand how the blossom withered in
its bloom upon the tree!

CHAPTER 49
I AM INVOLVED IN MYSTERY

I received one morning by the postthe following letterdated
Canterburyand addressed to me at Doctor's Commons; which I read
with some surprise:

'MY DEAR SIR

'Circumstances beyond my individual control havefor a
considerable lapse of timeeffected a severance of that intimacy
whichin the limited opportunities conceded to me in the midst of
my professional dutiesof contemplating the scenes and events of
the pasttinged by the prismatic hues of memoryhas ever afforded
meas it ever must continue to affordgratifying emotions of no
common description. This factmy dear sircombined with the
distinguished elevation to which your talents have raised you
deters me from presuming to aspire to the liberty of addressing the
companion of my youthby the familiar appellation of Copperfield!
It is sufficient to know that the name to which I do myself the
honour to referwill 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 onesituatedthrough his original errors and a
fortuitous combination of unpropitious eventsas 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 notI repeatfor
one so circumstancedto adopt the language of complimentor of
congratulation. That he leaves to abler and to purer hands.

'If your more important avocations should admit of your ever
tracing these imperfect characters thus far - which may beor may
not beas circumstances arise - you will naturally inquire by what
object am I influencedthenin inditing the present missive?
Allow me to say that I fully defer to the reasonable character of
that inquiryand proceed to develop it; premising that it is not
an object of a pecuniary nature.

'Without more directly referring to any latent ability that may
possibly exist on my partof wielding the thunderboltor
directing the devouring and avenging flame in any quarterI may be
permitted to observein passingthat my brightest visions are for
ever dispelled - that my peace is shattered and my power of
enjoyment destroyed - that my heart is no longer in the right place

-and that I no more walk erect before my fellow man. The canker
is in the flower. The cup is bitter to the brim. The worm is at
his workand will soon dispose of his victim. The sooner the
better. But I will not digress.
'Placed in a mental position of peculiar painfulnessbeyond the
assuaging reach even of Mrs. Micawber's influencethough exercised
in the tripartite character of womanwifeand motherit is my
intention to fly from myself for a short periodand devote a
respite of eight-and-forty hours to revisiting some metropolitan
scenes of past enjoyment. Among other havens of domestic
tranquillity and peace of mindmy 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
processthe day after tomorrowat seven in the evening
preciselymy object in this epistolary communication is
accomplished.
'I do not feel warranted in soliciting my former friend Mr.
Copperfieldor my former friend Mr. Thomas Traddles of the Inner
Templeif that gentleman is still existent and forthcomingto
condescend to meet meand renew (so far as may be) our past
relations of the olden time. I confine myself to throwing out the
observationthatat the hour and place I have indicatedmay be
found such ruined vestiges as yet

'Remain

'Of

'A

'Fallen Tower

'WILKINS MICAWBER.

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

I read the letter over several times. Making due allowance for Mr.
Micawber's lofty style of compositionand for the extraordinary
relish with which he sat down and wrote long letters on all
possible and impossible occasionsI still believed that something


important lay hidden at the bottom of this roundabout
communication. I put it downto think about it; and took it up
againto read it once more; and was still pursuing itwhen
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 judgement at a most
opportune time. I have received a very singular letterTraddles
from Mr. Micawber.'

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

With thatTraddleswho was flushed with walkingand whose hair
under the combined effects of exercise and excitementstood on end
as if he saw a cheerful ghostproduced his letter and made an
exchange with me. I watched him into the heart of Mr. Micawber's
letterand returned the elevation of eyebrows with which he said
'Wielding the thunderbolt, or directing the devouring and avenging
flame!Bless meCopperfield!'- and then entered on the perusal of
Mrs. Micawber's epistle.

It ran thus:

'My best regards to Mr. Thomas Traddlesand if he should still
remember one who formerly had the happiness of being well
acquainted with himmay I beg a few moments of his leisure time?
I assure Mr. T. T. that I would not intrude upon his kindnesswere
I in any other position than on the confines of distraction.

'Though harrowing to myself to mentionthe alienation of Mr.
Micawber (formerly so domesticated) from his wife and familyis
the cause of my addressing my unhappy appeal to Mr. Traddlesand
soliciting his best indulgence. Mr. T. can form no adequate idea
of the change in Mr. Micawber's conductof his wildnessof his
violence. It has gradually augmenteduntil it assumes the
appearance of aberration of intellect. Scarcely a day passesI
assure Mr. Traddleson which some paroxysm does not take place.
Mr. T. will not require me to depict my feelingswhen I inform him
that I have become accustomed to hear Mr. Micawber assert that he
has sold himself to the D. Mystery and secrecy have long been his
principal characteristichave long replaced unlimited confidence.
The slightest provocationeven being asked if there is anything he
would prefer for dinnercauses him to express a wish for a
separation. Last nighton being childishly solicited for
twopenceto buy 'lemon-stunners' - a local sweetmeat - he
presented an oyster-knife at the twins!

'I entreat Mr. Traddles to bear with me in entering into these
details. Without themMr. T. would indeed find it difficult to
form the faintest conception of my heart-rending situation.

'May I now venture to confide to Mr. T. the purport of my letter?
Will he now allow me to throw myself on his friendly consideration?
Oh yesfor I know his heart!

'The quick eye of affection is not easily blindedwhen of the
female sex. Mr. Micawber is going to London. Though he studiously
concealed his handthis morning before breakfastin writing the
direction-card which he attached to the little brown valise of
happier daysthe eagle-glance of matrimonial anxiety detectedd
ondistinctly traced. The West-End destination of the coachis
the Golden Cross. Dare I fervently implore Mr. T. to see my


misguided husbandand to reason with him? Dare I ask Mr. T. to
endeavour to step in between Mr. Micawber and his agonized family?
Oh nofor that would be too much!

'If Mr. Copperfield should yet remember one unknown to famewill
Mr. T. take charge of my unalterable regards and similar
entreaties? In any casehe will have the benevolence to consider
this communication strictly privateand on no account whatever to
be alluded tohowever distantlyin the presence of Mr. Micawber.
If Mr. T. should ever reply to it (which I cannot but feel to be
most improbable)a letter addressed to M. E.Post Office
Canterburywill be fraught with less painful consequences than any
addressed immediately to onewho subscribes herselfin extreme
distress

'Mr. Thomas Traddles's respectful friend and suppliant

'EMMA MICAWBER.'

'What do you think of that letter?' said Traddlescasting his eyes
upon mewhen 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 togetherCopperfield' replied Traddles
'mean more than Mr. and Mrs. Micawber usually mean in their
correspondence - but I don't know what. They are both written in
good faithI have no doubtand without any collusion. Poor
thing!' he was now alluding to Mrs. Micawber's letterand we were
standing side by side comparing the two; 'it will be a charity to
write to herat all eventsand tell her that we will not fail to
see Mr. Micawber.'

I acceded to this the more readilybecause I now reproached myself
with having treated her former letter rather lightly. It had set
me thinking a good deal at the timeas I have mentioned in its
place; but my absorption in my own affairsmy experience of the
familyand my hearing nothing morehad gradually ended in my
dismissing the subject. I had often thought of the Micawbersbut
chiefly to wonder what 'pecuniary liabilities' they were
establishing in Canterburyand to recall how shy Mr. Micawber was
of me when he became clerk to Uriah Heep.

HoweverI now wrote a comforting letter to Mrs. Micawberin our
joint namesand we both signed it. As we walked into town to post
itTraddles and I held a long conferenceand launched into a
number of speculationswhich I need not repeat. We took my aunt
into our counsels in the afternoon; but our only decided conclusion
wasthat 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 timewe found Mr. Micawber already there. He was
standing with his arms foldedover against the walllooking at
the spikes on the topwith a sentimental expressionas if they
were the interlacing boughs of trees that had shaded him in his
youth.

When we accosted himhis manner was something more confusedand
something less genteelthan of yore. He had relinquished his
legal suit of black for the purposes of this excursionand wore
the old surtout and tightsbut not quite with the old air. He


gradually picked up more and more of it as we conversed with him;
buthis very eye-glass seemed to hang less easilyand his
shirt-collarthough still of the old formidable dimensionsrather
drooped.

'Gentlemen!' said Mr. Micawberafter the first salutations'you
are friends in needand friends indeed. Allow me to offer my
inquiries with reference to the physical welfare of Mrs.
Copperfield in esseand Mrs. Traddles in posse- presumingthat
is to saythat my friend Mr. Traddles is not yet united to the
object of his affectionsfor weal and for woe.'

We acknowledged his politenessand made suitable replies. He then
directed our attention to the walland was beginning'I assure
yougentlemen' when I ventured to object to that ceremonious form
of addressand to beg that he would speak to us in the old way.

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

'Made soI am sureby Mrs. Micawber' said I. 'I hope she is
well?'

'Thank you' returned Mr. Micawberwhose face clouded at this
reference'she is but so-so. And this' said Mr. Micawber
nodding his head sorrowfully'is the Bench! Wherefor the first
time in many revolving yearsthe overwhelming pressure of
pecuniary liabilities was not proclaimedfrom day to dayby
importune 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 requiredand detainees 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 reflected on the gravel of the ParadeI have seen my children
thread the mazes of the intricate patternavoiding the dark marks.
I have been familiar with every stone in the place. If I betray
weaknessyou will know how to excuse me.'

'We have all got on in life since thenMr. Micawber' said I.

'Mr. Copperfield' returned Mr. Micawberbitterly'when I was an
inmate of that retreat I could look my fellow-man in the faceand
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 mannerMr. Micawber
accepted my proffered arm on one sideand the proffered arm of
Traddles on the otherand walked away between us.

'There are some landmarks' observed Mr. Micawberlooking fondly
back over his shoulder'on the road to the tombwhichbut for
the impiety of the aspirationa man would wish never to have
passed. Such is the Bench in my chequered career.'

'Ohyou are in low spiritsMr. Micawber' said Traddles.

'I amsir' interposed Mr. Micawber.

'I hope' said Traddles'it is not because you have conceived a
dislike to the law - for I am a lawyer myselfyou know.'


Mr. Micawber answered not a word.

'How is our friend HeepMr. Micawber?' said Iafter a silence.

'My dear Copperfield' returned Mr. Micawberbursting into a state
of much excitementand turning pale'if you ask after my employer
as your friendI am sorry for it; if you ask after him as MY
friendI sardonically smile at it. In whatever capacity you ask
after my employerI begwithout offence to youto limit my reply
to this - that whatever his state of health may behis appearance
is foxy: not to say diabolical. You will allow meas a private
individualto decline pursuing a subject which has lashed me to
the utmost verge of desperation in my professional capacity.'

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

'Miss Wickfield' said Mr. Micawbernow turning red'isas she
always isa patternand a bright example. My dear Copperfield
she is the only starry spot in a miserable existence. My respect
for that young ladymy admiration of her charactermy devotion to
her for her love and truthand goodness! - Take me' said Mr.
Micawber'down a turningforupon my soulin my present state
of mind I am not equal to this!'

We wheeled him off into a narrow streetwhere he took out his
pocket-handkerchiefand stood with his back to a wall. If I
looked as gravely at him as Traddles didhe must have found our
company by no means inspiriting.

'It is my fate' said Mr. Micawberunfeignedly sobbingbut doing
even thatwith a shadow of the old expression of doing something
genteel; 'it is my fategentlementhat 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 meif you
pleaseto walk the earth as a vagabond. The worm will settle my
business in double-quick time.'

Without attending to this invocationwe stood byuntil he put up
his pocket-handkerchiefpulled up his shirt-collarandto delude
any person in the neighbourhood who might have been observing him
hummed a tune with his hat very much on one side. I then mentioned

-not knowing what might be lost if we lost sight of him yet - that
it would give me great pleasure to introduce him to my auntif he
would ride out to Highgatewhere a bed was at his service.
'You shall make us a glass of your own punchMr. Micawber' said
I'and forget whatever you have on your mindin pleasanter
reminiscences.'

'Orif confiding anything to friends will be more likely to
relieve youyou shall impart it to usMr. Micawber' said
Traddlesprudently.

'Gentlemen' returned Mr. Micawber'do with me as you will! I am
a straw upon the surface of the deepand am tossed in all
directions by the elephants - I beg your pardon; I should have said
the elements.'

We walked onarm-in-armagain; found the coach in the act of
starting; and arrived at Highgate without encountering any


difficulties by the way. I was very uneasy and very uncertain in
my mind what to say or do for the best - so was Traddles
evidently. Mr. Micawber was for the most part plunged into deep
gloom. He occasionally made an attempt to smarten himselfand 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 sideand a shirt-collar pulled up to his eyes.

We went to my aunt's house rather than to minebecause of Dora's
not being well. My aunt presented herself on being sent forand
welcomed Mr. Micawber with gracious cordiality. Mr. Micawber
kissed her handretired to the windowand pulling out his
pocket-handkerchiefhad a mental wrestle with himself.

Mr. Dick was at home. He was by nature so exceedingly
compassionate of anyone who seemed to be ill at easeand was so
quick to find any such person outthat he shook hands with Mr.
Micawberat least half-a-dozen times in five minutes. To Mr.
Micawberin his troublethis warmthon the part of a stranger
was so extremely touchingthat he could only sayon the occasion
of each successive shake'My dear siryou overpower me!' Which
gratified Mr. Dick so muchthat he went at it again with greater
vigour than before.

'The friendliness of this gentleman' said Mr. Micawber to my aunt
'if you will allow mema'amto cull a figure of speech from the
vocabulary of our coarser national sports - floors me. To a man
who is struggling with a complicated burden of perplexity and
disquietsuch a reception is tryingI 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. Dickwith an anxious look.

'Indifferentmy dear sir' returned Mr. Micawbersighing.

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

Mr. Micawber was quite overcome by these friendly wordsand by
finding Mr. Dick's hand again within his own. 'It has been my
lot' he observed'to meetin the diversified panorama of human
existencewith an occasional oasisbut never with one so green
so gushingas the present!'

At another time I should have been amused by this; but I felt that
we were all constrained and uneasyand I watched Mr. Micawber so
anxiouslyin his vacillations between an evident disposition to
reveal somethingand a counter-disposition to reveal nothingthat
I was in a perfect fever. Traddlessitting on the edge of his
chairwith his eyes wide openand his hair more emphatically
erect than everstared by turns at the ground and at Mr. Micawber
without so much as attempting to put in a word. My auntthough I
saw that her shrewdest observation was concentrated on her new
guesthad more useful possession of her wits than either of us;
for she held him in conversationand made it necessary for him to
talkwhether he liked it or not.

'You are a very old friend of my nephew'sMr. Micawber' said my


aunt. 'I wish I had had the pleasure of seeing you before.'

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

'I hope Mrs. Micawber and your family are wellsir' said my aunt.

Mr. Micawber inclined his head. 'They are as wellma'am' he
desperately observed after a pause'as Aliens and Outcasts can
ever hope to be.'

'Lord bless yousir!' exclaimed my auntin her abrupt way. 'What
are you talking about?'

'The subsistence of my familyma'am' returned Mr. Micawber
'trembles in the balance. My employer -'

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

'Your employeryou know' said Mr. Dickjogging his arm as a
gentle reminder.

'My good sir' returned Mr. Micawber'you recall meI am obliged
to you.' They shook hands again. 'My employerma'am - Mr. Heep
- once did me the favour to observe to methat if I were not in
the receipt of the stipendiary emoluments appertaining to my
engagement with himI should probably be a mountebank about the
countryswallowing a sword-bladeand eating the devouring
element. For anything that I can perceive to the contraryit is
still probable that my children may be reduced to seek a livelihood
by personal contortionwhile Mrs. Micawber abets their unnatural
feats by playing the barrel-organ.'

Mr. Micawberwith 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 herand eyed him attentively. Notwithstanding the
aversion with which I regarded the idea of entrapping him into any
disclosure he was not prepared to make voluntarilyI should have
taken him up at this pointbut for the strange proceedings in
which I saw him engaged; whereof his putting the lemon-peel into
the kettlethe sugar into the snuffer-traythe spirit into the
empty jugand confidently attempting to pour boiling water out of
a candlestickwere among the most remarkable. I saw that a crisis
was at handand it came. He clattered all his means and
implements togetherrose from his chairpulled out his
pocket-handkerchiefand burst into tears.

'My dear Copperfield' said Mr. Micawberbehind his handkerchief
'this is an occupationof all othersrequiring an untroubled
mindand self-respect. I cannot perform it. It is out of the
question.'

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

'Among friendssir!' repeated Mr. Micawber; and all he had
reserved came breaking out of him. 'Good heavensit is


principally because I AM among friends that my state of mind is
what it is. What is the mattergentlemen? What is NOT the
matter? Villainy is the matter; baseness is the matter; deception
fraudconspiracyare the matter; and the name of the whole
atrocious mass is - HEEP!'

MY aunt clapped her handsand we all started up as if we were
possessed.

'The struggle is over!' said Mr. Micawber violently gesticulating
with his pocket-handkerchiefand fairly striking out from time to
time with both armsas if he were swimming under superhuman
difficulties. 'I will lead this life no longer. I am a wretched
beingcut off from everything that makes life tolerable. I have
been under a Taboo in that infernal scoundrel's service. Give me
back my wifegive me back my familysubstitute Micawber for the
petty wretch who walks about in the boots at present on my feet
and call upon me to swallow a sword tomorrowand I'll do it. With
an appetite!'

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

'I'll put my hand in no man's hand' said Mr. Micawbergasping
puffingand sobbingto that degree that he was like a man
fighting with cold water'until I have - blown to fragments - the

-a - detestable - serpent - HEEP! I'll partake of no one's
hospitalityuntil I have - a - moved Mount Vesuvius - to eruption
- on - a - the abandoned rascal - HEEP! Refreshment - a underneath
this roof - particularly punch - would - a - choke me unless
- I had - previously - choked the eyes - out of the head a
- of - interminable cheatand liar - HEEP! I - a- I'll know
nobody - and - a - say nothing - and - a - live nowhere - until I
have crushed - to - a - undiscoverable atoms - the - transcendent
and immortal hypocrite and perjurer - HEEP!'
I really had some fear of Mr. Micawber's dying on the spot. The
manner in which he struggled through these inarticulate sentences
andwhenever he found himself getting near the name of Heep
fought his way on to itdashed at it in a fainting stateand
brought it out with a vehemence little less than marvellouswas
frightful; but nowwhen he sank into a chairsteamingand looked
at uswith every possible colour in his face that had no business
thereand an endless procession of lumps following one another in
hot haste up his throatwhence they seemed to shoot into his
foreheadhe had the appearance of being in the last extremity.
would have gone to his assistancebut he waved me offand
wouldn't hear a word.

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

With this last repetition of the magic word that had kept him going


at alland in which he surpassed all his previous effortsMr.
Micawber rushed out of the house; leaving us in a state of
excitementhopeand wonderthat 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 excitementhopeand wonderthe following pastoral note
was brought to me from a neighbouring tavernat which he had
called to write it:


'Most secret and confidential.
'MY DEAR SIR

'I beg to be allowed to conveythrough youmy apologies to your
excellent aunt for my late excitement. An explosion of a
smouldering volcano long suppressedwas the result of an internal
contest more easily conceived than described.

'I trust I rendered tolerably intelligible my appointment for the
morning of this day weekat the house of public entertainment at
Canterburywhere Mrs. Micawber and myself had once the honour of
uniting our voices to yoursin the well-known strain of the
Immortal exciseman nurtured beyond the Tweed.

'The duty doneand act of reparation performedwhich can alone
enable me to contemplate my fellow mortalI shall be known no
more. I shall simply require to be deposited in that place of
universal resortwhere

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep

'- With the plain Inscription

'WILKINS MICAWBER.'

CHAPTER 50
Mr. PEGGOTTY'S DREAM COMES TRUE

By this timesome months had passed since our interview on the
bank of the river with Martha. I had never seen her sincebut she
had communicated with Mr. Peggotty on several occasions. Nothing
had come of her zealous intervention; nor could I inferfrom what
he told methat any clue had been obtainedfor a momentto
Emily's fate. I confess that I began to despair of her recovery
and gradually to sink deeper and deeper into the belief that she
was dead.

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

His was not a lazy trustfulness that hopedand did no more. He
had been a man of sturdy action all his lifeand he knew that in
all things wherein he wanted help he must do his own part
faithfullyand help himself. I have known him set out in the


nighton a misgiving that the light might not beby some
accidentin the window of the old boatand walk to Yarmouth. I
have known himon reading something in the newspaper that might
apply to hertake up his stickand go forth on a journey of
three- or four-score miles. He made his way by sea to Naplesand
backafter hearing the narrative to which Miss Dartle had assisted
me. All his journeys were ruggedly performed; for he was always
steadfast in a purpose of saving money for Emily's sakewhen she
should be found. In all this long pursuitI never heard him
repine; I never heard him say he was fatiguedor out of heart.

Dora had often seen him since our marriageand was quite fond of
him. I fancy his figure before me nowstanding near her sofa
with his rough cap in his handand the blue eyes of my child-wife
raisedwith a timid wonderto his face. Sometimes of an evening
about twilightwhen he came to talk with meI would induce him to
smoke his pipe in the gardenas we slowly paced to and fro
together; and thenthe picture of his deserted homeand the
comfortable air it used to have in my childish eyes of an evening
when the fire was burningand the wind moaning round itcame most
vividly into my mind.

One eveningat this hourhe 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 herMas'r Davy' he replied'but it is but few words as
she ever saysand she on'y got my promise and so went away.'

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

'NoMas'r Davy' he returneddrawing his hand thoughtfully down
his face. 'I asked that too; but it was more (she said) than she
could tell.'

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

I was walking alone in the gardenone eveningabout a fortnight
afterwards. I remember that evening well. It was the second in
Mr. Micawber's week of suspense. There had been rain all dayand
there was a damp feeling in the air. The leaves were thick upon
the treesand heavy with wet; but the rain had ceasedthough the
sky was still dark; and the hopeful birds were singing cheerfully.
As I walked to and fro in the gardenand the twilight began to
close around metheir little voices were hushed; and that peculiar
silence which belongs to such an evening in the country when the
lightest trees are quite stillsave for the occasional droppings
from their boughsprevailed.

There was a little green perspective of trellis-work and ivy at the
side of our cottagethrough which I could seefrom the garden
where I was walkinginto the road before the house. I happened to
turn my eyes towards this placeas I was thinking of many things;
and I saw a figure beyonddressed in a plain cloak. It was
bending eagerly towards meand beckoning.

'Martha!' said Igoing to it.


'Can you come with me?' she inquiredin an agitated whisper. 'I
have been to himand he is not at home. I wrote down where he was
to comeand 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 wasto pass out at the gate immediately. She made a
hasty gesture with her handas if to entreat my patience and my
silenceand turned towards Londonwhenceas her dress betokened
she had come expeditiously on foot.

I asked her if that were not our destination? On her motioning
Yeswith the same hasty gesture as beforeI stopped an empty
coach that was coming byand we got into it. When I asked her
where the coachman was to driveshe answered'Anywhere near
Golden Square! And quick!' - then shrunk into a cornerwith one
trembling hand before her faceand the other making the former
gestureas if she could not bear a voice.

Now much disturbedand dazzled with conflicting gleams of hope and
dreadI looked at her for some explanation. But seeing how
strongly she desired to remain quietand feeling that it was my
own natural inclination tooat such a timeI did not attempt to
break the silence. We proceeded without a word being spoken.
Sometimes she glanced out of the windowas though she thought we
were going slowlythough indeed we were going fast; but otherwise
remained exactly as at first.

We alighted at one of the entrances to the Square she had
mentionedwhere I directed the coach to waitnot 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 streetsof which there are
several in that partwhere the houses were once fair dwellings in
the occupation of single familiesbut haveand hadlong
degenerated into poor lodgings let off in rooms. Entering at the
open door of one of theseand releasing my armshe beckoned me to
follow her up the common staircasewhich was like a tributary
channel to the street.

The house swarmed with inmates. As we went updoors of rooms were
opened and people's heads put out; and we passed other people on
the stairswho were coming down. In glancing up from the outside
before we enteredI had seen women and children lolling at the
windows over flower-pots; and we seemed to have attracted their
curiosityfor these were principally the observers who looked out
of their doors. It was a broad panelled staircasewith massive
balustrades of some dark wood; cornices above the doorsornamented
with carved fruit and flowers; and broad seats in the windows. But
all these tokens of past grandeur were miserably decayed and dirty;
rotdampand agehad weakened the flooringwhich in many places
was unsound and even unsafe. Some attempts had been madeI
noticedto infuse new blood into this dwindling frameby
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
pauperand 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 remainedthere was
scarcely any glass; andthrough the crumbling frames by which the
bad air seemed always to come inand never to go outI saw
through other glassless windowsinto other houses in a similar
conditionand looked giddily down into a wretched yardwhich was
the common dust-heap of the mansion.

We proceeded to the top-storey of the house. Two or three times


by the wayI 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 roofwe caught a full
view of this figure pausing for a momentat a door. Then it
turned the handleand went in.

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

I knew her. I had recognized her with amazementfor Miss Dartle.

I said something to the effect that it was a lady whom I had seen
beforein a few wordsto my conductress; and had scarcely done
sowhen we heard her voice in the roomthough notfrom where we
stoodwhat she was saying. Marthawith an astonished look
repeated her former actionand softly led me up the stairs; and
thenby a little back-door which seemed to have no lockand which
she pushed open with a touchinto a small empty garret with a low
sloping rooflittle better than a cupboard. Between thisand the
room she had called hersthere was a small door of communication
standing partly open. Here we stoppedbreathless with our ascent
and she placed her hand lightly on my lips. I could only seeof
the room beyondthat 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 Dartleor the person whom we had
heard her address. Certainlymy companion could notfor my
position was the best.
A dead silence prevailed for some moments. Martha kept one hand on
my lipsand 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 ita 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 toneits cold stern
sharpnessand its mastered ragepresented her before meas if I
had seen her standing in the light. I saw the flashing black eyes
and the passion-wasted figure; and I saw the scarwith its white
track cutting through her lipsquivering and throbbing as she
spoke.

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

There was a rustleas if the unhappy girlon whom she heaped
these tauntsran towards the doorand the speaker swiftly
interposed herself before it. It was succeeded by a moment's
pause.

When Miss Dartle spoke againit was through her set teethand
with a stamp upon the ground.

'Stay there!' she said'or I'll proclaim you to the houseand the
whole street! If you try to evade meI'll stop youif it's by the


hairand 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 interviewI felt that I had no right to
present myself; that it was for Mr. Peggotty alone to see her and
recover her. Would he never come? I thought impatiently.

'So!' said Rosa Dartlewith a contemptuous laugh'I see her at
last! Whyhe was a poor creature to be taken by that delicate
mock-modestyand that hanging head!'

'Ohfor Heaven's sakespare me!' exclaimed Emily. 'Whoever you
areyou know my pitiable storyand for Heaven's sake spare meif
you would be spared yourself!'

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

'Nothing but our sex' said Emilywith a burst of tears.

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

'I have deserved this' said Emily'but it's dreadful! Deardear
ladythink what I have sufferedand how I am fallen! OhMartha
come back! Ohhomehome!'

Miss Dartle placed herself in a chairwithin view of the doorand
looked downwardas if Emily were crouching on the floor before
her. Being now between me and the lightI could see her curled
lipand her cruel eyes intently fixed on one placewith 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 smilesyou purchased slave.'

'Ohhave some mercy on me!' cried Emily. 'Show me some
compassionor 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?'

'Ohis there ever night or daywhen I don't think of it!' cried
Emily; and now I could just see heron her kneeswith her head
thrown backher pale face looking upwardher hands wildly clasped
and held outand her hair streaming about her. 'Has there ever
been a single minutewaking or sleepingwhen it hasn't been
before mejust as it used to be in the lost days when I turned my
back upon it for ever and for ever! Ohhomehome! Oh deardear
uncleif you ever could have known the agony your love would cause
me when I fell away from goodyou never would have shown it to me
so constantmuch as you felt it; but would have been angry to me
at least once in my lifethat I might have had some comfort! I
have nonenoneno comfort upon earthfor all of them were always
fond of me!' She dropped on her facebefore the imperious figure
in the chairwith an imploring effort to clasp the skirt of her
dress.

Rosa Dartle sat looking down upon heras inflexible as a figure of


brass. Her lips were tightly compressedas if she knew that she
must keep a strong constraint upon herself - I write what I
sincerely believe - or she would be tempted to strike the beautiful
form with her foot. I saw herdistinctlyand the whole power of
her face and character seemed forced into that expression. - Would
he never come?

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

'Ohnot that!' cried Emily. 'Say anything of me; but don't visit
my disgrace and shamemore than I have doneon folks who are as
honourable as you! Have some respect for themas you are a lady
if you have no mercy for me.'

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

'No! no!' cried Emilyclasping her hands together. 'When he first
came into my way - that the day had never dawned upon meand he
had met me being carried to my grave! - I had been brought up as
virtuous as you or any ladyand was going to be the wife of as
good a man as you or any lady in the world can ever marry. If you
live in his home and know himyou knowperhapswhat his power
with a weakvain girl might be. I don't defend myselfbut I know
welland he knows wellor he will know when he comes to dieand
his mind is troubled with itthat he used all his power to deceive
meand that I believed himtrusted himand loved him!'

Rosa Dartle sprang up from her seat; recoiled; and in recoiling
struck at herwith a face of such malignityso darkened and
disfigured by passionthat I had almost thrown myself between
them. The blowwhich had no aimfell upon the air. As she now
stood pantinglooking at her with the utmost detestation that she
was capable of expressingand trembling from head to foot with
rage and scornI thought I had never seen such a sightand never
could see such another.

'YOU love him? You?' she criedwith her clenched handquivering
as if it only wanted a weapon to stab the object of her wrath.

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

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

And so she wouldI have no doubt. I would not have trusted her
with the rack itselfwhile that furious look lasted.
She slowlyvery slowlybroke into a laughand pointed at Emily
with her handas 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. Haha! The liars that these traders are!'

Her mockery was worse than her undisguised rage. Of the twoI
would have much preferred to be the object of the latter. But
when she suffered it to break looseit was only for a moment. She
had chained it up againand however it might tear her withinshe
subdued it to herself.

'I came hereyou pure fountain of love' she said'to see - as I
began by telling you - what such a thing as you was like. I was
curious. I am satisfied. Also to tell youthat you had best seek
that home of yourswith all speedand hide your head among those
excellent people who are expecting youand whom your money will
console. When it's all goneyou can believeand trustand love
againyou know! I thought you a broken toy that had lasted its
time; a worthless spangle that was tarnishedand thrown away.
Butfinding you true golda very ladyand an ill-used innocent
with a fresh heart full of love and trustfulness - which you look
likeand is quite consistent with your story! - I have something
more to say. Attend to it; for what I say I'll do. Do you hear
meyou fairy spirit? What I sayI mean to do!'

Her rage got the better of her againfor a moment; but it passed
over her face like a spasmand left her smiling.

'Hide yourself' she pursued'if not at homesomewhere. Let it
be somewhere beyond reach; in some obscure life - orbetter still
in some obscure death. I wonderif your loving heart will not
breakyou 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 cryingon the part of Emilyinterrupted her here. She
stoppedand listened to it as if it were music.

'I am of a strange natureperhaps' Rosa Dartle went on; 'but I
can't breathe freely in the air you breathe. I find it sickly.
ThereforeI will have it cleared; I will have it purified of you.
If you live here tomorrowI'll have your story and your character
proclaimed on the common stair. There are decent women in the
houseI am told; and it is a pity such a light as you should be
among themand concealed. Ifleaving hereyou seek any refuge
in this town in any character but your true one (which you are
welcome to bearwithout molestation from me)the same service
shall be done youif I hear of your retreat. Being assisted by a
gentleman who not long ago aspired to the favour of your handI am
sanguine as to that.'

Would he nevernever come? How long was I to bear this? How long
could I bear it?
'Oh meoh me!' exclaimed the wretched Emilyin a tone that might
have touched the hardest heartI should have thought; but there
was no relenting in Rosa Dartle's smile. 'Whatwhatshall I do!'

'Do?' returned the other. 'Live happy in your own reflections!
Consecrate your existence to the recollection of James Steerforth's
tenderness - he would have made you his serving-man's wifewould
he not? - or to feeling grateful to the upright and deserving
creature who would have taken you as his gift. Orif those proud
remembrancesand the consciousness of your own virtuesand the
honourable position to which they have raised you in the eyes of
everything that wears the human shapewill not sustain youmarry
that good manand be happy in his condescension. If this will not


do eitherdie! There are doorways and dust-heaps for such deaths
and such despair - find oneand take your flight to Heaven!'

I heard a distant foot upon the stairs. I knew itI was certain.
It was histhank God!

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

'But mark!' she addedslowly and sternlyopening the other door
to go away'I am resolvedfor reasons that I have and hatreds
that I entertainto cast you outunless you withdraw from my
reach altogetheror drop your pretty mask. This is what I had to
say; and what I sayI mean to do!'

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

'Uncle!'

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

'Mas'r Davy' he saidin a low tremulous voicewhen it was
covered'I thank my Heav'nly Father as my dream's come true! I
thank Him hearty for having guided of mein His own waysto my
darling!'

With those words he took her up in his arms; andwith the veiled
face lying on his bosomand addressed towards his owncarried
hermotionless and unconsciousdown the stairs.

CHAPTER 51
THE BEGINNING OF A LONGER JOURNEY

It was yet early in the morning of the following daywhenas I
was walking in my garden with my aunt (who took little other
exercise nowbeing 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-wayon my going towards the gate; and bared
his headas it was always his custom to do when he saw my aunt
for whom he had a high respect. I had been telling her all that
had happened overnight. Without saying a wordshe walked up with
a cordial faceshook hands with himand patted him on the arm.
It was so expressively donethat 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 nowTrot' said my aunt'and look after Little
Blossomwho will be getting up presently.'

'Not along of my being heerma'amI hope?' said Mr. Peggotty.
'Unless my wits is gone a bahd's neezing' - by which Mr. Peggotty
meant to saybird's-nesting - 'this morning'tis along of me as
you're a-going to quit us?'

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


'By your leavema'am' returned Mr. Peggotty'I should take it
kindpervising you doen't mind my clickettenif you'd bide heer.'

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

Soshe drew her arm through Mr. Peggotty'sand walked with him to
a leafy little summer-house there was at the bottom of the garden
where she sat down on a benchand I beside her. There was a seat
for Mr. Peggotty toobut he preferred to standleaning his hand
on the small rustic table. As he stoodlooking at his cap for a
little while before beginning to speakI could not help observing
what power and force of character his sinewy hand expressedand
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 beganas he
raised his eyes to ours'to my lodgingwheer I have a long time
been expecting of her and preparing fur her. It was hours afore
she knowed me right; and when she didshe kneeled down at my feet
and kiender said to meas if it was her prayershow it all come
to be. You may believe mewhen I heerd her voiceas I had heerd
at home so playful - and see her humbledas it might be in the
dust our Saviour wrote in with his blessed hand - I felt a wownd go
to my 'artin the midst of all its thankfulness.'

He drew his sleeve across his facewithout any pretence of
concealing why; and then cleared his voice.

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

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

Mr. Peggottywith the shadows of the leaves playing athwart his
facemade a surprised inclination of the head towards my auntas
an acknowledgement of her good opinion; then took up the thread he
had relinquished.

'When my Em'ly took flight' he saidin stern wrath for the
moment'from the house wheer she was made a prisoner by that theer
spotted snake as Mas'r Davy see- and his story's trewand may
GOD confound him! - she took flight in the night. It was a dark
nightwith a many stars a-shining. She was wild. She ran along
the sea beachbelieving the old boat was theer; and calling out to
us to turn away our facesfor she was a-coming by. She heerd
herself a-crying outlike as if it was another person; and cut
herself on them sharp-pinted stones and rocksand felt it no more
than if she had been rock herself. Ever so fur she runand there
was fire afore her eyesand roarings in her ears. Of a sudden or
so she thowtyou unnerstand - the day brokewet and windyand
she was lying b'low a heap of stone upon the shoreand a woman was
a-speaking to hersayingin the language of that countrywhat
was it as had gone so much amiss?'

He saw everything he related. It passed before himas he spoke
so vividlythatin the intensity of his earnestnesshe presented
what he described to mewith greater distinctness than I can
express. I can hardly believewriting now long afterwardsbut
that I was actually present in these scenes; they are impressed


upon me with such an astonishing air of fidelity.

'As Em'ly's eyes - which was heavy - see this woman better' Mr.
Peggotty went on'she know'd as she was one of them as she had
often talked to on the beach. Furthough she had run (as I have
said) ever so fur in the nightshe had oftentimes wandered long
wayspartly afootpartly in boats and carriagesand know'd all
that country'long the coastmiles and miles. She hadn't no
children of her ownthis womanbeing a young wife; but she was alooking
to have one afore long. And may my prayers go up to Heaven
that 'twill be a happiness to herand a comfortand a honourall
her life! May it love her and be dootiful to herin her old age;
helpful of her at the last; a Angel to her heerand heerafter!'

'Amen!' said my aunt.

'She had been summat timorous and down' said Mr. Peggottyand had
satat firsta little way offat her spinningor such work as
it waswhen Em'ly talked to the children. But Em'ly had took
notice of herand had gone and spoke to her; and as the young
woman was partial to the children herselfthey had soon made
friends. Sermuchserthat when Em'ly went that wayshe always giv
Em'ly flowers. This was her as now asked what it was that had gone
so much amiss. Em'ly told herand she - took her home. She did
indeed. She took her home' said Mr. Peggottycovering his face.

He was more affected by this act of kindnessthan 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 cottageyou may suppose' he saidpresently
'but she found space for Em'ly in it- her husband was away at
sea- and she kep it secretand prevailed upon such neighbours as
she had (they was not many near) to keep it secret too. Em'ly was
took bad with feverandwhat is very strange to me is- maybe
'tis not so strange to scholars- the language of that country
went out of her headand she could only speak her ownthat no one
unnerstood. She recollectsas if she had dreamed itthat she lay
there always a-talking her own tonguealways believing as the old
boat was round the next pint in the bayand begging and imploring
of 'em to send theer and tell how she was dyingand bring back a
message of forgivenessif it was on'y a wured. A'most the whole
timeshe thowt- nowthat him as I made mention on just now was
lurking for her unnerneath the winder; now that him as had brought
her to this was in the room- and cried to the good young woman
not to give her upand know'dat the same timethat she couldn't
unnerstandand dreaded that she must be took away. Likewise the
fire was afore her eyesand the roarings in her ears; and theer
was no todaynor yesterdaynor yet tomorrow; but everything in
her life as ever had beenor as ever could beand everything as
never had beenand as never could bewas a crowding on her all at
onceand nothing clear nor welcomeand yet she sang and laughed
about it! How long this lastedI doen't know; but then theer come
a sleep; and in that sleepfrom being a many times stronger than
her own selfshe fell into the weakness of the littlest child.'

Here he stoppedas if for relief from the terrors of his own
description. After being silent for a few momentshe pursued his
story.

'It was a pleasant arternoon when she awoke; and so quietthat
there warn't a sound but the rippling of that blue sea without a
tideupon the shore. It was her beliefat firstthat she was at
home upon a Sunday morning; but the vine leaves as she see at the


winderand the hills beyondwarn't homeand contradicted of her.
Thencome 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 morebut was fur off; and know'd where she wasand why; and
broke out a-crying on that good young woman's bosomwheer I hope
her baby is a-lying nowa-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 againendeavouring
to bless her!

'That done my Em'ly good' he resumedafter such emotion as I
could not behold without sharing in; and as to my auntshe wept
with all her heart; 'that done Em'ly goodand she begun to mend.
Butthe language of that country was quite gone from herand she
was forced to make signs. So she went ongetting better from day
to dayslowbut sureand trying to learn the names of common
things - names as she seemed never to have heerd in all her life till
one evening comewhen 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 handand saidwhat would be in English
Fisherman's daughter, here's a shell!- for you are to unnerstand
that they used at first to call her "Pretty lady"as the general
way in that country isand that she had taught 'em to call her
Fisherman's daughterinstead. The child says of a sudden
Fisherman's daughter, here's a shell!Then Em'ly unnerstands her;
and she answersbursting out a-crying; and it all comes back!

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

'Em'ly got to Franceand took service to wait on travelling ladies
at a inn in the port. Theertheer comeone daythat snake. -
Let him never come nigh me. I doen't know what hurt I might do
him! - Soon as she see himwithout him seeing herall her fear
and wildness returned upon herand she fled afore the very breath
he draw'd. She come to Englandand was set ashore at Dover.

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

'She come' said Mr. Peggottydropping his voice to an
awe-stricken whisper'to London. She - as had never seen it in
her life - alone - without a penny - young - so pretty - come to
London. A'most the moment as she lighted heerall 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 doabout
finding plenty of it fur herabout a lodging fur the nightand
making secret inquiration concerning of me and all at home
tomorrow. When my child' he said aloudand 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 - Marthatrew to her promise
saved her.'

I could not repress a cry of joy.

'Mas'r Davy!' said hegripping my hand in that strong hand of his
'it was you as first made mention of her to me. I thankeesir!
She was arnest. She had know'd of her bitter knowledge wheer to
watch and what to do. She had done it. And the Lord was above
all! She comewhite and hurriedupon Em'ly in her sleep. She
says to herRise up from worse than death, and come with me!
Them belonging to the house would have stopped herbut they might
as soon have stopped the sea. "Stand away from me she says, I
am a ghost that calls her from beside her open grave!" She told
Em'ly she had seen meand know'd I loved herand forgive her.
She wrapped herhastyin her clothes. She took herfaint and
tremblingon her arm. She heeded no more what they saidthan if
she had had no ears. She walked among 'em with my childminding
only her; and brought her safe outin the dead of the nightfrom
that black pit of ruin!

'She attended on Em'ly' said Mr. Peggottywho had released my
handand put his own hand on his heaving chest; 'she attended to
my Em'lylying wearied outand wandering betwixt whilestill
late next day. Then she went in search of me; then in search of
youMas'r Davy. She didn't tell Em'ly what she come out furlest
her 'art should failand she should think of hiding of herself.
How the cruel lady know'd of her being theerI can't say. Whether
him as I have spoke so much ofchanced to see 'em going theeror
whether (which is most liketo my thinking) he had heerd it from
the womanI doen't greatly ask myself. My niece is found.

'All night long' said Mr. Peggotty'we have been togetherEm'ly
and me. 'Tis little (considering the time) as she has saidin
wuredsthrough them broken-hearted tears; 'tis less as I have seen
of her dear faceas grow'd into a woman's at my hearth. Butall
night longher arms has been about my neck; and her head has laid
heer; and we knows full wellas we can put our trust in one
anotherever more.'

He ceased to speakand his hand upon the table rested there in
perfect reposewith a resolution in it that might have conquered
lions.

'It was a gleam of light upon meTrot' said my auntdrying her
eyes'when I formed the resolution of being godmother to your
sister Betsey Trotwoodwho disappointed me; butnext to that
hardly anything would have given me greater pleasurethan to be
godmother to that good young creature's baby!'

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

'You have quite made up your mind' said I to Mr. Peggotty'as to
the futuregood friend? I need scarcely ask you.'


'QuiteMas'r Davy' he returned; 'and told Em'ly. Theer's mighty
countriesfur from heer. Our future life lays over the sea.'

'They will emigrate togetheraunt' said I.

'Yes!' said Mr. Peggottywith 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 morningsir' he returned'to
get information concerning of them ships. In about six weeks or
two months from nowthere'll be one sailing - I see her this
morning - went aboard - and we shall take our passage in her.'

'Quite alone?' I asked.

'AyeMas'r Davy!' he returned. 'My sisteryou seeshe's that
fond of you and yournand that accustomed to think on'y of her own
countrythat it wouldn't be hardly fair to let her go. Besides
whichtheer's one she has in chargeMas'r Davyas doen't ought
to be forgot.'

'Poor Ham!' said I.

'My good sister takes care of his houseyou seema'amand he
takes kindly to her' Mr. Peggotty explained for my aunt's better
information. 'He'll set and talk to herwith a calm spiritwen
it's like he couldn't bring himself to open his lips to another.
Poor fellow!' said Mr. Peggottyshaking his head'theer's not so
much left himthat he could spare the little as he has!'

'And Mrs. Gummidge?' said I.

'WellI've had a mort of considerationI do tell you' returned
Mr. Peggottywith a perplexed look which gradually cleared as he
went on'concerning of Missis Gummidge. You seewen Missis
Gummidge falls a-thinking of the old 'unshe an't what you may
call good company. Betwixt you and meMas'r Davy - and youma'am

-wen Mrs. Gummidge takes to wimicking' - our old country word for
crying- 'she's liable to be considered to beby them as didn't
know the old 'unpeevish-like. Now I DID know the old 'un' said
Mr. Peggotty'and I know'd his meritsso I unnerstan' her; but
'tan't entirely soyou seewith others - nat'rally can't be!'
My aunt and I both acquiesced.

'Wheerby' said Mr. Peggotty'my sister might - I doen't say she
wouldbut might - find Missis Gummidge give her a leetle trouble
now-and-again. Theerfur 'tan't my intentions to moor Missis
Gummidge 'long with thembut to find a Beein' fur her wheer she
can fisherate for herself.' (A Beein' signifiesin that dialect
a homeand to fisherate is to provide.) 'Fur which purpose' said
Mr. Peggotty'I means to make her a 'lowance afore I goas'll
leave her pretty comfort'ble. She's the faithfullest of creeturs.
'Tan't to be expectedof courseat her time of lifeand being
lone and lornas the good old Mawther is to be knocked about
aboardshipand in the woods and wilds of a new and fur-away
country. So that's what I'm a-going to do with her.'

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


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

MY aunt nodded confirmation of this hopeand imparted great
satisfaction to Mr. Peggotty.

'Theer's one thing furderMas'r Davy' said heputting his hand
in his breast-pocketand gravely taking out the little paper
bundle I had seen beforewhich he unrolled on the table. 'Theer's
these here banknotes - fifty poundand ten. To them I wish to add
the money as she come away with. I've asked her about that (but
not saying why)and have added of it up. I an't a scholar. Would
you be so kind as see how 'tis?'

He handed meapologetically for his scholarshipa piece of paper
and observed me while I looked it over. It was quite right.

'Thankeesir' he saidtaking it back. 'This moneyif you
doen't see objectionsMas'r DavyI shall put up jest afore I go
in a cover directed to him; and put that up in anotherdirected to
his mother. I shall tell herin no more wureds than I speak to
youwhat it's the price on; and that I'm goneand past receiving
of it back.'

I told him that I thought it would be right to do so - that I was
thoroughly convinced it would besince he felt it to be right.

'I said that theer was on'y one thing furder' he proceeded with a
grave smilewhen he had made up his little bundle againand put
it in his pocket; 'but theer was two. I warn't sure in my mind
wen I come out this morningas I could go and break to Hamof my
own selfwhat had so thankfully happened. So I writ a letter
while I was outand put it in the post-officetelling of 'em how
all was as 'tis; and that I should come down tomorrow to unload my
mind of what little needs a-doing of down theerandmost-like
take my farewell leave of Yarmouth.'

'And do you wish me to go with you?' said Iseeing that he left
something unsaid.

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

My little Dora being in good spiritsand very desirous that I
should go - as I found on talking it over with her - I readily
pledged myself to accompany him in accordance with his wish. Next
morningconsequentlywe were on the Yarmouth coachand again
travelling over the old ground.

As we passed along the familiar street at night - Mr. Peggottyin
despite of all my remonstrancescarrying my bag - I glanced into
Omer and Joram's shopand saw my old friend Mr. Omer there
smoking his pipe. I felt reluctant to be presentwhen Mr.
Peggotty first met his sister and Ham; and made Mr. Omer my excuse
for lingering behind.

'How is Mr. Omerafter this long time?' said Igoing in.

He fanned away the smoke of his pipethat he might get a better
view of meand soon recognized me with great delight.


'I should get upsirto acknowledge such an honour as this
visit' said he'only my limbs are rather out of sortsand I am
wheeled about. With the exception of my limbs and my breath
howsoeverI am as hearty as a man can beI'm thankful to say.'

I congratulated him on his contented looks and his good spirits
and sawnowthat his easy-chair went on wheels.

'It's an ingenious thingain't it?' he inquiredfollowing the
direction of my glanceand polishing the elbow with his arm. 'It
runs as light as a featherand tracks as true as a mail-coach.
Bless youmy little Minnie - my grand-daughter you knowMinnie's
child - puts her little strength against the backgives it a
shoveand away we goas clever and merry as ever you see
anything! And I tell you what - it's a most uncommon chair to smoke
a pipe in.'

I never saw such a good old fellow to make the best of a thingand
find out the enjoyment of itas Mr. Omer. He was as radiantas
if his chairhis asthmaand the failure of his limbswere the
various branches of a great invention for enhancing the luxury of
a pipe.

'I see more of the worldI can assure you' said Mr. Omer'in
this chairthan ever I see out of it. You'd be surprised at the
number of people that looks in of a day to have a chat. You really
would! There's twice as much in the newspapersince I've taken to
this chairas there used to be. As to general readingdear me
what a lot of it I do get through! That's what I feel so strong
you know! If it had been my eyeswhat should I have done? If it
had been my earswhat should I have done? Being my limbswhat
does it signify? Whymy limbs only made my breath shorter when I
used 'em. And nowif I want to go out into the street or down to
the sandsI've only got to call DickJoram's youngest 'prentice
and away I go in my own carriagelike the Lord Mayor of London.'

He half suffocated himself with laughing here.

'Lord bless you!' said Mr. Omerresuming his pipe'a man must
take the fat with the lean; that's what he must make up his mind
toin this life. Joram does a fine business. Ex-cellent
business!'

'I am very glad to hear it' said I.

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

His supreme contempt for his own limbsas he sat smokingwas one
of the pleasantest oddities I have ever encountered.

'And since I've took to general readingyou've took to general
writingehsir?' said Mr. Omersurveying me admiringly. 'What
a lovely work that was of yours! What expressions in it! I read it
every word - every word. And as to feeling sleepy! Not at all!'

I laughingly expressed my satisfactionbut I must confess that I
thought this association of ideas significant.

'I give you my word and honoursir' said Mr. Omer'that when I
lay that book upon the tableand look at it outside; compact in
three separate and indiwidual wollumes - onetwothree; I am as


proud as Punch to think that I once had the honour of being
connected with your family. And dear meit's a long time ago
nowain't it? Over at Blunderstone. With a pretty little party
laid along with the other party. And you quite a small party then
yourself. Deardear!'

I changed the subject by referring to Emily. After assuring him
that I did not forget how interested he had always been in herand
how kindly he had always treated herI 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 saidfeelinglywhen I had done:

'I am rejoiced at itsir! It's the best news I have heard for many
a day. Deardeardear! And what's going to be undertook for that
unfortunate young womanMarthanow?'

'You touch a point that my thoughts have been dwelling on since
yesterday' said I'but on which I can give you no information
yetMr. Omer. Mr. Peggotty has not alluded to itand 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. Omertaking himself upwhere he had
left off'whatever is doneI should wish to be a member of. Put
me down for anything you may consider rightand let me know. I
never could think the girl all badand I am glad to find she's
not. So will my daughter Minnie be. Young women are contradictory
creatures in some things - her mother was just the same as her but
their hearts are soft and kind. It's all show with Minnie
about Martha. Why she should consider it necessary to make any
showI don't undertake to tell you. But it's all showbless you.
She'd do her any kindness in private. Soput me down for whatever
you may consider rightwill 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 lifewhere the two ends of life meet; when
he finds himselfhowever hearty he isbeing wheeled about for the
second timein 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
myselfparticular' said Mr. Omer'becausesirthe way I look
at it isthat we are all drawing on to the bottom of the hill
whatever age we areon account of time never standing still for a
single moment. So let us always do a kindnessand be
over-rejoiced. To be sure!'

He knocked the ashes out of his pipeand put it on a ledge in the
back of his chairexpressly made for its reception.

'There's Em'ly's cousinhim that she was to have been married to'
said Mr. Omerrubbing his hands feebly'as fine a fellow as there
is in Yarmouth! He'll come and talk or read to mein the evening
for an hour together sometimes. That's a kindnessI should call
it! All his life's a kindness.'

'I am going to see him now' said I.

'Are you?' said Mr. Omer. 'Tell him I was heartyand sent my
respects. Minnie and Joram's at a ball. They would be as proud to
see you as I amif they was at home. Minnie won't hardly go out
at allyou seeon account of fatheras she says. So I swore
tonightthat if she didn't goI'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 himand wished him good night.


'Half a minutesir' said Mr. Omer. 'If you was to go without
seeing my little elephantyou'd lose the best of sights. You
never see such a sight! Minnie!'
A musical little voice answeredfrom somewhere upstairs'I am
cominggrandfather!' and a pretty little girl with longflaxen
curling hairsoon came running into the shop.


'This is my little elephantsir' said Mr. Omerfondling the
child. 'Siamese breedsir. Nowlittle elephant!'


The little elephant set the door of the parlour openenabling me
to see thatin these latter daysit was converted into a bedroom
for Mr. Omer who could not be easily conveyed upstairs; and then
hid her pretty foreheadand tumbled her long hairagainst the
back of Mr. Omer's chair.


'The elephant buttsyou knowsir' said Mr. Omerwinking'when
he goes at a object. Onceelephant. Twice. Three times!'


At this signalthe little elephantwith a dexterity that was next
to marvellous in so small an animalwhisked the chair round with
Mr. Omer in itand rattled it offpell-mellinto the parlour
without touching the door-post: Mr. Omer indescribably enjoying the
performanceand looking back at me on the road as if it were the
triumphant issue of his life's exertions.


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


I found them in the neat kitchenaccompanied by Mrs. Gummidgewho
had been fetched from the old boat by Mr. Peggotty himself. I
doubt if she could have been induced to desert her postby anyone
else. He had evidently told them all. Both Peggotty and Mrs.
Gummidge had their aprons to their eyesand Ham had just stepped
out 'to take a turn on the beach'. He presently came homevery
glad to see me; and I hope they were all the better for my being
there. We spokewith some approach to cheerfulnessof Mr.
Peggotty's growing rich in a new countryand of the wonders he
would describe in his letters. We said nothing of Emily by name
but distantly referred to her more than once. Ham was the serenest
of the party.


ButPeggotty told mewhen she lighted me to a little chamber
where the Crocodile book was lying ready for me on the tablethat
he always was the same. She believed (she told mecrying) that he
was broken-hearted; though he was as full of courage as of
sweetnessand worked harder and better than any boat-builder in
any yard in all that part. There were timesshe saidof an
eveningwhen he talked of their old life in the boat-house; and
then he mentioned Emily as a child. Buthe 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 myselfI
fell asleep. That nightfor the first time in all those many
nightsthe candle was taken out of the windowMr. Peggotty swung
in his old hammock in the old boatand the wind murmured with the
old sound round his head.



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


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


'Mas'r Davyhave you seen her?'


'Only for a momentwhen she was in a swoon' I softly answered.


We walked a little fartherand he said:


'Mas'r Davyshall you see herd'ye think?'


'It would be too painful to herperhaps' said I.


'I have thowt of that' he replied. 'So 'twouldsirso 'twould.'


'ButHam' said Igently'if there is anything that I could
write to herfor youin 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 thankeesirmost kind! I think theer is
something I could wish said or wrote.'


'What is it?'


We walked a little farther in silenceand then he spoke.


''Tan't that I forgive her. 'Tan't that so much. 'Tis more as I
beg of her to forgive mefor having pressed my affections upon
her. Odd timesI think that if I hadn't had her promise fur to
marry mesirshe was that trustful of mein a friendly waythat
she'd have told me what was struggling in her mindand would have
counselled with meand 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 onfarther than we had walked yetbefore he spoke
again. He was not crying when he made the pauses I shall express
by lines. He was merely collecting himself to speak very plainly.


'I loved her - and I love the mem'ry of her - too deep - to be able
to lead her to believe of my own self as I'm a happy man. I could
only be happy - by forgetting of her - and I'm afeerd I couldn't
hardly bear as she should be told I done that. But if youbeing
so full of learningMas'r Davycould think of anything to say as
might bring her to believe I wasn't greatly hurt: still loving of
herand mourning for her: anything as might bring her to believe
as I was not tired of my lifeand yet was hoping fur to see her



without blamewheer the wicked cease from troubling and the weary
are at rest - anything as would ease her sorrowful mindand yet
not make her think as I could ever marryor as 'twas possible that
anyone could ever be to me what she was - I should ask of you to
say that - with my prayers for her - that was so dear.'

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

'I thankeesir' he answered. ''Twas kind of you to meet me.
'Twas kind of you to bear him company down. Mas'r DavyI
unnerstan' very wellthough my aunt will come to Lon'on afore they
sailand they'll unite once morethat I am not like to see him
agen. I fare to feel sure on't. We doen't say sobut so 'twill
beand better so. The last you see on him - the very last - will
you give him the lovingest duty and thanks of the orphanas he was
ever more than a father to?'

This I also promisedfaithfully.

'I thankee agensir' he saidheartily shaking hands. 'I know
wheer you're a-going. Good-bye!'

With a slight wave of his handas though to explain to me that he
could not enter the old placehe turned away. As I looked after
his figurecrossing the waste in the moonlightI saw him turn his
face towards a strip of silvery light upon the seaand pass on
looking at ituntil he was a shadow in the distance.

The door of the boat-house stood open when I approached; andon
enteringI found it emptied of all its furnituresaving one of
the old lockerson which Mrs. Gummidgewith a basket on her knee
was seatedlooking at Mr. Peggotty. He leaned his elbow on the
rough chimney-pieceand gazed upon a few expiring embers in the
grate; but he raised his headhopefullyon my coming inand
spoke in a cheery manner.

'Comeaccording to promiseto bid farewell to 'tehMas'r
Davy?' he saidtaking up the candle. 'Bare enoughnowan't it?'
'Indeed you have made good use of the time' said I.

'Whywe have not been idlesir. Missis Gummidge has worked like
a - I doen't know what Missis Gummidge an't worked like' said Mr.
Peggottylooking at herat a loss for a sufficiently approving
simile.

Mrs. Gummidgeleaning on her basketmade no observation.

'Theer's the very locker that you used to sit on'long with
Em'ly!' said Mr. Peggottyin a whisper. 'I'm a-going to carry it
away with melast of all. And heer's your old little bedroom
seeMas'r Davy! A'most as bleak tonightas 'art could wish!'

In truththe windthough it was lowhad a solemn soundand
crept around the deserted house with a whispered wailing that was
very mournful. Everything was gonedown to the little mirror with
the oyster-shell frame. I thought of myselflying herewhen that
first great change was being wrought at home. I thought of the
blue-eyed child who had enchanted me. I thought of Steerforth: and
a foolishfearful 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. Peggottyin a low voice'afore
the boat finds new tenants. They look upon 'tdown beeras being


unfortunate now!'

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

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

We looked into the other little roomand came back to Mrs.
Gummidgesitting on the lockerwhom Mr. Peggottyputting the
light on the chimney-piecerequested to risethat he might carry
it outside the door before extinguishing the candle.

'Dan'l' said Mrs. Gummidgesuddenly deserting her basketand
clinging to his arm 'my dear Dan'lthe parting words I speak in
this house isI mustn't be left behind. Doen't ye think of
leaving me behindDan'l! Ohdoen't ye ever do it!'

Mr. Peggottytaken abacklooked from Mrs. Gummidge to meand
from me to Mrs. Gummidgeas if he had been awakened from a sleep.

'Doen't yedearest Dan'ldoen't ye!' cried Mrs. Gummidge
fervently. 'Take me 'long with youDan'ltake me 'long with you
and Em'ly! I'll be your servantconstant and trew. If there's
slaves in them parts where you're a-goingI'll be bound to you for
oneand happybut doen't ye leave me behindDan'lthat's a
deary dear!'

'My good soul' said Mr. Peggottyshaking his head'you doen't
know what a long voyageand what a hard life 'tis!'
'YesI doDan'l! I can guess!' cried Mrs. Gummidge. 'But my
parting words under this roof isI shall go into the house and
dieif I am not took. I can digDan'l. I can work. I can live
hard. I can be loving and patient now - more than you think
Dan'lif you'll on'y try me. I wouldn't touch the 'lowancenot
if I was dying of wantDan'l Peggotty; but I'll go with you and
Em'lyif you'll on'y let meto the world's end! I know how 'tis;
I know you think that I am lone and lorn; butdeary love'tan't
so no more! I ain't sat hereso longa-watchingand a-thinking
of your trialswithout some good being done me. Mas'r Davyspeak
to him for me! I knows his waysand Em'ly'sand I knows their
sorrowsand can be a comfort to 'emsome odd timesand labour
for 'em allus! Dan'ldeary Dan'llet me go 'long with you!'

And Mrs. Gummidge took his handand kissed it with a homely pathos
and affectionin a homely rapture of devotion and gratitudethat
he well deserved.

We brought the locker outextinguished the candlefastened the
door on the outsideand left the old boat close shut upa dark
speck in the cloudy night. Next daywhen we were returning to
London outside the coachMrs. Gummidge and her basket were on the
seat behindand Mrs. Gummidge was happy.

CHAPTER 52
I ASSIST AT AN EXPLOSION

When the time Mr. Micawber had appointed so mysteriouslywas
within four-and-twenty hours of being comemy 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 stairsnow!


We were disposednotwithstanding Mr. Micawber's stipulation for my
aunt's attendanceto arrange that she should stay at homeand be
represented by Mr. Dick and me. In shortwe had resolved to take
this coursewhen Dora again unsettled us by declaring that she
never would forgive herselfand never would forgive her bad boy
if my aunt remained behindon any pretence.

'I won't speak to you' said Dorashaking 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 thingif you don't go!'

'TutBlossom!' laughed my aunt. 'You know you can't do without
me!'

'YesI can' said Dora. 'You are no use to me at all. You never
run up and down stairs for meall day long. You never sit and
tell me stories about Doadywhen his shoes were worn outand he
was covered with dust - ohwhat a poor little mite of a fellow!
You never do anything at all to please medo youdear?' Dora made
haste to kiss my auntand say'Yesyou do! I'm only joking!'lest
my aunt should think she really meant it.

'Butaunt' said Doracoaxingly'now listen. You must go. I
shall tease you'till you let me have my own way about it. I
shall lead my naughty boy such a lifeif he don't make you go. I
shall make myself so disagreeable - and so will Jip! You'll wish
you had gonelike a good thingfor ever and ever so longif you
don't go. Besides' said Doraputting back her hairand looking
wonderingly at my aunt and me'why shouldn't you both go? I am
not very ill indeed. Am I?'

'Whywhat a question!' cried my aunt.

'What a fancy!' said I.

'Yes! I know I am a silly little thing!' said Doraslowly looking
from one of us to the otherand then putting up her pretty lips to
kiss us as she lay upon her couch. 'Wellthenyou must both go
or I shall not believe you; and then I shall cry!'

I sawin my aunt's facethat she began to give way nowand Dora
brightened againas she saw it too.

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

We agreedwithout any more consultationthat we would both go
and that Dora was a little Impostorwho feigned to be rather
unwellbecause she liked to be petted. She was greatly pleased
and very merry; and we fourthat is to saymy auntMr. Dick
Traddlesand Iwent down to Canterbury by the Dover mail that
night.

At the hotel where Mr. Micawber had requested us to await him
which we got intowith some troublein the middle of the night


I found a letterimporting that he would appear in the morning
punctually at half past nine. After whichwe went shiveringat
that uncomfortable hourto our respective bedsthrough various
close passages; which smelt as if they had been steepedfor ages
in a solution of soup and stables.

Early in the morningI sauntered through the dear old tranquil
streetsand again mingled with the shadows of the venerable
gateways and churches. The rooks were sailing about the cathedral
towers; and the towers themselvesoverlooking many a long
unaltered mile of the rich country and its pleasant streamswere
cutting the bright morning airas if there were no such thing as
change on earth. Yet the bellswhen they soundedtold me
sorrowfully of change in everything; told me of their own ageand
my pretty Dora's youth; and of the manynever oldwho had lived
and loved and diedwhile the reverberations of the bells had
hummed through the rusty armour of the Black Prince hanging up
withinandmotes upon the deep of Timehad lost themselves in
airas circles do in water.

I looked at the old house from the corner of the streetbut did
not go nearer to itlestbeing observedI might unwittingly do
any harm to the design I had come to aid. The early sun was
striking edgewise on its gables and lattice-windowstouching them
with gold; and some beams of its old peace seemed to touch my
heart.

I strolled into the country for an hour or soand then returned by
the main streetwhich in the interval had shaken off its last
night's sleep. Among those who were stirring in the shopsI saw
my ancient enemy the butchernow advanced to top-boots and a baby
and in business for himself. He was nursing the babyand appeared
to be a benignant member of society.

We all became very anxious and impatientwhen we sat down to
breakfast. As it approached nearer and nearer to half past nine
o'clockour restless expectation of Mr. Micawber increased. At
last we made no more pretence of attending to the mealwhich
except with Mr. Dickhad been a mere form from the first; but my
aunt walked up and down the roomTraddles sat upon the sofa
affecting to read the paper with his eyes on the ceiling; and I
looked out of the window to give early notice of Mr. Micawber's
coming. Nor had I long to watchforat the first chime of the
half hourhe 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 shawlas if she were ready for
anything that was resolute and uncompromising. Traddles buttoned
his coat with a determined air. Mr. Dickdisturbed by these
formidable appearancesbut feeling it necessary to imitate them
pulled his hatwith both handsas firmly over his ears as he
possibly could; and instantly took it off againto welcome Mr.
Micawber.

'Gentlemenand madam' said Mr. Micawber'good morning! My dear
sir' to Mr. Dickwho shook hands with him violently'you are
extremely good.'

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

'Not for the worldmy good sir!' cried Mr. Micawberstopping him
on his way to the bell; 'appetite and myselfMr. Dixonhave long


been strangers.'

Mr. Dixon was so well pleased with his new nameand appeared to
think it so obliging in Mr. Micawber to confer it upon himthat he
shook hands with him againand laughed rather childishly.

'Dick' said my aunt'attention!'

Mr. Dick recovered himselfwith a blush.

'Nowsir' said my aunt to Mr. Micawberas she put on her gloves
'we are ready for Mount Vesuviusor anything elseas soon as YOU
please.'

'Madam' returned Mr. Micawber'I trust you will shortly witness
an eruption. Mr. TraddlesI have your permissionI believeto
mention here that we have been in communication together?'

'It is undoubtedly the factCopperfield' said Traddlesto whom
I looked in surprise. 'Mr. Micawber has consulted me in reference
to what he has in contemplation; and I have advised him to the best
of my judgement.'

'Unless I deceive myselfMr. Traddles' pursued Mr. Micawber
'what I contemplate is a disclosure of an important nature.'

'Highly so' said Traddles.

'Perhapsunder such circumstancesmadam and gentlemen' said Mr.
Micawber'you will do me the favour to submit yourselvesfor the
momentto the direction of one whohowever unworthy to be
regarded in any other light but as a Waif and Stray upon the shore
of human natureis still your fellow-manthough crushed out of
his original form by individual errorsand the accumulative force
of a combination of circumstances?'

'We have perfect confidence in youMr. Micawber' said I'and
will do what you please.'

'Mr. Copperfield' returned Mr. Micawber'your confidence is not
at the existing junctureill-bestowed. I would beg to be allowed
a start of five minutes by the clock; and then to receive the
present companyinquiring for Miss Wickfieldat the office of
Wickfield and Heepwhose Stipendiary I am.'

My aunt and I looked at Traddleswho nodded his approval.

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

With whichto my infinite surprisehe included us all in a
comprehensive bowand disappeared; his manner being extremely
distantand his face extremely pale.

Traddles only smiledand 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 watchandas a last resourcecounted off the
five minutes. My auntwith her own watch in her handdid the
like. When the time was expiredTraddles gave her his arm; and we
all went out together to the old housewithout saying one word on
the way.

We found Mr. Micawber at his deskin the turret office on the
ground flooreither writingor pretending to writehard. The
large office-ruler was stuck into his waistcoatand was not so


well concealed but that a foot or more of that instrument protruded
from his bosomlike a new kind of shirt-frill.

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

'How do you doMr. Micawber?'

'Mr. Copperfield' said Mr. Micawbergravely'I hope I see you
well?'

'Is Miss Wickfield at home?' said I.

'Mr. Wickfield is unwell in bedsirof a rheumatic fever' he
returned; 'but Miss WickfieldI have no doubtwill be happy to
see old friends. Will you walk insir?'

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

'Miss TrotwoodMr. David CopperfieldMr. Thomas Traddlesand Mr.
Dixon!'

I had not seen Uriah Heep since the time of the blow. Our visit
astonished himevidently; not the lessI dare saybecause it
astonished ourselves. He did not gather his eyebrows togetherfor
he had none worth mentioning; but he frowned to that degree that he
almost closed his small eyeswhile the hurried raising of his
grisly hand to his chin betrayed some trepidation or surprise.
This was only when we were in the act of entering his roomand
when I caught a glance at him over my aunt's shoulder. A moment
afterwardshe was as fawning and as humble as ever.

'WellI am sure' he said. 'This is indeed an unexpected
pleasure! To haveas I may sayall friends round St. Paul's at
onceis a treat unlooked for! Mr. CopperfieldI hope I see you
welland - if I may umbly express myself so - friendly towards
them as is ever your friendswhether or not. Mrs. Copperfield
sirI hope she's getting on. We have been made quite uneasy by
the poor accounts we have had of her statelatelyI do assure
you.'

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

'Things are changed in this officeMiss Trotwoodsince I was an
umble clerkand held your pony; ain't they?' said Uriahwith his
sickliest smile. 'But I am not changedMiss Trotwood.'

'Wellsir' returned my aunt'to tell you the truthI think you
are pretty constant to the promise of your youth; if that's any
satisfaction to you.'

'Thank youMiss Trotwood' said Uriahwrithing in his ungainly
manner'for your good opinion! Micawbertell 'em to let Miss
Agnes know - and mother. Mother will be quite in a statewhen she
sees the present company!' said Uriahsetting chairs.

'You are not busyMr. Heep?' said Traddleswhose eye the cunning
red eye accidentally caughtas it at once scrutinized and evaded
us.

'NoMr. Traddles' replied Uriahresuming his official seatand
squeezing his bony handslaid palm to palm between his bony knees.


'Not so much so as I could wish. But lawyerssharksand leeches
are not easily satisfiedyou know! Not but what myself and
Micawber have our hands pretty fullin generalon account of Mr.
Wickfield's being hardly fit for any occupationsir. But it's a
pleasure as well as a dutyI am sureto work for him. You've not
been intimate with Mr. WickfieldI thinkMr. Traddles? I believe
I've only had the honour of seeing you once myself?'

'NoI have not been intimate with Mr. Wickfield' returned
Traddles; 'or I might perhaps have waited on you long agoMr.
Heep.'

There was something in the tone of this replywhich made Uriah
look at the speaker againwith a very sinister and suspicious
expression. Butseeing only Traddleswith his good-natured face
simple mannerand hair on endhe dismissed it as he repliedwith
a jerk of his whole bodybut especially his throat:

'I am sorry for thatMr. 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 ofI should refer you to
Copperfield. The family is a subject he's very strong uponif you
never heard him.'

I was prevented from disclaiming the compliment (if I should have
done soin any case)by the entrance of Agnesnow ushered in by
Mr. Micawber. She was not quite so self-possessed as usualI
thought; and had evidently undergone anxiety and fatigue. But her
earnest cordialityand her quiet beautyshone with the gentler
lustre for it.

I saw Uriah watch her while she greeted us; and he reminded me of
an ugly and rebellious genie watching a good spirit. In the
meanwhilesome slight sign passed between Mr. Micawber and
Traddles; and Traddlesunobserved except by mewent out.

'Don't waitMicawber' said Uriah.

Mr. Micawberwith his hand upon the ruler in his breaststood
erect before the doormost unmistakably contemplating one of his
fellow-menand that man his employer.

'What are you waiting for?' said Uriah. 'Micawber! did you hear me
tell you not to wait?'

'Yes!' replied the immovable Mr. Micawber.

'Then why DO you wait?' said Uriah.

'Because I - in shortchoose' replied Mr. Micawberwith a burst.

Uriah's cheeks lost colourand an unwholesome palenessstill
faintly tinged by his pervading redoverspread them. He looked at
Mr. Micawber attentivelywith his whole face breathing short and
quick in every feature.

'You are a dissipated fellowas 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 this earth' said Mr. Micawber
suddenly breaking out again with the utmost vehemence'with whom
I have already talked too muchthat scoundrel's name is - HEEP!'


Uriah fell backas if he had been struck or stung. Looking slowly
round upon us with the darkest and wickedest expression that his
face could wearhe saidin a lower voice:

'Oho! This is a conspiracy! You have met here by appointment! You
are playing Booty with my clerkare youCopperfield? Nowtake
care. You'll make nothing of this. We understand each otheryou
and me. There's no love between us. You were always a puppy with
a proud stomachfrom your first coming here; and you envy me my
risedo you? None of your plots against me; I'll counterplot you!
Micawberyou 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 particularwhich assures me that he is brought to
bay. Deal with him as he deserves!'

'You are a precious set of peopleain't you?' said Uriahin the
same low voiceand breaking out into a clammy heatwhich he wiped
from his foreheadwith his long lean hand'to buy over my clerk
who is the very scum of society- as you yourself were
Copperfieldyou know itbefore anyone had charity on you- to
defame me with his lies? Miss Trotwoodyou had better stop this;
or I'll stop your husband shorter than will be pleasant to you. I
won't know your story professionallyfor nothingold lady! Miss
Wickfieldif you have any love for your fatheryou had better not
join that gang. I'll ruin himif you do. Nowcome! I have got
some of you under the harrow. Think twicebefore it goes over
you. Think twiceyouMicawberif you don't want to be crushed.
I recommend you to take yourself offand be talked to presently
you fool! while there's time to retreat. Where's mother?' he said
suddenly appearing to noticewith alarmthe absence of Traddles
and pulling down the bell-rope. 'Fine doings in a person's own
house!'

'Mrs. Heep is heresir' said Traddlesreturning with that worthy
mother of a worthy son. 'I have taken the liberty of making myself
known to her.'

'Who are you to make yourself known?' retorted Uriah. 'And what do
you want here?'

'I am the agent and friend of Mr. Wickfieldsir' said Traddles
in a composed and business-like way. 'And I have a power of
attorney from him in my pocketto 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 fraudI know' returned
Traddles quietly; 'and so do youMr. Heep. We will refer that
questionif you pleaseto Mr. Micawber.'

'Ury -!' Mrs. Heep beganwith an anxious gesture.

'YOU hold your tonguemother' he returned; 'least saidsoonest
mended.'

'Butmy Ury -'

'Will you hold your tonguemotherand leave it to me?'


Though I had long known that his servility was falseand all his
pretences knavish and hollowI had had no adequate conception of
the extent of his hypocrisyuntil I now saw him with his mask off.
The suddenness with which he dropped itwhen he perceived that it
was useless to him; the maliceinsolenceand hatredhe revealed;
the leer with which he exultedeven at this momentin the evil he
had done - all this time being desperate tooand at his wits' end
for the means of getting the better of us - though perfectly
consistent with the experience I had of himat first took even me
by surprisewho had known him so longand disliked him so
heartily.

I say nothing of the look he conferred on meas he stood eyeing
usone after another; for I had always understood that he hated
meand I remembered the marks of my hand upon his cheek. But when
his eyes passed on to Agnesand I saw the rage with which he felt
his power over her slipping awayand the exhibitionin their
disappointmentof the odious passions that had led him to aspire
to one whose virtues he could never appreciate or care forI was
shocked by the mere thought of her having livedan hourwithin
sight of such a man.

After some rubbing of the lower part of his faceand some looking
at us with those bad eyesover his grisly fingershe made one
more address to mehalf whiningand half abusive.

'You think it justifiabledo youCopperfieldyou who pride
yourself so much on your honour and all the rest of itto sneak
about my placeeaves-dropping with my clerk? If it had been ME
I shouldn't have wondered; for I don't make myself out a gentleman
(though I never was in the streets eitheras you wereaccording
to Micawber)but being you! - And you're not afraid of doing this
either? You don't think at all of what I shall doin return; or
of getting yourself into trouble for conspiracy and so forth? Very
well. We shall see! Mr. What's-your-nameyou were going to refer
some question to Micawber. There's your referee. Why don't you
make him speak? He has learnt his lessonI see.'

Seeing that what he said had no effect on me or any of ushe sat
on the edge of his table with his hands in his pocketsand one of
his splay feet twisted round the other legwaiting doggedly for
what might follow.

Mr. Micawberwhose impetuosity I had restrained thus far with the
greatest difficultyand who had repeatedly interposed with the
first syllable Of SCOUN-drel! without getting to the secondnow
burst forwarddrew the ruler from his breast (apparently as a
defensive weapon)and produced from his pocket a foolscap
documentfolded in the form of a large letter. Opening this
packetwith his old flourishand glancing at the contentsas 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 reamif it was a capital offence!'

Mr. Micawberwithout hearing herwent on.

'"In appearing before you to denounce probably the most 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 myself. The victimfrom my
cradleof pecuniary liabilities to which I have been unable to
respondI have ever been the sport and toy of debasing
circumstances. IgnominyWantDespairand Madnesshave
collectively or separatelybeen the attendants of my career."'

The relish with which Mr. Micawber described himself as a prey to
these dismal calamitieswas 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 headwhen he thought he had hit a
sentence very hard indeed.

'"In an accumulation of IgnominyWantDespairand MadnessI
entered the office - oras our lively neighbour the Gaul would
term itthe Bureau - of the Firmnominally conducted under the
appellation of Wickfield and - HEEPbut in realitywielded by HEEP
alone. HEEPand only HEEPis the mainspring of that
machine. HEEPand only HEEPis the Forger and the Cheat."'

Uriahmore blue than white at these wordsmade a dart at the
letteras if to tear it in pieces. Mr. Micawberwith a perfect
miracle of dexterity or luckcaught his advancing knuckles with
the rulerand 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 Uriahwrithing in a new way with pain.
'I'll be even with you.'

'Approach me againyou - you - you HEEP of infamy' gasped Mr.
Micawber'and if your head is humanI'll break it. Come oncome
on! '

I think I never saw anything more ridiculous - I was sensible of
iteven at the time - than Mr. Micawber making broad-sword guards
with the rulerand crying'Come on!' while Traddles and I pushed
him back into a cornerfrom whichas often as we got him into it
he persisted in emerging again.

His enemymuttering to himselfafter wringing his wounded hand
for sometimeslowly drew off his neck-kerchief and bound it up;
then held it in his other handand sat upon his table with his
sullen face looking down.

Mr. Micawberwhen he was sufficiently coolproceeded with his
letter.

'"The stipendiary emoluments in consideration of which I entered
into the service of - HEEP' always pausing before that word and
uttering it with astonishing vigour, 'were not definedbeyond 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 wordson the baseness of my naturethe
cupidity of my motivesthe poverty of my familythe general moral
(or rather immoral) resemblance between myself and - HEEP. Need I
saythat it soon became necessary for me to solicit from - HEEP pecuniary
advances towards the support of Mrs. Micawberand 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 acknowledgementsknown to the legal
institutions of this country? And that I thus became immeshed in
the web he had spun for my reception?"'

Mr. Micawber's enjoyment of his epistolary powersin describing


this unfortunate state of thingsreally seemed to outweigh any
pain or anxiety that the reality could have caused him. He read
on:

'"Then it was that - HEEP - began to favour me with just so much of
his confidenceas was necessary to the discharge of his infernal
business. Then it was that I beganif I may so Shakespearianly
express myselfto dwindlepeakand pine. I found that my
services were constantly called into requisition for the
falsification of businessand the mystification of an individual
whom I will designate as Mr. W. That Mr. W. was imposed uponkept
in ignoranceand deludedin every possible way; yetthat all
this whilethe ruffian - HEEP - was professing unbounded gratitude
toand unbounded friendship forthat much-abused gentleman. This
was bad enough; butas the philosophic Dane observeswith that
universal applicability which distinguishes the illustrious
ornament of the Elizabethan Eraworse remains behind!"'

Mr. Micawber was so very much struck by this happy rounding off
with a quotationthat he indulged himselfand uswith a second
reading of the sentenceunder pretence of having lost his place.

'"It is not my intention' he continued reading on, 'to enter on
a detailed listwithin the compass of the present epistle (though
it is ready elsewhere)of the various malpractices of a minor
natureaffecting the individual whom I have denominated Mr. W.to
which I have been a tacitly consenting party. My objectwhen the
contest within myself between stipend and no stipendbaker and no
bakerexistence and non-existenceceasedwas to take advantage
of my opportunities to discover and expose the major malpractices
committedto that gentleman's grievous wrong and injuryby HEEP.
Stimulated by the silent monitor withinand by a no less
touching and appealing monitor without - to whom I will briefly
refer as Miss W. - I entered on a not unlaborious task of
clandestine investigationprotracted - nowto the best of my
knowledgeinformationand beliefover a period exceeding twelve
calendar months."'

He read this passage as if it were from an Act of Parliament; 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 breathI think. I am sure Uriah held his.

'"First' said Mr. Micawber, 'When Mr. W.'s faculties and memory
for business becamethrough causes into which it is not necessary
or expedient for me to enterweakened and confused- HEEP designedly
perplexed and complicated the whole of the official
transactions. When Mr. W. was least fit to enter on businessHEEP
was always at hand to force him to enter on it. He obtained
Mr. W.'s signature under such circumstances to documents of
importancerepresenting them to be other documents of no
importance. He induced Mr. W. to empower him to draw outthus
one particular sum of trust-moneyamounting to twelve six
fourteentwo and nineand employed it to meet pretended business
charges and deficiencies which were either already provided foror
had never really existed. He gave this proceedingthroughoutthe
appearance of having originated in Mr. W.'s own dishonest
intentionand of having been accomplished by Mr. W.'s own
dishonest act; and has used itever sinceto torture and
constrain him."'


'You shall prove thisyou Copperfield!' said Uriahwith a
threatening shake of the head. 'All in good time!'

'Ask - HEEP - Mr. Traddleswho lived in his house after him' said
Mr. Micawberbreaking off from the letter; 'will you?'

'The fool himself- and lives there now' said Uriahdisdainfully.

'Ask - HEEP - if he ever kept a pocket-book in that house' said
Mr. Micawber; 'will you?'

I saw Uriah's lank hand stopinvoluntarilyin the scraping of his
chin.

'Or ask him' said Mr. Micawber'if he ever burnt one there. If he
says yesand asks you where the ashes arerefer him to Wilkins
Micawberand he will hear of something not at all to his
advantage!'

The triumphant flourish with which Mr. Micawber delivered himself
of these wordshad a powerful effect in alarming the mother; who
cried outin much agitation:

'UryUry! Be umbleand make termsmy dear!'

'Mother!' he retorted'will you keep quiet? You're in a fright
and don't know what you say or mean. Umble!' he repeatedlooking
at mewith a snarl; 'I've umbled some of 'em for a pretty long
time backumble as I was!'

Mr. Micawbergenteelly adjusting his chin in his cravatpresently
proceeded with his composition.

'"Second. HEEP hason several occasionsto the best of my
knowledgeinformationand belief -"'

'But that won't do' muttered Uriahrelieved. 'Motheryou keep
quiet.'

'We will endeavour to provide something that WILL doand do for
you finallysirvery shortly' replied Mr. Micawber.

'"Second. HEEP hason several occasionsto the best of my
knowledgeinformationand beliefsystematically forgedto
various entriesbooksand documentsthe signature of Mr. W.; and
has distinctly done so in one instancecapable of proof by me. To
witin manner followingthat is to say:"'

AgainMr. Micawber had a relish in this formal piling up of words
whichhowever ludicrously displayed in his casewasI must say
not at all peculiar to him. I have observed itin the course of
my lifein numbers of men. It seems to me to be a general rule.
In the taking of legal oathsfor instancedeponents seem to enjoy
themselves mightily when they come to several good words in
successionfor the expression of one idea; asthat they utterly
detestabominateand abjureor so forth; and the old anathemas
were made relishing on the same principle. We talk about the
tyranny of wordsbut 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 importantand sounds
well. As we are not particular about the meaning of our liveries
on state occasionsif they be but fine and numerous enoughso
the meaning or necessity of our words is a secondary consideration


if there be but a great parade of them. And as individuals get
into trouble by making too great a show of liveriesor as slaves
when they are too numerous rise against their mastersso I think
I could mention a nation that has got into many great difficulties
and will get into many greaterfrom maintaining too large a
retinue of words.

Mr. Micawber read onalmost smacking his lips:

'"To witin manner followingthat is to say. Mr. W. being
infirmand it being within the bounds of probability that his
decease might lead to some discoveriesand to the downfall of HEEP'S
- power over the W. family- as IWilkins Micawberthe
undersignedassume - unless the filial affection of his daughter
could be secretly influenced from allowing any investigation of the
partnership affairs to be ever madethe said - HEEP - deemed it
expedient to have a bond ready by himas from Mr. W.for the
before-mentioned sum of twelve six fourteentwo and ninewith
intereststated therein to have been advanced by - HEEP - to Mr.

W. to save Mr. W. from dishonour; though really the sum was never
advanced by himand has long been replaced. The signatures to
this instrument purporting to be executed by Mr. W. and attested by
Wilkins Micawberare forgeries by - HEEP. I havein my
possessionin his hand and pocket-bookseveral similar imitations
of Mr. W.'s signaturehere and there defaced by firebut legible
to anyone. I never attested any such document. And I have the
document itselfin my possession."'
Uriah Heepwith a starttook out of his pocket a bunch of keys
and opened a certain drawer; thensuddenly bethought himself of
what he was aboutand turned again towards uswithout 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 possession- that is
to sayI hadearly this morningwhen this was writtenbut have
since relinquished it to Mr. Traddles."'

'It is quite true' assented Traddles.

'UryUry!' cried the mother'be umble and make terms. I know my
son will be umblegentlemenif you'll give him time to think.
Mr. CopperfieldI'm sure you know that he was always very umble
sir!'

It was singular to see how the mother still held to the old trick
when the son had abandoned it as useless.

'Mother' he saidwith an impatient bite at the handkerchief in
which his hand was wrapped'you had better take and fire a loaded
gun at me.'

'But I love youUry' cried Mrs. Heep. And I have no doubt she
did; or that he loved herhowever strange it may appear; though
to be surethey were a congenial couple. 'And I can't bear to
hear you provoking the gentlemenand endangering of yourself more.
I told the gentleman at firstwhen he told me upstairs it was come
to lightthat I would answer for your being umbleand making
amends. Ohsee how umble I amgentlemenand don't mind him!'

'Whythere's Copperfieldmother' he angrily retortedpointing
his lean finger at meagainst whom all his animosity was levelled
as the prime mover in the discovery; and I did not undeceive him;
'there's Copperfieldwould have given you a hundred pound to say
less than you've blurted out!'


'I can't help itUry' cried his mother. 'I can't see you running
into dangerthrough carrying your head so high. Better be umble
as you always was.'

He remained for a littlebiting the handkerchiefand then said to
me with a scowl:

'What more have you got to bring forward? If anythinggo on with
it. What do you look at me for?'

Mr. Micawber promptly resumed his letterglad to revert to a
performance with which he was so highly satisfied.

'"Third. And last. I am now in a condition to showby - HEEP'S

-false booksand - HEEP'S - real memorandabeginning with the
partially destroyed pocket-book (which I was unable to comprehend
at the time of its accidental discovery by Mrs. Micawberon our
taking possession of our present abodein the locker or bin
devoted to the reception of the ashes calcined on our domestic
hearth)that the weaknessesthe faultsthe very virtuesthe
parental affectionsand the sense of honourof the unhappy Mr. W.
have been for years acted on byand warped to the base purposes of
-HEEP. That Mr. W. has been for years deluded and plunderedin
every conceivable mannerto the pecuniary aggrandisement of the
avariciousfalseand grasping - HEEP. That the engrossing object
of- HEEP - wasnext to gainto subdue Mr. and Miss W. (of his
ulterior views in reference to the latter I say nothing) entirely
to himself. That his last actcompleted but a few months since
was to induce Mr. W. to execute a relinquishment of his share in
the partnershipand even a bill of sale on the very furniture of
his housein consideration of a certain annuityto be well and
truly paid by - HEEP - on the four common quarter-days in each and
every year. That these meshes; beginning with alarming and
falsified accounts of the estate of which Mr. W. is the receiver
at a period when Mr. W. had launched into imprudent and ill-judged
speculationsand may not have had the moneyfor which he was
morally and legally responsiblein hand; going on with pretended
borrowings of money at enormous interestreally coming from - HEEP
-and by - HEEP - fraudulently obtained or withheld from Mr. W.
himselfon pretence of such speculations or otherwise; perpetuated
by a miscellaneous catalogue of unscrupulous chicaneries gradually
thickeneduntil the unhappy Mr. W. could see no world
beyond. Bankruptas he believedalike in circumstancesin all
other hopeand in honourhis sole reliance was upon the monster
in the garb of man' - Mr. Micawber made a good deal of this, as
a new turn of expression, - 'whoby making himself necessary to
himhad achieved his destruction. All this I undertake to show.
Probably much more!"'
I whispered a few words to Agneswho was weepinghalf joyfully
half sorrowfullyat my side; and there was a movement among usas
if Mr. Micawber had finished. He saidwith exceeding gravity
'Pardon me' and proceededwith a mixture of the lowest spirits
and the most intense enjoymentto the peroration of his letter.

'"I have now concluded. It merely remains for me to substantiate
these accusations; and thenwith my ill-starred familyto
disappear from the landscape on which we appear to be an
encumbrance. That is soon done. It may be reasonably inferred
that our baby will first expire of inanitionas being the frailest
member of our circle; and that our twins will follow next in order.
So be it! For myselfmy Canterbury Pilgrimage has done much;
imprisonment on civil processand wantwill soon do more. I


trust that the labour and hazard of an investigation - of which the
smallest results have been slowly pieced togetherin the pressure
of arduous avocationsunder grinding penurious apprehensionsat
rise of mornat dewy evein the shadows of nightunder the
watchful eye of one whom it were superfluous to call Demon combined
with the struggle of parental Poverty to turn itwhen
completedto the right accountmay be as the sprinkling of a few
drops of sweet water on my funeral pyre. I ask no more. Let it
bein justicemerely said of meas of a gallant and eminent
naval Herowith whom I have no pretensions to copethat what I
have doneI didin despite of mercenary and selfish objects

For Englandhomeand Beauty.

'"Remaining always&c. &c.WILKINS MICAWBER."'

Much affectedbut still intensely enjoying himselfMr. Micawber
folded up his letterand handed it with a bow to my auntas
something she might like to keep.

There wasas I had noticed on my first visit long agoan iron
safe in the room. The key was in it. A hasty suspicion seemed to
strike Uriah; andwith a glance at Mr. Micawberhe went to it
and threw the doors clanking open. It was empty.

'Where are the books?' he criedwith a frightful face. 'Some
thief has stolen the books!'

Mr. Micawber tapped himself with the ruler. 'I didwhen I got the
key from you as usual - but a little earlier - and opened it this
morning.'

'Don't be uneasy' said Traddles. 'They have come into my
possession. I will take care of themunder the authority I
mentioned.'

'You receive stolen goodsdo you?' cried Uriah.

'Under such circumstances' answered Traddles'yes.'

What was my astonishment when I beheld my auntwho had been
profoundly quiet and attentivemake a dart at Uriah Heepand
seize him by the collar with both hands!

'You know what I want?' said my aunt.

'A strait-waistcoat' said he.

'No. My property!' returned my aunt. 'Agnesmy dearas long as
I believed it had been really made away with by your fatherI
wouldn't - andmy dearI didn'teven to Trotas he knows breathe
a syllable of its having been placed here for investment.
Butnow I know this fellow's answerable for itand I'll have it!
Trotcome and take it away from him!'

Whether my aunt supposedfor the momentthat he kept her property
in his neck-kerchiefI am sure I don't know; but she certainly
pulled at it as if she thought so. I hastened to put myself
between themand to assure her that we would all take care that he
should make the utmost restitution of everything he had wrongly
got. Thisand a few moments' reflectionpacified 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 minutesMrs. Heep had been clamouring to her
son to be 'umble'; and had been going down on her knees to all of
us in successionand making the wildest promises. Her son sat her
down in his chair; andstanding sulkily by herholding her arm
with his handbut not rudelysaid to mewith 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 mewithout lyingthat
somebody had cut it out.'

'My Uriah means to be umble!' cried his mother. 'Don't mind what
he saysgood gentlemen!'

'What must be done' said Traddles'is this. Firstthe deed of
relinquishmentthat we have heard ofmust be given over to me now

-here.'
'Suppose I haven't got it' he interrupted.

'But you have' said Traddles; 'thereforeyou knowwe won't
suppose so.' And I cannot help avowing that this was the first
occasion on which I really did justice to the clear headand the
plainpatientpractical good senseof my old schoolfellow.
'Then' said Traddles'you must prepare to disgorge all that your
rapacity has become possessed ofand 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
securitiesof both kinds. In shorteverything here.'

'Must it? I don't know that' said Uriah. 'I must have time to
think about that.'

'Certainly' replied Traddles; 'butin the meanwhileand until
everything is done to our satisfactionwe shall maintain
possession of these things; and beg you - in shortcompel you - to
keep to your own roomand hold no communication with anyone.'

'I won't do it!' said Uriahwith an oath.

'Maidstone jail is a safer place of detention' observed Traddles;
'and though the law may be longer in righting usand may not be
able to right us so completely as you canthere is no doubt of its
punishing YOU. Dear meyou know that quite as well as I!
Copperfieldwill you go round to the Guildhalland bring a couple
of officers?'

HereMrs. Heep broke out againcrying on her knees to Agnes to
interfere in their behalfexclaiming that he was very humbleand
it was all trueand if he didn't do what we wantedshe wouldand
much more to the same purpose; being half frantic with fears for
her darling. To inquire what he might have doneif he had had any
boldnesswould be like inquiring what a mongrel cur might doif
it had the spirit of a tiger. He was a cowardfrom head to foot;
and showed his dastardly nature through his sullenness and
mortificationas much as at any time of his mean life.

'Stop!' he growled to me; and wiped his hot face with his hand.
'Motherhold your noise. Well! Let 'em have that deed. Go and
fetch it!'


'Do you help herMr. Dick' said Traddles'if you please.'

Proud of his commissionand understanding itMr. Dick accompanied
her as a shepherd's dog might accompany a sheep. ButMrs. Heep
gave him little trouble; for she not only returned with the deed
but with the box in which it waswhere we found a banker's book
and some other papers that were afterwards serviceable.

'Good!' said Traddleswhen this was brought. 'NowMr. Heepyou
can retire to think: particularly observingif you pleasethat I
declare to youon the part of all presentthat there is only one
thing to be done; that it is what I have explained; and that it
must be done without delay.'

Uriahwithout lifting his eyes from the groundshuffled across
the room with his hand to his chinand pausing at the doorsaid:

'CopperfieldI have always hated you. You've always been an
upstartand you've always been against me.'

'As I think I told you once before' said I'it is you who have
beenin your greed and cunningagainst all the world. It may be
profitable to you to reflectin futurethat there never were
greed and cunning in the world yetthat did not do too muchand
overreach themselves. It is as certain as death.'

'Or as certain as they used to teach at school (the same school
where I picked up so much umbleness)from nine o'clock to eleven
that labour was a curse; and from eleven o'clock to onethat it
was a blessing and a cheerfulnessand a dignityand I don't know
what alleh?' said he with a sneer. 'You preachabout as
consistent as they did. Won't umbleness go down? I shouldn't have
got round my gentleman fellow-partner without itI think. -
Micawberyou old bullyI'll pay YOU!'

Mr. Micawbersupremely defiant of him and his extended fingerand
making a great deal of his chest until he had slunk out at the
doorthen addressed himself to meand proffered me the
satisfaction of 'witnessing the re-establishment of mutual
confidence between himself and Mrs. Micawber'. After whichhe
invited the company generally to the contemplation of that
affecting spectacle.

'The veil that has long been interposed between Mrs. Micawber and
myselfis 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 himand all desirous to show that
we wereas well as the hurry and disorder of our spirits would
permitI dare say we should all have gonebut that it was
necessary for Agnes to return to her fatheras yet unable to bear
more than the dawn of hope; and for someone else to hold Uriah in
safe keeping. SoTraddles remained for the latter purposeto be
presently relieved by Mr. Dick; and Mr. Dickmy auntand Iwent
home with Mr. Micawber. As I parted hurriedly from the dear girl
to whom I owed so muchand thought from what she had been saved
perhapsthat morning - her better resolution notwithstanding - 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-roomand 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 shriekedand folded Mr. Micawber in her
embrace. Miss Micawbernursing the unconscious stranger of Mrs.
Micawber's last letter to mewas sensibly affected. The stranger
leaped. The twins testified their joy by several inconvenient but
innocent demonstrations. Master Micawberwhose disposition
appeared to have been soured by early disappointmentand whose
aspect had become moroseyielded to his better feelingsand
blubbered.

'Emma!' said Mr. Micawber. 'The cloud is past from my mind.
Mutual confidenceso long preserved between us onceis restored
to know no further interruption. Nowwelcome poverty!' cried Mr.
Micawbershedding tears. 'Welcome miserywelcome houselessness
welcome hungerragstempestand beggary! Mutual confidence will
sustain us to the end!'

With these expressionsMr. Micawber placed Mrs. Micawber in a
chairand embraced the family all round; welcoming a variety of
bleak prospectswhich appearedto the best of my judgementto be
anything but welcome to them; and calling upon them to come out
into Canterbury and sing a chorusas nothing else was left for
their support.

But Mrs. Micawber havingin the strength of her emotionsfainted
awaythe first thing to be doneeven before the chorus could be
considered completewas to recover her. This my aunt and Mr.
Micawber did; and then my aunt was introducedand Mrs. Micawber
recognized me.

'Excuse medear Mr. Copperfield' said the poor ladygiving me
her hand'but I am not strong; and the removal of the late
misunderstanding between Mr. Micawber and myself was at first too
much for me.'

'Is this all your familyma'am?' said my aunt.

'There are no more at present' returned Mrs. Micawber.

'Good graciousI didn't mean thatma'am' said my aunt. 'I mean
are all these yours?'

'Madam' replied Mr. Micawber'it is a true bill.'

'And that eldest young gentlemannow' said my auntmusing'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 express my meaning more
strictlyif 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 - in shorthe has contracted a habit of singing in
public-housesrather than in sacred edifices.'

'But he means well' said Mrs. Micawbertenderly.

'I dare saymy love' rejoined Mr. Micawber'that he means
particularly well; but I have not yet found that he carries out his
meaningin any given direction whatsoever.'

Master Micawber's moroseness of aspect returned upon him againand
he demandedwith some temperwhat he was to do? Whether he had
been born a carpenteror a coach-painterany more than he had


been born a bird? Whether he could go into the next streetand
open a chemist's shop? Whether he could rush to the next assizes
and proclaim himself a lawyer? Whether he could come out by force
at the operaand succeed by violence? Whether he could do
anythingwithout being brought up to something?

My aunt mused a little whileand then said:

'Mr. MicawberI wonder you have never turned your thoughts to
emigration.'

'Madam' returned Mr. Micawber'it was the dream of my youthand
the fallacious aspiration of my riper years.' I am thoroughly
persuadedby the bythat he had never thought of it in his life.

'Aye?' said my auntwith a glance at me. 'Whywhat a thing it
would be for yourselves and your familyMr. and Mrs. Micawberif
you were to emigrate now.'

'Capitalmadamcapital' urged Mr. Micawbergloomily.

'That is the principalI may say the only difficultymy dear Mr.
Copperfield' assented his wife.

'Capital?' cried my aunt. 'But you are doing us a great service have
done us a great serviceI may sayfor surely much will come
out of the fire - and what could we do for youthat would be half
so good as to find the capital?'

'I could not receive it as a gift' said Mr. Micawberfull of fire
and animation'but if a sufficient sum could be advancedsay at
five per cent interestper annumupon my personal liability - say
my notes of handat twelveeighteenand twenty-four months
respectivelyto allow time for something to turn up -'

'Could be? Can be and shall beon your own terms' returned my
aunt'if you say the word. Think of this nowboth of you. Here
are some people David knowsgoing out to Australia shortly. If
you decide to gowhy shouldn't you go in the same ship? You may
help each other. Think of this nowMr. and Mrs. Micawber. Take
your timeand weigh it well.'

'There is but one questionmy dear ma'amI could wish to ask'
said Mrs. Micawber. 'The climateI believeis healthy?'

'Finest in the world!' said my aunt.

'Just so' returned Mrs. Micawber. 'Then my question arises. Now
are the circumstances of the country suchthat a man of Mr.
Micawber's abilities would have a fair chance of rising in the
social scale? I will not sayat presentmight he aspire to be
Governoror anything of that sort; but would there be a reasonable
opening for his talents to develop themselves - that would be amply
sufficient - and find their own expansion?'

'No better opening anywhere' said my aunt'for a man who conducts
himself welland is industrious.'

'For a man who conducts himself well' repeated Mrs. Micawberwith
her clearest business manner'and is industrious. Precisely. It
is evident to me that Australia is the legitimate sphere of action
for Mr. Micawber!'

'I entertain the convictionmy dear madam' said Mr. Micawber


'that it isunder existing circumstancesthe landthe only land
for myself and family; and that something of an extraordinary
nature will turn up on that shore. It is no distance comparatively
speaking; and though consideration is due to the
kindness of your proposalI assure you that is a mere matter of
form.'

Shall I ever forget howin a momenthe was the most sanguine of
menlooking on to fortune; or how Mrs. Micawber presently
discoursed about the habits of the kangaroo! Shall I ever recall
that street of Canterbury on a market-daywithout recalling him
as he walked back with us; expressingin the hardy roving manner
he assumedthe unsettled habits of a temporary sojourner in the
land; and looking at the bullocksas they came bywith the eye of
an Australian farmer!

CHAPTER 53
ANOTHER RETROSPECT

I must pause yet once again. Omy child-wifethere is a figure
in the moving crowd before my memoryquiet and stillsaying in
its innocent love and childish beautyStop to think of me - turn
to look upon the Little Blossomas it flutters to the ground!

I do. All else grows dimand 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 feelingthat I cannot count the time. It is not
really longin weeks or months; butin my usage and experience
it is a wearyweary while.

They have left off telling me to 'wait a few days more'. I have
begun to fearremotelythat the day may never shinewhen I shall
see my child-wife running in the sunlight with her old friend Jip.

He isas it were suddenlygrown very old. It may be that he
misses in his mistresssomething that enlivened him and made him
younger; but he mopesand his sight is weakand his limbs are
feebleand my aunt is sorry that he objects to her no morebut
creeps near her as he lies on Dora's bed - she sitting at the
bedside - and mildly licks her hand.

Dora lies smiling on usand is beautifuland utters no hasty or
complaining word. She says that we are very good to her; that her
dear old careful boy is tiring himself outshe knows; that my aunt
has no sleepyet is always wakefulactiveand kind. Sometimes
the little bird-like ladies come to see her; and then we talk about
our wedding-dayand all that happy time.

What a strange rest and pause in my life there seems to be - and in
all lifewithin doors and without - when I sit in the quiet
shadedorderly roomwith the blue eyes of my child-wife turned
towards meand her little fingers twining round my hand! Many and
many an hour I sit thus; butof all those timesthree times come
the freshest on my mind.

It is morning; and Doramade so trim by my aunt's handsshows me
how her pretty hair will curl upon the pillow yetan how long and
bright it isand how she likes to have it loosely gathered in that
net she wears.


'Not that I am vain of itnowyou mocking boy' she sayswhen I
smile; 'but because you used to say you thought it so beautiful;
and becausewhen I first began to think about youI used to peep
in the glassand wonder whether you would like very much to have
a lock of it. Oh what a foolish fellow you wereDoadywhen I
gave you one!'

'That was on the day when you were painting the flowers I had given
youDoraand when I told you how much in love I was.'

'Ah! but I didn't like to tell you' says Dora'thenhow I had
cried over thembecause I believed you really liked me! When I can
run about again as I used to doDoadylet us go and see those
places where we were such a silly coupleshall we? And take some
of the old walks? And not forget poor papa?'

'Yeswe willand have some happy days. So you must make haste to
get wellmy dear.'

'OhI shall soon do that! I am so much betteryou don't know!'

It is evening; and I sit in the same chairby the same bedwith
the same face turned towards me. We have been silentand 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 sayunreasonableafter what
you told mesuch a little while agoof Mr. Wickfield's not being
well? I want to see Agnes. Very much I want to see her.'

'I will write to hermy dear.'

'Will you?'

'Directly.'

'What a goodkind boy! Doadytake me on your arm. Indeedmy
dearit's not a whim. It's not a foolish fancy. I wantvery
much indeedto see her!'

'I am certain of it. I have only to tell her soand she is sure
to come.'

'You are very lonely when you go downstairsnow?' Dora whispers
with her arm about my neck.

'How can I be otherwisemy own lovewhen I see your empty chair?'

'My empty chair!' She clings to me for a little whilein silence.
'And you really miss meDoady?' looking upand brightly smiling.
'Even poorgiddystupid me?'

'My heartwho is there upon earth that I could miss so much?'

'Ohhusband! I am so gladyet so sorry!' creeping closer to me
and folding me in both her arms. She laughs and sobsand then is
quietand quite happy.

'Quite!' she says. 'Only give Agnes my dear loveand tell her


that I want veryverymuch to see her; and I have nothing left to
wish for.'

'Except to get well againDora.'

'AhDoady! Sometimes I think - you know I always was a silly
little thing! - that that will never be!'

'Don't say soDora! Dearest lovedon't think so!'

'I won'tif I can help itDoady. But I am very happy; though my
dear boy is so lonely by himselfbefore 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. Shemy auntand Ihave
sat with Dora since the morningall together. We have not talked
muchbut Dora has been perfectly contented and cheerful. We are
now alone.

Do I knownowthat 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 myselfmany times todayto weep.
I have remembered Who wept for a parting between the living and the
dead. I have bethought me of all that gracious and compassionate
history. I have tried to resign myselfand to console myself; and
thatI hopeI may have done imperfectly; but what I cannot firmly
settle in my mind isthat the end will absolutely come. I hold
her hand in mineI hold her heart in mineI 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 youDoady. I am going to say something I
have often thought of sayinglately. You won't mind?' with a
gentle look.

'Mindmy darling?'

'Because I don't know what you will thinkor what you may have
thought sometimes. Perhaps you have often thought the same.
DoadydearI am afraid I was too young.'

I lay my face upon the pillow by herand she looks into my eyes
and speaks very softly. Graduallyas she goes onI feelwith a
stricken heartthat she is speaking of herself as past.

'I am afraiddearI was too young. I don't mean in years only
but in experienceand thoughtsand everything. I was such a
silly little creature! I am afraid it would have been betterif we
had only loved each other as a boy and girland forgotten it. I
have begun to think I was not fit to be a wife.'

I try to stay my tearsand to reply'OhDoraloveas fit as I
to be a husband!'

'I don't know' with the old shake of her curls. 'Perhaps! But if
I had been more fit to be married I might have made you more so
too. Besidesyou are very cleverand I never was.'

'We have been very happymy sweet Dora.'

'I was very happyvery. Butas years went onmy 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.'

'OhDoradearestdearestdo not speak to me so. Every word
seems a reproach!'

'Nonot a syllable!' she answerskissing me. 'Ohmy dearyou
never deserved itand I loved you far too well to say a
reproachful word to youin earnest - it was all the merit I had
except being pretty - or you thought me so. Is it lonelydownstairs
Doady?'

'Very! Very!'

'Don't cry! Is my chair there?'

'In its old place.'

'Ohhow my poor boy cries! Hushhush! Nowmake me one promise.
I want to speak to Agnes. When you go downstairstell Agnes so
and send her up to me; and while I speak to herlet no one come not
even aunt. I want to speak to Agnes by herself. I want to
speak to Agnesquite alone.'

I promise that she shallimmediately; but I cannot leave herfor
my grief.

'I said that it was better as it is!' she whispersas she holds me
in her arms. 'OhDoadyafter more yearsyou never could have
loved your child-wife better than you do; andafter more years
she would so have tried and disappointed youthat 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 downstairswhen I go into the parlour; and I give her the
message. She disappearsleaving me alone with Jip.

His Chinese house is by the fire; and he lies within iton his bed
of flannelquerulously trying to sleep. The bright moon is high
and clear. As I look out on the nightmy tears fall fastand my
undisciplined heart is chastened heavily - heavily.

I sit down by the firethinking with a blind remorse of all those
secret feelings I have nourished since my marriage. I think of
every little trifle between me and Doraand feel the truththat
trifles make the sum of life. Ever rising from the sea of my
remembranceis the image of the dear child as I knew her first
graced by my young loveand by her ownwith every fascination
wherein such love is rich. Would itindeedhave been better if
we had loved each other as a boy and a girland forgotten it?
Undisciplined heartreply!

How the time wearsI know not; until I am recalled by my
child-wife's old companion. More restless than he washe crawls
out of his houseand looks at meand wanders to the doorand
whines to go upstairs.

'Not tonightJip! Not tonight!'

He comes very slowly back to melicks my handand lifts his dim
eyes to my face.


'OhJip! It may benever again!'

He lies down at my feetstretches himself out as if to sleepand
with a plaintive cryis dead.

'OhAgnes! Looklookhere!'

-That faceso full of pityand of griefthat rain of tears
that awful mute appeal to methat solemn hand upraised towards
Heaven!
'Agnes?'

It is over. Darkness comes before my eyes; andfor a timeall
things are blotted out of my remembrance.

CHAPTER 54
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 methat the energy and action of my life were at
an endthat I never could find any refuge but in the grave. I
came to think soI saybut not in the first shock of my grief.
It slowly grew to that. If the events I go on to relatehad not
thickened around mein the beginning to confuseand in the end to
augmentmy afflictionit is possible (though I think not
probable)that I might have fallen at once into this condition.
As it wasan interval occurred before I fully knew my own
distress; an intervalin 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 beautifulin the tender story that
was closed for ever.

When it was first proposed that I should go abroador how it came
to be agreed among us that I was to seek the restoration of my
peace in change and travelI do noteven nowdistinctly know.
The spirit of Agnes so pervaded all we thoughtand saidand did
in that time of sorrowthat I assume I may refer the project to
her influence. But her influence was so quiet that I know no more.

And nowindeedI began to think that in my old association of her
with the stained-glass window in the churcha prophetic
foreshadowing of what she would be to mein the calamity that was
to happen in the fullness of timehad found a way into my mind.
In all that sorrowfrom the momentnever to be forgottenwhen
she stood before me with her upraised handshe was like a sacred
presence in my lonely house. When the Angel of Death alighted
theremy child-wife fell asleep - they told me so when I could
bear to hear it - on her bosomwith a smile. From my swoonI
first awoke to a consciousness of her compassionate tearsher
words of hope and peaceher gentle face bending down as from a
purer region nearer Heavenover my undisciplined heartand
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 wifeI waited only for what Mr. Micawber called the
'final pulverization of Heep'; and for the departure of the


emigrants.

At the request of Traddlesmost affectionate and devoted of
friends in my troublewe returned to Canterbury: I mean my aunt
Agnesand I. We proceeded by appointment straight to Mr.
Micawber's house; whereand at Mr. Wickfield'smy friend had been
labouring ever since our explosive meeting. When poor Mrs.
Micawber saw me come inin my black clothesshe 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.

'WellMr. and Mrs. Micawber' was my aunt's first salutation after
we were seated. 'Prayhave you thought about that emigration
proposal of mine?'

'My dear madam' returned Mr. Micawber'perhaps I cannot better
express the conclusion at which Mrs. Micawberyour humble servant
and I may add our childrenhave jointly and severally arrived
than by borrowing the language of an illustrious poetto reply
that our Boat is on the shoreand our Bark is on the sea.'

'That's right' said my aunt. 'I augur all sort of good from your
sensible decision.'

'Madamyou do us a great deal of honour' he rejoined. He then
referred to a memorandum. 'With respect to the pecuniary
assistance enabling us to launch our frail canoe on the ocean of
enterpriseI have reconsidered that important business-point; and
would beg to propose my notes of hand - drawnit is needless to
stipulateon stamps of the amounts respectively required by the
various Acts of Parliament applying to such securities - at
eighteentwenty-fourand thirty months. The proposition I
originally submittedwas twelveeighteenand twenty-four; but I
am apprehensive that such an arrangement might not allow sufficient
time for the requisite amount of - Something - to turn up. We
might not' said Mr. Micawberlooking round the room as if it
represented several hundred acres of highly cultivated land'on
the first responsibility becoming duehave been successful in our
harvestor we might not have got our harvest in. LabourI
believeis sometimes difficult to obtain in that portion of our
colonial possessions where it will be our lot to combat with the
teeming soil.'

'Arrange it in any way you pleasesir' 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 isto be perfectly business-likeand perfectly punctual.
Turning overas we are about to turn overan entirely new leaf;
and falling backas we are now in the act of falling backfor a
Spring of no common magnitude; it is important to my sense of
self-respectbesides being an example to my sonthat these
arrangements should be concluded as between man and man.'

I don't know that Mr. Micawber attached any meaning to this last
phrase; I don't know that anybody ever doesor did; but he
appeared to relish it uncommonlyand repeatedwith an impressive
cough'as between man and man'.

'I propose' said Mr. Micawber'Bills - a convenience to the
mercantile worldfor whichI believewe are originally indebted
to the Jewswho appear to me to have had a devilish deal too much
to do with them ever since - because they are negotiable. But if
a Bondor any other description of securitywould be preferred


I should be happy to execute any such instrument. As between man
and man.'

MY aunt observedthat in a case where both parties were willing to
agree to anythingshe took it for granted there would be no
difficulty in settling this point. Mr. Micawber was of her
opinion.

'In reference to our domestic preparationsmadam' said Mr.
Micawberwith some pride'for meeting the destiny to which we are
now understood to be self-devotedI beg to report them. My eldest
daughter attends at five every morning in a neighbouring
establishmentto acquire the process - if process it may be called
- of milking cows. My younger children are instructed to observe
as closely as circumstances will permitthe habits of the pigs and
poultry maintained in the poorer parts of this city: a pursuit from
which they haveon two occasionsbeen brought homewithin an
inch of being run over. I have myself directed some attention
during the past weekto the art of baking; and my son Wilkins has
issued forth with a walking-stick and driven cattlewhen
permittedby the rugged hirelings who had them in chargeto
render any voluntary service in that direction - which I regret to
sayfor the credit of our naturewas not often; he being
generally warnedwith imprecationsto desist.'

'All very right indeed' said my auntencouragingly. 'Mrs.
Micawber has been busytooI have no doubt.'

'My dear madam' returned Mrs. Micawberwith her business-like
air. 'I am free to confess that I have not been actively engaged
in pursuits immediately connected with cultivation or with stock
though well aware that both will claim my attention on a foreign
shore. Such opportunities as I have been enabled to alienate from
my domestic dutiesI have devoted to corresponding at some length
with my family. For I own it seems to memy dear Mr.
Copperfield' said Mrs. Micawberwho always fell back on meI
suppose from old habitto whomsoever else she might address her
discourse at starting'that the time is come when the past should
be buried in oblivion; when my family should take Mr. Micawber by
the handand Mr. Micawber should take my family by the hand; when
the lion should lie down with the lamband my family be on terms
with Mr. Micawber.'

I said I thought so too.

'Thisat leastis the lightmy dear Mr. Copperfield' pursued
Mrs. Micawber'in which I view the subject. When I lived at home
with my papa and mamamy papa was accustomed to askwhen any
point was under discussion in our limited circleIn what light
does my Emma view the subject?That my papa was too partialI
know; stillon such a point as the frigid coldness which has ever
subsisted between Mr. Micawber and my familyI necessarily have
formed an opiniondelusive though it may be.'

'No doubt. Of course you havema'am' said my aunt.

'Precisely so' assented Mrs. Micawber. 'NowI may be wrong in my
conclusions; it is very likely that I ambut my individual
impression isthat the gulf between my family and Mr. Micawber may
be traced to an apprehensionon the part of my familythat Mr.
Micawber would require pecuniary accommodation. I cannot help
thinking' said Mrs. Micawberwith an air of deep sagacity'that
there are members of my family who have been apprehensive that Mr.
Micawber would solicit them for their names. - I do not mean to be


conferred in Baptism upon our childrenbut to be inscribed on
Bills of Exchangeand negotiated in the Money Market.'

The look of penetration with which Mrs. Micawber announced this
discoveryas if no one had ever thought of it beforeseemed
rather to astonish my aunt; who abruptly replied'Wellma'am
upon the wholeI shouldn't wonder if you were right!'

'Mr. Micawber being now on the eve of casting off the pecuniary
shackles that have so long enthralled him' said Mrs. Micawber
'and of commencing a new career in a country where there is
sufficient range for his abilities- whichin my opinionis
exceedingly important; Mr. Micawber's abilities peculiarly
requiring space- it seems to me that my family should signalize
the occasion by coming forward. What I could wish to seewould be
a meeting between Mr. Micawber and my family at a festive
entertainmentto be given at my family's expense; where Mr.
Micawber's health and prosperity being proposedby some leading
member of my familyMr. Micawber might have an opportunity of
developing his views.'

'My dear' said Mr. Micawberwith some heat'it may be better for
me to state distinctlyat oncethat if I were to develop my views
to that assembled groupthey would possibly be found of an
offensive nature: my impression being that your family arein the
aggregateimpertinent Snobs; andin detailunmitigated
Ruffians.'

'Micawber' said Mrs. Micawbershaking her head'no! You have
never understood themand they have never understood you.'

Mr. Micawber coughed.

'They have never understood youMicawber' said his wife. 'They
may be incapable of it. If sothat is their misfortune. I can
pity their misfortune.'

'I am extremely sorrymy dear Emma' said Mr. Micawberrelenting
'to have been betrayed into any expressions that mighteven
remotelyhave the appearance of being strong expressions. All I
would say isthat I can go abroad without your family coming
forward to favour me- in shortwith a parting Shove of their
cold shoulders; and thatupon the wholeI would rather leave
England with such impetus as I possessthan derive any
acceleration of it from that quarter. At the same timemy dear
if they should condescend to reply to your communications - which
our joint experience renders most improbable - far be it from me to
be a barrier to your wishes.'

The matter being thus amicably settledMr. Micawber gave Mrs.
Micawber his armand glancing at the heap of books and papers
lying before Traddles on the tablesaid they would leave us to
ourselves; which they ceremoniously did.

'My dear Copperfield' said Traddlesleaning back in his chair
when they were goneand looking at me with an affection that made
his eyes redand his hair all kinds of shapes'I don't make any
excuse for troubling you with businessbecause I know you are
deeply interested in itand it may divert your thoughts. My dear
boyI hope you are not worn out?'

'I am quite myself' said Iafter a pause. 'We have more cause to
think of my aunt than of anyone. You know how much she has done.'


'Surelysurely' answered Traddles. 'Who can forget it!'

'But even that is not all' said I. 'During the last fortnight
some new trouble has vexed her; and she has been in and out of
London every day. Several times she has gone out earlyand been
absent until evening. Last nightTraddleswith this journey
before herit was almost midnight before she came home. You know
what her consideration for others is. She will not tell me what
has happened to distress her.'

My auntvery paleand with deep lines in her facesat immovable
until I had finished; when some stray tears found their way to her
cheeksand she put her hand on mine.

'It's nothingTrot; it's nothing. There will be no more of it.
You shall know by and by. Now Agnesmy dearlet 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
himselfhe 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 bevirtuallyabout two hundred years oldat present.
The heat into which he has been continually putting himself; and
the distracted and impetuous manner in which he has been diving
day and nightamong papers and books; to say nothing of the
immense number of letters he has written me between this house and
Mr. Wickfield'sand often across the table when he has been
sitting oppositeand might much more easily have spoken; is quite
extraordinary.'

'Letters!' cried my aunt. 'I believe he dreams in letters!'

'There's Mr. Dicktoo' said Traddles'has been doing wonders! As
soon as he was released from overlooking Uriah Heepwhom he kept
in such charge as I never saw exceededhe began to devote himself
to Mr. Wickfield. And really his anxiety to be of use in the
investigations we have been makingand his real usefulness in
extractingand copyingand fetchingand carryinghave been
quite stimulating to us.'

'Dick is a very remarkable man' exclaimed my aunt; 'and I always
said he was. Trotyou know it.'

'I am happy to sayMiss Wickfield' pursued Traddlesat 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 timeand of the dreadful
apprehensions under which he had livedhe is hardly the same
person. At timeseven his impaired power of concentrating his
memory and attention on particular points of businesshas
recovered itself very much; and he has been able to assist us in
making some things clearthat we should have found very difficult
indeedif not hopelesswithout 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 observedor I shall never have done.'
His natural manner and agreeable simplicity made it transparent
that he said this to put us in good heartand to enable Agnes to
hear her father mentioned with greater confidence; but it was not
the less pleasant for that.

'Nowlet me see' said Traddleslooking among the papers on the
table. 'Having counted our fundsand reduced to order a great
mass of unintentional confusion in the first placeand of wilful


confusion and falsification in the secondwe take it to be clear
that Mr. Wickfield might now wind up his businessand his
agency-trustand exhibit no deficiency or defalcation whatever.'

'Ohthank Heaven!' cried Agnesfervently.

'But' said Traddles'the surplus that would be left as his means
of support - and I suppose the house to be soldeven in saying
this - would be so smallnot exceeding in all probability some
hundreds of poundsthat perhapsMiss Wickfieldit 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 yourselfMiss Wickfield -
Copperfield - I -'

'I have considered itTrotwood' said Agneslooking to me'and
I feel that it ought not to beand must not be; even on the
recommendation of a friend to whom I am so gratefuland 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 Agnessteadily'for it
gives me hopealmost assurancethat we think alike. Dear Mr.
Traddles and dear Trotwoodpapa once free with honourwhat could
I wish for! I have always aspiredif I could have released him
from the toils in which he was heldto render back some little
portion of the love and care I owe himand to devote my life to
him. It has beenfor yearsthe utmost height of my hopes. To
take our future on myselfwill be the next great happiness - the
next to his release from all trust and responsibility - that I can
know.'

'Have you thought howAgnes?'

'Often! I am not afraiddear Trotwood. I am certain of success.
So many people know me hereand think kindly of methat I am
certain. Don't mistrust me. Our wants are not many. If I rent
the dear old houseand keep a schoolI shall be useful and
happy.'

The calm fervour of her cheerful voice brought back so vividly
first the dear old house itselfand then my solitary homethat my
heart was too full for speech. Traddles pretended for a little
while to be busily looking among the papers.

'NextMiss Trotwood' said Traddles'that property of yours.'

'Wellsir' sighed my aunt. 'All I have got to say about it is
that if it's goneI can bear it; and if it's not goneI shall be
glad to get it back.'

'It was originallyI thinkeight thousand poundsConsols?' said
Traddles.

'Right!' replied my aunt.

'I can't account for more than five' said Traddleswith an air of
perplexity.

'- thousanddo you mean?' inquired my auntwith uncommon
composure'or pounds?'


'Five thousand pounds' said Traddles.

'It was all there was' returned my aunt. 'I sold threemyself.
OneI paid for your articlesTrotmy dear; and the other two I
have by me. When I lost the restI thought it wise to say nothing
about that sumbut to keep it secretly for a rainy day. I wanted
to see how you would come out of the trialTrot; and you came out
nobly - perseveringself-reliantself-denying! So did Dick.
Don't speak to mefor I find my nerves a little shaken!'

Nobody would have thought soto see her sitting uprightwith her
arms folded; but she had wonderful self-command.

'Then I am delighted to say' cried Traddlesbeaming with joy
'that we have recovered the whole money!'

'Don't congratulate meanybody!' exclaimed my aunt. 'How so
sir?'

'You believed it had been misappropriated by Mr. Wickfield?' said
Traddles.

'Of course I did' said my aunt'and was therefore easily
silenced. Agnesnot a word!'

'And indeed' said Traddles'it was soldby virtue of the power
of management he held from you; but I needn't say by whom soldor
on whose actual signature. It was afterwards pretended to Mr.
Wickfieldby that rascal- and provedtooby figures- that he
had possessed himself of the money (on general instructionshe
said) to keep other deficiencies and difficulties from the light.
Mr. Wickfieldbeing so weak and helpless in his hands as to pay
youafterwardsseveral sums of interest on a pretended principal
which he knew did not existmade himselfunhappilya party to
the fraud.'

'And at last took the blame upon himself' added my aunt; 'and
wrote me a mad lettercharging himself with robberyand wrong
unheard of. Upon which I paid him a visit early one morning
called for a candleburnt the letterand told him if he ever
could right me and himselfto do it; and if he couldn'tto keep
his own counsel for his daughter's sake. - If anybody speaks to
meI'll leave the house!'

We all remained quiet; Agnes covering her face.

'Wellmy dear friend' said my auntafter a pause'and you have
really extorted the money back from him?'

'Whythe fact is' returned Traddles'Mr. Micawber had so
completely hemmed him inand was always ready with so many new
points if an old one failedthat he could not escape from us. A
most remarkable circumstance isthat I really don't think he
grasped this sum even so much for the gratification of his avarice
which was inordinateas in the hatred he felt for Copperfield. He
said so to meplainly. He said he would even have spent as much
to baulk or injure Copperfield.'

'Ha!' said my auntknitting her brows thoughtfullyand glancing
at Agnes. 'And what's become of him?'

'I don't know. He left here' said Traddles'with his motherwho
had been clamouringand beseechingand disclosingthe whole
time. They went away by one of the London night coachesand I


know no more about him; except that his malevolence to me at
parting was audacious. He seemed to consider himself hardly less
indebted to methan to Mr. Micawber; which I consider (as I told
him) quite a compliment.'

'Do you suppose he has any moneyTraddles?' I asked.

'Oh dearyesI should think so' he repliedshaking his head
seriously. 'I should say he must have pocketed a good dealin one
way or other. ButI think you would findCopperfieldif you had
an opportunity of observing his coursethat money would never keep
that man out of mischief. He is such an incarnate hypocritethat
whatever object he pursueshe 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 otherhe
will always magnify every object in the way; and consequently will
hate and suspect everybody that comesin the most innocent manner
between him and it. So the crooked courses will become crookeder
at any momentfor the least reasonor 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 meanwhen they give their minds to it.'

'And nowtouching Mr. Micawber' said my aunt.

'Wellreally' said Traddlescheerfully'I mustonce moregive
Mr. Micawber high praise. But for his having been so patient and
persevering for so long a timewe never could have hoped to do
anything worth speaking of. And I think we ought to consider that
Mr. Micawber did rightfor right's sakewhen we reflect what
terms he might have made with Uriah Heep himselffor his silence.'

'I think so too' said I.

'Nowwhat would you give him?' inquired my aunt.

'Oh! Before you come to that' said Traddlesa little
disconcerted'I am afraid I thought it discreet to omit (not being
able to carry everything before me) two pointsin making this
lawless adjustment - for it's perfectly lawless from beginning to
end - of a difficult affair. Those I.O.U.'sand so forthwhich
Mr. Micawber gave him for the advances he had -'

'Well! They must be paid' said my aunt.

'Yesbut I don't know when they may be proceeded onor where they
are' rejoined Traddlesopening his eyes; 'and I anticipatethat
between this time and his departureMr. Micawber will be
constantly arrestedor taken in execution.'

'Then he must be constantly set free againand taken out of
execution' said my aunt. 'What's the amount altogether?'

'WhyMr. Micawber has entered the transactions - he calls them
transactions - with great formin a book' rejoined Traddles
smiling; 'and he makes the amount a hundred and three pounds
five.'

'Nowwhat shall we give himthat sum included?' said my aunt.
'Agnesmy dearyou and I can talk about division of it


afterwards. What should it be? Five hundred pounds?'


Upon thisTraddles and I both struck in at once. We both
recommended a small sum in moneyand the paymentwithout
stipulation to Mr. Micawberof the Uriah claims as they came in.
We proposed that the family should have their passage and their
outfitand a hundred pounds; and that Mr. Micawber's arrangement
for the repayment of the advances should be gravely entered into
as it might be wholesome for him to suppose himself under that
responsibility. To thisI added the suggestionthat I should
give some explanation of his character and history to Mr. Peggotty
who I knew could be relied on; and that to Mr. Peggotty should be
quietly entrusted the discretion of advancing another hundred. I
further proposed to interest Mr. Micawber in Mr. Peggottyby
confiding so much of Mr. Peggotty's story to him as I might feel
justified in relatingor might think expedient; and to endeavour
to bring each of them to bear upon the otherfor the common
advantage. We all entered warmly into these views; and I may
mention at oncethat the principals themselves did soshortly
afterwardswith perfect good will and harmony.


Seeing that Traddles now glanced anxiously at my aunt againI
reminded him of the second and last point to which he had adverted.


'You and your aunt will excuse meCopperfieldif I touch upon a
painful themeas 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 memorable denunciation
a threatening allusion was made by Uriah Heep to your aunt's -
husband.'


My auntretaining her stiff positionand apparent composure
assented with a nod.


'Perhaps' observed Traddles'it was mere purposeless
impertinence?'


'No' returned my aunt.


'There was - pardon me - really such a personand at all in his
power?' hinted Traddles.


'Yesmy good friend' said my aunt.


Traddleswith a perceptible lengthening of his faceexplained
that he had not been able to approach this subject; that it had
shared the fate of Mr. Micawber's liabilitiesin 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 usor any
of usany injury or annoyanceno doubt he would.


My aunt remained quiet; until again some stray tears found their
way to her cheeks.
'You are quite right' she said. 'It was very thoughtful to
mention it.'


'Can I - or Copperfield - do anything?' asked Traddlesgently.


'Nothing' said my aunt. 'I thank you many times. Trotmy 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 dressand sat
with her upright carriagelooking at the door.


'WellMr. and Mrs. Micawber!' said my auntwhen they entered.



'We have been discussing your emigrationwith 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 familychildren
and all being then present- and so much to the awakening
of Mr. Micawber's punctual habits in the opening stage of all bill
transactionsthat he could not be dissuaded from immediately
rushing outin the highest spiritsto buy the stamps for his
notes of hand. Buthis joy received a sudden check; for within
five minuteshe returned in the custody of a sheriff 's officer
informing usin a flood of tearsthat all was lost. Webeing
quite prepared for this eventwhich was of course a proceeding of
Uriah Heep'ssoon paid the money; and in five minutes more Mr.
Micawber was seated at the tablefilling up the stamps with an
expression of perfect joywhich only that congenial employmentor
the making of punchcould impart in full completeness to his
shining face. To see him at work on the stampswith the relish of
an artisttouching them like pictureslooking at them sideways
taking weighty notes of dates and amounts in his pocket-bookand
contemplating them when finishedwith a high sense of their
precious valuewas a sight indeed.

'Nowthe best thing you can dosirif you'll allow me to advise
you' said my auntafter silently observing him'is to abjure
that occupation for evermore.'

'Madam' replied Mr. Micawber'it is my intention to register such
a vow on the virgin page of the future. Mrs. Micawber will attest
it. I trust' said Mr. Micawbersolemnly'that my son Wilkins
will ever bear in mindthat he had infinitely better put his fist
in the firethan use it to handle the serpents that have poisoned
the life-blood of his unhappy parent!' Deeply affectedand changed
in a moment to the image of despairMr. 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 fatigueand 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 settlementwith all
convenient speedunder the direction of Traddles; and that Agnes
should also come to Londonpending those arrangements. We passed
the night at the old housewhichfreed from the presence of the
Heepsseemed purged of a disease; and I lay in my old roomlike
a shipwrecked wanderer come home.

We went back next day to my aunt's house - not to mine- and when
she and I sat aloneas of oldbefore going to bedshe said:

'Trotdo you really wish to know what I have had upon my mind
lately?'

'Indeed I doaunt. 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 enoughchild' said my auntaffectionately
'without the addition of my little miseries. I could have no other
motiveTrotin keeping anything from you.'

'I know that well' said I. 'But tell me now.'


'Would you ride with me a little way tomorrow morning?' asked my
aunt.


'Of course.'


'At nine' said she. 'I'll tell you thenmy dear.'


At nineaccordinglywe went out in a little chariotand drove to
London. We drove a long way through the streetsuntil we came to
one of the large hospitals. Standing hard by the building was a
plain hearse. The driver recognized my auntandin obedience to
a motion of her hand at the windowdrove slowly off; we following.


'You understand it nowTrot' said my aunt. 'He is gone!'


'Did he die in the hospital?'


'Yes.'


She sat immovable beside me; butagain I saw the stray tears on
her face.


'He was there once before' said my aunt presently. 'He was ailing
a long time - a shatteredbroken manthese many years. When he
knew his state in this last illnesshe asked them to send for me.
He was sorry then. Very sorry.'


'You wentI knowaunt.'


'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 awayout of townto the churchyard at Hornsey. 'Better
here than in the streets' said my aunt. 'He was born here.'


We alighted; and followed the plain coffin to a corner I remember
wellwhere the service was read consigning it to the dust.


'Six-and-thirty years agothis daymy dear' said my auntas we
walked back to the chariot'I was married. God forgive us all!'
We took our seats in silence; and so she sat beside me for a long
timeholding my hand. At length she suddenly burst into tears
and said:


'He was a fine-looking man when I married himTrot - and he was
sadly changed!'


It did not last long. After the relief of tearsshe soon became
composedand even cheerful. Her nerves were a little shakenshe
saidor she would not have given way to it. God forgive us all!


So we rode back to her little cottage at Highgatewhere we found
the following short notewhich had arrived by that morning's post
from Mr. Micawber:


'Canterbury

'Friday.


'My dear Madamand Copperfield

'The fair land of promise lately looming on the horizon is again
enveloped in impenetrable mistsand for ever withdrawn from the
eyes of a drifting wretch whose Doom is sealed!

'Another writ has been issued (in His Majesty's High Court of
King's Bench at Westminster)in another cause of HEEP V.
MICAWBERand the defendant in that cause is the prey of the
sheriff having legal jurisdiction in this bailiwick.

'Now's the dayand now's the hour

See the front of battle lower

See approach proud EDWARD'S power


Chains and slavery!

'Consigned to whichand to a speedy end (for mental torture is not
supportable beyond a certain pointand that point I feel I have
attained)my course is run. Bless youbless you! Some future
travellervisitingfrom motives of curiositynot unmingledlet
us hopewith sympathythe place of confinement allotted to
debtors in this citymayand I trust willPonderas he traces
on its wallinscribed with a rusty nail

'The obscure initials

'W. M.

'P.S. I re-open this to say that our common friendMr. Thomas
Traddles (who has not yet left usand is looking extremely well)
has paid the debt and costsin the noble name of Miss Trotwood;
and that myself and family are at the height of earthly bliss.'

CHAPTER 55
TEMPEST

I now approach an event in my lifeso indelibleso awfulso
bound by an infinite variety of ties to all that has preceded it
in these pagesthatfrom the beginning of my narrativeI have
seen it growing larger and larger as I advancedlike a great tower
in a plainand throwing its fore-cast shadow even on the incidents
of my childish days.

For years after it occurredI dreamed of it often. I have started
up so vividly impressed by itthat its fury has yet seemed raging
in my quiet roomin the still night. I dream of it sometimes
though at lengthened and uncertain intervalsto this hour. I have
an association between it and a stormy windor the lightest
mention of a sea-shoreas strong as any of which my mind is
conscious. As plainly as I behold what happenedI will try to
write it down. I do not recall itbut see it done; for it happens
again before me.

The time drawing on rapidly for the sailing of the emigrant-ship
my good old nurse (almost broken-hearted for mewhen we first met)
came up to London. I was constantly with herand her brotherand
the Micawbers (they being very much together); but Emily I never
saw.

One evening when the time was close at handI was alone with
Peggotty and her brother. Our conversation turned on Ham. She
described to us how tenderly he had taken leave of herand how


manfully and quietly he had borne himself. Most of allof 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 shewho was so much with himhad 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 abroadand she to return to her house
at Dover. We had a temporary lodging in Covent Garden. As I
walked home to itafter this evening's conversationreflecting on
what had passed between Ham and myself when I was last at Yarmouth
I wavered in the original purpose I had formedof 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
desireI thoughtafter receiving my communicationto send some
parting word by me to her unhappy lover. I ought to give her the
opportunity.

I therefore sat down in my roombefore going to bedand wrote to
her. I told her that I had seen himand 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
itif I had had the right. Its deep fidelity and goodness were
not to be adorned by me or any man. I left it outto be sent
round in the morning; with a line to Mr. Peggottyrequesting him
to give it to her; and went to bed at daybreak.

I was weaker than I knew then; andnot falling asleep until the
sun was uplay lateand unrefreshednext day. I was roused by
the silent presence of my aunt at my bedside. I felt it in my
sleepas I suppose we all do feel such things.

'Trotmy dear' she saidwhen I opened my eyes'I couldn't make
up my mind to disturb you. Mr. Peggotty is here; shall he come
up?'

I replied yesand he soon appeared.

'Mas'r Davy' he saidwhen we had shaken hands'I giv Em'ly your
lettersirand she writ this heer; and begged of me fur to ask
you to read itand if you see no hurt in'tto be so kind as take
charge on't.'

'Have you read it?' said I.

He nodded sorrowfully. I opened itand read as follows:

'I have got your message. Ohwhat can I writeto 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 thornsbut they are such comfort. I have
prayed over themohI have prayed so much. When I find what you
areand what uncle isI think what God must beand can cry to
him.

'Good-bye for ever. Nowmy dearmy friendgood-bye for ever in
this world. In another worldif I am forgivenI may wake a child
and come to you. All thanks and blessings. Farewellevermore.'

Thisblotted with tearswas the letter.


'May I tell her as you doen't see no hurt in'tand as you'll be so
kind as take charge on'tMas'r Davy?' said Mr. Peggottywhen I
had read it.
'Unquestionably' said I - 'but I am thinking -'


'YesMas'r Davy?'


'I am thinking' said I'that I'll go down again to Yarmouth.
There's timeand to sparefor me to go and come back before the
ship sails. My mind is constantly running on himin his solitude;
to put this letter of her writing in his hand at this timeand to
enable you to tell herin the moment of partingthat he has got
itwill be a kindness to both of them. I solemnly accepted his
commissiondear good fellowand cannot discharge it too
completely. The journey is nothing to me. I am restlessand
shall be better in motion. I'll go down tonight.'


Though he anxiously endeavoured to dissuade meI saw that he was
of my mind; and thisif I had required to be confirmed in my
intentionwould have had the effect. He went round to the coach
officeat my requestand took the box-seat for me on the mail.
In the evening I startedby that conveyancedown the road I had
traversed under so many vicissitudes.


'Don't you think that' I asked the coachmanin the first stage
out of London'a very remarkable sky? I don't remember to have
seen one like it.'


'Nor I - not equal to it' he replied. 'That's windsir.
There'll be mischief done at seaI expectbefore long.'


It was a murky confusion - here and there blotted with a colour
like the colour of the smoke from damp fuel - of flying clouds
tossed up into most remarkable heapssuggesting greater heights in
the clouds than there were depths below them to the bottom of the
deepest hollows in the earththrough which the wild moon seemed to
plunge headlongas ifin a dread disturbance of the laws of
natureshe had lost her way and were frightened. There had been
a wind all day; and it was rising thenwith an extraordinary great
sound. In another hour it had much increasedand the sky was more
overcastand blew hard.


Butas the night advancedthe clouds closing in and densely
over-spreading the whole skythen very darkit came on to blow
harder and harder. It still increaseduntil our horses could
scarcely face the wind. Many timesin the dark part of the night
(it was then late in Septemberwhen the nights were not short)
the leaders turned aboutor came to a dead stop; and we were often
in serious apprehension that the coach would be blown over.
Sweeping gusts of rain came up before this stormlike showers of
steel; andat those timeswhen there was any shelter of trees or
lee walls to be gotwe were fain to stopin a sheer impossibility
of continuing the struggle.


When the day brokeit blew harder and harder. I had been in
Yarmouth when the seamen said it blew great gunsbut I had never
known the like of thisor anything approaching to it. We came to
Ipswich - very latehaving had to fight every inch of ground since
we were ten miles out of London; and found a cluster of people in
the market-placewho had risen from their beds in the night
fearful of falling chimneys. Some of thesecongregating about the
inn-yard while we changed horsestold us of great sheets of lead
having been ripped off a high church-towerand flung into a
by-streetwhich they then blocked up. Others had to tell of



country peoplecoming in from neighbouring villageswho had seen
great trees lying torn out of the earthand whole ricks scattered
about the roads and fields. Stillthere was no abatement in the
stormbut it blew harder.

As we struggled onnearer and nearer to the seafrom which this
mighty wind was blowing dead on shoreits force became more and
more terrific. Long before we saw the seaits spray was on our
lipsand showered salt rain upon us. The water was outover
miles and miles of the flat country adjacent to Yarmouth; and every
sheet and puddle lashed its banksand had its stress of little
breakers setting heavily towards us. When we came within sight of
the seathe waves on the horizoncaught at intervals above the
rolling abysswere like glimpses of another shore with towers and
buildings. When at last we got into the townthe people came out
to their doorsall aslantand with streaming hairmaking a
wonder of the mail that had come through such a night.

I put up at the old innand went down to look at the sea;
staggering along the streetwhich was strewn with sand and
seaweedand with flying blotches of sea-foam; afraid of falling
slates and tiles; and holding by people I metat angry corners.
Coming near the beachI sawnot only the boatmenbut half the
people of the townlurking behind buildings; somenow and then
braving the fury of the storm to look away to seaand blown sheer
out of their course in trying to get zigzag back.

joining these groupsI found bewailing women whose husbands were
away in herring or oyster boatswhich there was too much reason to
think might have foundered before they could run in anywhere for
safety. Grizzled old sailors were among the peopleshaking their
headsas they looked from water to skyand muttering to one
another; ship-ownersexcited and uneasy; childrenhuddling
togetherand peering into older faces; even stout mariners
disturbed and anxiouslevelling their glasses at the sea from
behind places of shelteras if they were surveying an enemy.

The tremendous sea itselfwhen I could find sufficient pause to
look at itin the agitation of the blinding windthe flying
stones and sandand the awful noiseconfounded me. As the high
watery walls came rolling inandat their highesttumbled into
surfthey looked as if the least would engulf the town. As the
receding wave swept back with a hoarse roarit seemed to scoop out
deep caves in the beachas if its purpose were to undermine the
earth. When some white-headed billows thundered onand dashed
themselves to pieces before they reached the landevery fragment
of the late whole seemed possessed by the full might of its wrath
rushing to be gathered to the composition of another monster.
Undulating hills were changed to valleysundulating valleys (with
a solitary storm-bird sometimes skimming through them) were lifted
up to hills; masses of water shivered and shook the beach with a
booming sound; every shape tumultuously rolled onas soon as made
to change its shape and placeand beat another shape and place
away; the ideal shore on the horizonwith its towers and
buildingsrose and fell; the clouds fell fast and thick; I seemed
to see a rending and upheaving of all nature.

Not finding Ham among the people whom this memorable wind - for it
is still remembered down thereas the greatest ever known to blow
upon that coast - had brought togetherI made my way to his house.
It was shut; and as no one answered to my knockingI wentby back
ways and by-lanesto the yard where he worked. I learnedthere
that he had gone to Lowestoftto meet some sudden exigency of
ship-repairing in which his skill was required; but that he would


be back tomorrow morningin good time.

I went back to the inn; and when I had washed and dressedand
tried to sleepbut in vainit was five o'clock in the afternoon.
I had not sat five minutes by the coffee-room firewhen the
waitercoming to stir itas an excuse for talkingtold me that
two colliers had gone downwith all handsa few miles away; and
that some other ships had been seen labouring hard in the Roads
and tryingin great distressto keep off shore. Mercy on them
and on all poor sailorssaid heif 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 theredisproportionate to the
occasion. I was seriously affectedwithout knowing how muchby
late events; and my long exposure to the fierce wind had confused
me. There was that jumble in my thoughts and recollectionsthat
I had lost the clear arrangement of time and distance. Thusif I
had gone out into the townI should not have been surprisedI
thinkto encounter someone who I knew must be then in London. So
to speakthere was in these respects a curious inattention in my
mind. Yet it was busytoowith all the remembrances the place
naturally awakened; and they were particularly distinct and vivid.

In this statethe waiter's dismal intelligence about the ships
immediately connected itselfwithout any effort of my volition
with my uneasiness about Ham. I was persuaded that I had an
apprehension of his returning from Lowestoft by seaand being
lost. This grew so strong with methat I resolved to go back to
the yard before I took my dinnerand 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 soI would go over to Lowestoft and
prevent it by bringing him with me.

I hastily ordered my dinnerand went back to the yard. I was none
too soon; for the boat-builderwith a lantern in his handwas
locking the yard-gate. He quite laughed when I asked him the
questionand said there was no fear; no man in his sensesor out
of themwould put off in such a gale of windleast of all Ham
Peggottywho had been born to seafaring.

So sensible of thisbeforehandthat I had really felt ashamed of
doing what I was nevertheless impelled to doI went back to the
inn. If such a wind could riseI think it was rising. The howl
and roarthe rattling of the doors and windowsthe rumbling in
the chimneysthe apparent rocking of the very house that sheltered
meand the prodigious tumult of the seawere more fearful than in
the morning. But there was now a great darkness besides; and that
invested the storm with new terrorsreal and fanciful.

I could not eatI could not sit stillI could not continue
steadfast to anything. Something within mefaintly answering to
the storm withouttossed up the depths of my memory and made a
tumult in them. Yetin all the hurry of my thoughtswild running
with the thundering sea- the stormand my uneasiness regarding
Ham were always in the fore-ground.

My dinner went away almost untastedand I tried to refresh myself
with a glass or two of wine. In vain. I fell into a dull slumber
before the firewithout losing my consciousnesseither of the
uproar out of doorsor of the place in which I was. Both became
overshadowed by a new and indefinable horror; and when I awoke - or
rather when I shook off the lethargy that bound me in my chair- my
whole frame thrilled with objectless and unintelligible fear.


I walked to and frotried to read an old gazetteerlistened to
the awful noises: looked at facesscenesand figures in the fire.
At lengththe steady ticking of the undisturbed clock on the wall
tormented me to that degree that I resolved to go to bed.

It was reassuringon such a nightto be told that some of the
inn-servants had agreed together to sit up until morning. I went
to bedexceedingly weary and heavy; buton my lying downall
such sensations vanishedas if by magicand I was broad awake
with every sense refined.

For hours I lay therelistening to the wind and water; imagining
nowthat I heard shrieks out at sea; nowthat I distinctly heard
the firing of signal guns; and nowthe fall of houses in the town.
I got upseveral timesand looked out; but could see nothing
except the reflection in the window-panes of the faint candle I had
left burningand of my own haggard face looking in at me from the
black void.

At lengthmy restlessness attained to such a pitchthat I hurried
on my clothesand went downstairs. In the large kitchenwhere I
dimly saw bacon and ropes of onions hanging from the beamsthe
watchers were clustered togetherin various attitudesabout a
tablepurposely moved away from the great chimneyand brought
near the door. A pretty girlwho had her ears stopped with her
apronand her eyes upon the doorscreamed when I appeared
supposing me to be a spirit; but the others had more presence of
mindand were glad of an addition to their company. One man
referring to the topic they had been discussingasked me whether
I thought the souls of the collier-crews who had gone downwere
out in the storm?

I remained thereI dare saytwo hours. OnceI opened the
yard-gateand looked into the empty street. The sandthe
sea-weedand the flakes of foamwere 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 chamberwhen I at length
returned to it; but I was tired nowandgetting into bed again
fell - off a tower and down a precipice - into the depths of sleep.
I have an impression that for a long timethough I dreamed of
being elsewhere and in a variety of scenesit was always blowing
in my dream. At lengthI lost that feeble hold upon realityand
was engaged with two dear friendsbut 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 incessantthat I could
not hear something I much desired to hearuntil I made a great
exertion and awoke. It was broad day - eight or nine o'clock; the
storm ragingin lieu of the batteries; and someone knocking and
calling at my door.

'What is the matter?' I cried.

'A wreck! Close by!'

I sprung out of bedand askedwhat wreck?

'A schoonerfrom Spain or Portugalladen with fruit and wine.
Make hastesirif you want to see her! It's thoughtdown on the
beachshe'll go to pieces every moment.'


The excited voice went clamouring along the staircase; and I
wrapped myself in my clothes as quickly as I couldand ran into
the street.

Numbers of people were there before meall running in one
directionto the beach. I ran the same wayoutstripping a good
manyand soon came facing the wild sea.

The wind might by this time have lulled a littlethough not more
sensibly than if the cannonading I had dreamed ofhad been
diminished by the silencing of half-a-dozen guns out of hundreds.
But the seahaving upon it the additional agitation of the whole
nightwas infinitely more terrific than when I had seen it last.
Every appearance it had then presentedbore the expression of
being swelled; and the height to which the breakers roseand
looking over one anotherbore one another downand rolled inin
interminable hostswas most appalling.
In the difficulty of hearing anything but wind and wavesand in
the crowdand the unspeakable confusionand my first breathless
efforts to stand against the weatherI was so confused that I
looked out to sea for the wreckand saw nothing but the foaming
heads of the great waves. A half-dressed boatmanstanding next
mepointed with his bare arm (a tattoo'd arrow on itpointing in
the same direction) to the left. ThenO great HeavenI saw it
close in upon us!

One mast was broken short offsix or eight feet from the deckand
lay over the sideentangled in a maze of sail and rigging; and all
that ruinas the ship rolled and beat - which she did without a
moment's pauseand with a violence quite inconceivable - beat the
side as if it would stave it in. Some efforts were even then being
madeto cut this portion of the wreck away; foras the ship
which was broadside onturned towards us in her rollingI plainly
descried her people at work with axesespecially one active figure
with long curling hairconspicuous among the rest. But a great
crywhich was audible even above the wind and waterrose from the
shore at this moment; the seasweeping over the rolling wreck
made a clean breachand carried mensparscasksplanks
bulwarksheaps of such toysinto the boiling surge.

The second mast was yet standingwith the rags of a rent sailand
a wild confusion of broken cordage flapping to and fro. The ship
had struck oncethe same boatman hoarsely said in my earand then
lifted in and struck again. I understood him to add that she was
parting amidshipsand I could readily suppose sofor the rolling
and beating were too tremendous for any human work to suffer long.
As he spokethere was another great cry of pity from the beach;
four men arose with the wreck out of the deepclinging to the
rigging of the remaining mast; uppermostthe active figure with
the curling hair.

There was a bell on board; and as the ship rolled and dashedlike
a desperate creature driven madnow showing us the whole sweep of
her deckas she turned on her beam-ends towards the shorenow
nothing but her keelas she sprung wildly over and turned towards
the seathe bell rang; and its soundthe knell of those unhappy
menwas borne towards us on the wind. Again we lost herand
again she rose. Two men were gone. The agony on the shore
increased. Men groanedand clasped their hands; women shrieked
and turned away their faces. Some ran wildly up and down along the
beachcrying for help where no help could be. I found myself one
of thesefrantically imploring a knot of sailors whom I knewnot
to let those two lost creatures perish before our eyes.


They were making out to mein an agitated way - I don't know how
for the little I could hear I was scarcely composed enough to
understand - that the lifeboat had been bravely 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 ropeand establish a communication
with the shorethere was nothing left to try; when I noticed that
some new sensation moved the people on the beachand saw them
partand Ham come breaking through them to the front.

I ran to him - as well as I knowto repeat my appeal for help.
Butdistracted though I wasby a sight so new to me and terrible
the determination in his faceand his look out to sea - exactly
the same look as I remembered in connexion with the morning after
Emily's flight - awoke me to a knowledge of his danger. I held him
back with both arms; and implored the men with whom I had been
speakingnot to listen to himnot to do murdernot to let him
stir from off that sand!

Another cry arose on shore; and looking to the wreckwe saw the
cruel sailwith blow on blowbeat off the lower of the two men
and fly up in triumph round the active figure left alone upon the
mast.

Against such a sightand against such determination as that of the
calmly desperate man who was already accustomed to lead half the
people presentI might as hopefully have entreated the wind.
'Mas'r Davy' he saidcheerily grasping me by both hands'if my
time is come'tis come. If 'tan'tI'll bide it. Lord above
bless youand bless all! Matesmake me ready! I'm a-going off!'

I was swept awaybut not unkindlyto some distancewhere the
people around me made me stay; urgingas I confusedly perceived
that he was bent on goingwith help or withoutand that I should
endanger the precautions for his safety by troubling those with
whom they rested. I don't know what I answeredor what they
rejoined; but I saw hurry on the beachand men running with ropes
from a capstan that was thereand penetrating into a circle of
figures that hid him from me. ThenI saw him standing alonein
a seaman's frock and trousers: a rope in his handor slung to his
wrist: another round his body: and several of the best men holding
at a little distanceto the latterwhich he laid out himself
slack upon the shoreat his feet.

The wreckeven to my unpractised eyewas breaking up. I saw that
she was parting in the middleand that the life of the solitary
man upon the mast hung by a thread. Stillhe clung to it. He had
a singular red cap on- not like a sailor's capbut of a finer
colour; and as the few yielding planks between him and destruction
rolled and bulgedand his anticipative death-knell runghe was
seen by all of us to wave it. I saw him do it nowand thought I
was going distractedwhen his action brought an old remembrance to
my mind of a once dear friend.

Ham watched the seastanding alonewith the silence of suspended
breath behind himand the storm beforeuntil there was a great
retiring wavewhenwith a backward glance at those who held the
rope which was made fast round his bodyhe dashed in after itand
in a moment was buffeting with the water; rising with the hills
falling with the valleyslost beneath the foam; then drawn again
to land. They hauled in hastily.

He was hurt. I saw blood on his facefrom where I stood; but he
took no thought of that. He seemed hurriedly to give them some
directions for leaving him more free - or so I judged from the


motion of his arm - and was gone as before.

And now he made for the wreckrising with the hillsfalling with
the valleyslost beneath the rugged foamborne in towards the
shoreborne on towards the shipstriving hard and valiantly. The
distance was nothingbut the power of the sea and wind made the
strife deadly. At length he neared the wreck. He was so near
that with one more of his vigorous strokes he would be clinging to
it- when a highgreenvast hill-side of watermoving on
shorewardfrom beyond the shiphe seemed to leap up into it with
a mighty boundand the ship was gone!

Some eddying fragments I saw in the seaas if a mere cask had been
brokenin running to the spot where they were hauling in.
Consternation was in every face. They drew him to my very feet insensible
- dead. He was carried to the nearest house; andno
one preventing me nowI remained near himbusywhile every means
of restoration were tried; but he had been beaten to death by the
great waveand his generous heart was stilled for ever.

As I sat beside the bedwhen hope was abandoned and all was done
a fishermanwho had known me when Emily and I were childrenand
ever sincewhispered my name at the door.

'Sir' said hewith tears starting to his weather-beaten face
whichwith his trembling lipswas ashy pale'will you come over
yonder?'

The old remembrance that had been recalled to mewas in his look.
I asked himterror-strickenleaning 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 shellstwo children - on that part of it where
some lighter fragments of the old boatblown down last nighthad
been scattered by the wind - among the ruins of the home he had
wronged - I saw him lying with his head upon his armas I had
often seen him lie at school.

CHAPTER 56
THE NEW WOUNDAND THE OLD

No needO Steerforthto have saidwhen we last spoke together
in that hour which I so little deemed to be our parting-hour - no
need to have said'Think of me at my best!' I had done that ever;
and could I change nowlooking on this sight!

They brought a hand-bierand laid him on itand covered him with
a flagand took him up and bore him on towards the houses. All
the men who carried him had known himand gone sailing with him
and seen him merry and bold. They carried him through the wild
roara 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 thresholdthey looked at
one anotherand at meand 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 townand took our burden to the inn. So soon as
I could at all collect my thoughtsI sent for Joramand begged
him to provide me a conveyance in which it could be got to London
in the night. I knew that the care of itand the hard duty of
preparing his mother to receive itcould only rest with me; and I
was anxious to discharge that duty as faithfully as I could.


I chose the night for the journeythat there might be less
curiosity when I left the town. Butalthough it was nearly
midnight when I came out of the yard in a chaisefollowed by what
I had in chargethere were many people waiting. At intervals
along the townand even a little way out upon the roadI saw
more: but at length only the bleak night and the open country were
around meand the ashes of my youthful friendship.


Upon a mellow autumn dayabout noonwhen the ground was perfumed
by fallen leavesand many morein beautiful tints of yellowred
and brownyet hung upon the treesthrough which the sun was
shiningI arrived at Highgate. I walked the last milethinking
as I went along of what I had to do; and left the carriage that had
followed me all through the nightawaiting orders to advance.


The housewhen I came up to itlooked just the same. Not a blind
was raised; no sign of life was in the dull paved courtwith its
covered way leading to the disused door. The wind had quite gone
downand nothing moved.


I had notat firstthe courage to ring at the gate; and when I
did ringmy errand seemed to me to be expressed in the very sound
of the bell. The little parlour-maid came outwith the key in her
hand; and looking earnestly at me as she unlocked the gatesaid:


'I beg your pardonsir. Are you ill?'


'I have been much agitatedand am fatigued.'


'Is anything the mattersir? - Mr. James? -'
'Hush!' said I. 'Yessomething has happenedthat I have to break
to Mrs. Steerforth. She is at home?'


The girl anxiously replied that her mistress was very seldom out
noweven in a carriage; that she kept her room; that she saw no
companybut would see me. Her mistress was upshe saidand Miss
Dartle was with her. What message should she take upstairs?


Giving her a strict charge to be careful of her mannerand only to
carry in my card and say I waitedI sat down in the drawing-room
(which we had now reached) until she should come back. Its former
pleasant air of occupation was goneand the shutters were half
closed. The harp had not been used for many and many a day. His
pictureas a boywas 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!


The house was so still that I heard the girl's light step upstairs.
On her returnshe brought a messageto the effect that Mrs.
Steerforth was an invalid and could not come down; but that if I
would excuse her being in her chambershe would be glad to see me.
In a few moments I stood before her.



She was in his room; not in her own. I feltof coursethat she
had taken to occupy itin remembrance of him; and that the many
tokens of his old sports and accomplishmentsby which she was
surroundedremained therejust as he had left themfor the same
reason. She murmuredhowevereven in her reception of methat
she was out of her own chamber because its aspect was unsuited to
her infirmity; and with her stately look repelled the least
suspicion of the truth.

At her chairas usualwas Rosa Dartle. From the first moment of
her dark eyes resting on meI saw she knew I was the bearer of
evil tidings. The scar sprung into view that instant. She
withdrew herself a step behind the chairto keep her own face out
of Mrs. Steerforth's observation; and scrutinized me with a
piercing gaze that never falterednever shrunk.

'I am sorry to observe you are in mourningsir' said Mrs.
Steerforth.

'I am unhappily a widower' said I.

'You are very young to know so great a loss' she returned. 'I am
grieved to hear it. I am grieved to hear it. I hope Time will be
good to you.'

'I hope Time' said Ilooking at her'will be good to all of us.
Dear Mrs. Steerforthwe must all trust to thatin our heaviest
misfortunes.'

The earnestness of my mannerand the tears in my eyesalarmed
her. The whole course of her thoughts appeared to stopand
change.

I tried to command my voice in gently saying his namebut it
trembled. She repeated it to herselftwo or three timesin a low
tone. Thenaddressing meshe saidwith enforced calmness:

'My son is ill.'

'Very ill.'

'You have seen him?'

'I have.'

'Are you reconciled?'

I could not say YesI could not say No. She slightly turned her
head towards the spot where Rosa Dartle had been standing at her
elbowand in that moment I saidby the motion of my lipsto
Rosa'Dead!'

That Mrs. Steerforth might not be induced to look behind herand
readplainly writtenwhat she was not yet prepared to knowI met
her look quickly; but I had seen Rosa Dartle throw her hands up in
the air with vehemence of despair and horrorand then clasp them
on her face.

The handsome lady - so likeoh so like! - regarded me with a fixed
lookand put her hand to her forehead. I besought her to be calm
and prepare herself to bear what I had to tell; but I should rather
have entreated her to weepfor 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 nightand 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 camebut with no sympathy or gentleness. Her eyes gleamed
like fire as she confronted his motherand broke into a frightful
laugh.

'Now' she said'is your pride appeasedyou madwoman? Now has he
made atonement to you - with his life! Do you hear? - His life!'

Mrs. Steerforthfallen back stiffly in her chairand making no
sound but a moancast her eyes upon her with a wide stare.

'Aye!' cried Rosasmiting herself passionately on the breast
'look at me! Moanand groanand look at me! Look here!' striking
the scar'at your dead child's handiwork!'

The moan the mother utteredfrom time to timewent to My heart.
Always the same. Always inarticulate and stifled. Always
accompanied with an incapable motion of the headbut with no
change of face. Always proceeding from a rigid mouth and closed
teethas if the jaw were locked and the face frozen up in pain.

'Do you remember when he did this?' she proceeded. 'Do you
remember whenin his inheritance of your natureand in your
pampering of his pride and passionhe did thisand disfigured me
for life? Look at memarked until I die with his high
displeasure; and moan and groan for what you made him!'

'Miss Dartle' I entreated her. 'For Heaven's sake -'

'I WILL speak!' she saidturning on me with her lightning eyes.
'Be silentyou! Look at meI sayproud mother of a proudfalse
son! Moan for your nurture of himmoan for your corruption of him
moan for your loss of himmoan for mine!'

She clenched her handand trembled through her spareworn figure
as if her passion were killing her by inches.

'Youresent his self-will!' she exclaimed. 'Youinjured by his
haughty temper! Youwho opposed to bothwhen your hair was grey
the qualities which made both when you gave him birth! YOUwho
from his cradle reared him to be what he wasand stunted what he
should have been! Are you rewardednowfor your years of
trouble?'

'OhMiss Dartleshame! Oh cruel!'

'I tell you' she returned'I WILL speak to her. No power on
earth should stop mewhile I was standing here! Have I been silent
all these yearsand shall I not speak now? I loved him better
than you ever loved him!' turning on her fiercely. 'I could have
loved himand asked no return. If I had been his wifeI could
have been the slave of his caprices for a word of love a year. I
should have been. Who knows it better than I? You were exacting
proudpunctiliousselfish. My love would have been devoted would
have trod your paltry whimpering under foot!'

With flashing eyesshe stamped upon the ground as if she actually
did it.


'Look here!' she saidstriking the scar againwith a relentless
hand. 'When he grew into the better understanding of what he had
donehe saw itand repented of it! I could sing to himand talk
to himand show the ardour that I felt in all he didand attain
with labour to such knowledge as most interested him; and I
attracted him. When he was freshest and truesthe loved me. Yes
he did! Many a timewhen you were put off with a slight wordhe
has taken Me to his heart!'

She said it with a taunting pride in the midst of her frenzy - for
it was little less - yet with an eager remembrance of itin which
the smouldering embers of a gentler feeling kindled for the moment.

'I descended - as I might have known I shouldbut that he
fascinated me with his boyish courtship - into a dolla trifle for
the occupation of an idle hourto be droppedand taken upand
trifled withas the inconstant humour took him. When he grew
wearyI grew weary. As his fancy died outI would no more have
tried to strengthen any power I hadthan 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 itand were not sorry.
Since thenI have been a mere disfigured piece of furniture
between you both; having no eyesno earsno feelingsno
remembrances. Moan? Moan for what you made him; not for your
love. I tell you that the time waswhen I loved him better than
you ever did!'

She stood with her bright angry eyes confronting the wide stare
and the set face; and softened no morewhen the moaning was
repeatedthan if the face had been a picture.

'Miss Dartle' said I'if you can be so obdurate as not to feel
for this afflicted mother -'

'Who feels for me?' she sharply retorted. 'She has sown this. Let
her moan for the harvest that she reaps today!'

'And if his faults -' I began.

'Faults!' she criedbursting 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 betterno one can hold him in dearer
remembrance than I' I replied. 'I meant to sayif you have no
compassion for his mother; or if his faults - you have been bitter
on them -'

'It's false' she criedtearing her black hair; 'I loved him!'

'- if his faults cannot' I went on'be banished from your
remembrancein such an hour; look at that figureeven as one you
have never seen beforeand render it some help!'

All this timethe figure was unchangedand looked unchangeable.
Motionlessrigidstaring; moaning in the same dumb way from time
to timewith 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 saidlooking round at mewith 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 roomI hurried back to ring the bellthe
sooner to alarm the servants. She had then taken the impassive
figure in her armsandstill upon her kneeswas weeping over it
kissing itcalling to itrocking it to and fro upon her bosom
like a childand trying every tender means to rouse the dormant
senses. No longer afraid of leaving herI noiselessly turned back
again; and alarmed the house as I went out.

Later in the dayI returnedand we laid him in his mother's room.
She was just the samethey told me; Miss Dartle never left her;
doctors were in attendancemany things had been tried; but she lay
like a statueexcept for the low sound now and then.

I went through the dreary houseand darkened the windows. The
windows of the chamber where he layI darkened last. I lifted up
the leaden handand held it to my heart; and all the world seemed
death and silencebroken only by his mother's moaning.

CHAPTER 57
THE EMIGRANTS

One thing moreI had to dobefore yielding myself to the shock of
these emotions. It wasto conceal what had occurredfrom those
who were going away; and to dismiss them on their voyage in happy
ignorance. In thisno time was to be lost.

I took Mr. Micawber aside that same nightand confided to him the
task of standing between Mr. Peggotty and intelligence of the late
catastrophe. He zealously undertook to do soand to intercept any
newspaper through which it mightwithout such precautionsreach
him.

'If it penetrates to himsir' said Mr. Micawberstriking himself
on the breast'it shall first pass through this body!'

Mr. MicawberI must observein his adaptation of himself to a new
state of societyhad acquired a bold buccaneering airnot
absolutely lawlessbut defensive and prompt. One might have
supposed him a child of the wildernesslong accustomed to live out
of the confines of civilizationand about to return to his native
wilds.

He had provided himselfamong other thingswith a complete suit
of oilskinand a straw hat with a very low crownpitched or
caulked on the outside. In this rough clothingwith a common
mariner's telescope under his armand a shrewd trick of casting up
his eye at the sky as looking out for dirty weatherhe was far
more nauticalafter his mannerthan Mr. Peggotty. His whole
familyif I may so express itwere cleared for action. I found
Mrs. Micawber in the closest and most uncompromising of bonnets
made fast under the chin; and in a shawl which tied her up (as I
had been tied upwhen my aunt first received me) like a bundle
and was secured behind at the waistin a strong knot. Miss
Micawber I found made snug for stormy weatherin the same manner;
with nothing superfluous about her. Master Micawber was hardly
visible in a Guernsey shirtand the shaggiest suit of slops I ever
saw; and the children were done uplike preserved meatsin
impervious cases. Both Mr. Micawber and his eldest son wore their
sleeves loosely turned back at the wristsas being ready to lend
a hand in any directionand to 'tumble up'or sing out'Yeo



Heave - Yeo!' on the shortest notice.


Thus Traddles and I found them at nightfallassembled on the
wooden stepsat that time known as Hungerford Stairswatching the
departure of a boat with some of their property on board. I had
told Traddles of the terrible eventand it had greatly shocked
him; but there could be no doubt of the kindness of keeping it a
secretand he had come to help me in this last service. It was
here that I took Mr. Micawber asideand received his promise.


The Micawber family were lodged in a littledirtytumble-down
public-housewhich in those days was close to the stairsand
whose protruding wooden rooms overhung the river. The familyas
emigrantsbeing objects of some interest in and about Hungerford
attracted so many beholdersthat we were glad to take refuge in
their room. It was one of the wooden chambers upstairswith the
tide flowing underneath. My aunt and Agnes were therebusily
making some little extra comfortsin the way of dressfor the
children. Peggotty was quietly assistingwith the old insensible
work-boxyard-measureand bit of wax-candle before herthat had
now outlived so much.


It was not easy to answer her inquiries; still less to whisper Mr.
Peggottywhen Mr. Micawber brought him inthat I had given the
letterand all was well. But I did bothand made them happy. If
I showed any trace of what I feltmy own sorrows were sufficient
to account for it.


'And when does the ship sailMr. Micawber?' asked my aunt.


Mr. Micawber considered it necessary to prepare either my aunt or
his wifeby degreesand saidsooner than he had expected
yesterday.


'The boat brought you wordI suppose?' said my aunt.


'It didma'am' he returned.


'Well?' said my aunt. 'And she sails -'


'Madam' he replied'I am informed that we must positively be on
board before seven tomorrow morning.'


'Heyday!' said my aunt'that's soon. Is it a sea-going factMr.
Peggotty?'
''Tis soma'am. She'll drop down the river with that theer tide.
If Mas'r Davy and my sister comes aboard at Gravesen'arternoon o'
next daythey'll see the last on us.'


'And that we shall do' said I'be sure!'


'Until thenand until we are at sea' observed Mr. Micawberwith
a glance of intelligence at me'Mr. Peggotty and myself will
constantly keep a double look-out togetheron our goods and
chattels. Emmamy love' said Mr. Micawberclearing his throat
in his magnificent way'my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles is so
obliging as to solicitin my earthat he should have the
privilege of ordering the ingredients necessary to the composition
of a moderate portion of that Beverage which is peculiarly
associatedin our mindswith the Roast Beef of Old England. I
allude to - in shortPunch. Under ordinary circumstancesI
should scruple to entreat the indulgence of Miss Trotwood and Miss
Wickfieldbut-'



'I can only say for myself' said my aunt'that I will drink all
happiness and success to youMr. Micawberwith the utmost
pleasure.'

'And I too!' said Agneswith a smile.

Mr. Micawber immediately descended to the barwhere he appeared to
be quite at home; and in due time returned with a steaming jug.
could not but observe that he had been peeling the lemons with his
own clasp-knifewhichas became the knife of a practical settler
was about a foot long; and which he wipednot wholly without
ostentationon the sleeve of his coat. Mrs. Micawber and the two
elder members of the family I now found to be provided with similar
formidable instrumentswhile every child had its own wooden spoon
attached to its body by a strong line. In a similar anticipation
of life afloatand in the BushMr. Micawberinstead of helping
Mrs. Micawber and his eldest son and daughter to punchin
wine-glasseswhich he might easily have donefor there was a
shelf-full in the roomserved it out to them in a series of
villainous little tin pots; and I never saw him enjoy anything so
much as drinking out of his own particular pint potand putting it
in his pocket at the close of the evening.

'The luxuries of the old country' said Mr. Micawberwith an
intense satisfaction in their renouncement'we abandon. The
denizens of the forest cannotof courseexpect to participate in
the refinements of the land of the Free.'

Herea boy came in to say that Mr. Micawber was wanted downstairs.

'I have a presentiment' said Mrs. Micawbersetting down her tin
pot'that it is a member of my family!'

'If somy dear' observed Mr. Micawberwith his usual suddenness
of warmth on that subject'as the member of your family - whoever
hesheor itmay be - has kept us waiting for a considerable
periodperhaps the Member may now wait MY convenience.'

'Micawber' said his wifein a low tone'at such a time as
this -'

'"It is not meet' said Mr. Micawber, rising, 'that every nice
offence should bear its comment!" EmmaI stand reproved.'

'The lossMicawber' observed his wife'has been my family'snot
yours. If my family are at length sensible of the deprivation to
which their own conduct hasin the pastexposed themand now
desire to extend the hand of fellowshiplet it not be repulsed.'

'My dear' he returned'so be it!'

'If not for their sakes; for mineMicawber' said his wife.

'Emma' he returned'that view of the question isat such a
momentirresistible. I cannoteven nowdistinctly pledge myself
to fall upon your family's neck; but the member of your familywho
is now in attendanceshall have no genial warmth frozen by me.'

Mr. Micawber withdrewand 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 reappearedand presented me with
a note written in penciland headedin a legal manner'Heep v.
Micawber'. From this documentI 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 potby beareras they
might prove serviceable during the brief remainder of his
existencein jail. He also requestedas a last act of
friendshipthat I would see his family to the Parish Workhouse
and forget that such a Being ever lived.

Of course I answered this note by going down with the boy to pay
the moneywhere I found Mr. Micawber sitting in a cornerlooking
darkly at the Sheriff 's Officer who had effected the capture. On
his releasehe embraced me with the utmost fervour; and made an
entry of the transaction in his pocket-book - being very
particularI recollectabout a halfpenny I inadvertently omitted
from my statement of the total.

This momentous pocket-book was a timely reminder to him of another
transaction. On our return to the room upstairs (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 paperfolded smalland quite covered with long
sumscarefully worked. From the glimpse I had of themI should
say that I never saw such sums out of a school ciphering-book.
Theseit seemedwere calculations of compound interest on what he
called 'the principal amount of forty-oneteneleven and a half'
for various periods. After a careful consideration of theseand
an elaborate estimate of his resourceshe had come to the
conclusion to select that sum which represented the amount with
compound interest to two yearsfifteen calendar monthsand
fourteen daysfrom that date. For this he had drawn a
note-of-hand with great neatnesswhich he handed over to Traddles
on the spota discharge of his debt in full (as between man and
man)with many acknowledgements.

'I have still a presentiment' said Mrs. Micawberpensively
shaking her head'that my family will appear on boardbefore we
finally depart.'

Mr. Micawber evidently had his presentiment on the subject toobut
he put it in his tin pot and swallowed it.

'If you have any opportunity of sending letters homeon your
passageMrs. Micawber' said my aunt'you must let us hear from
youyou know.'

'My dear Miss Trotwood' she replied'I shall only be too happy to
think that anyone expects to hear from us. I shall not fail to
correspond. Mr. CopperfieldI trustas an old and familiar
friendwill not object to receive occasional intelligence
himselffrom one who knew him when the twins were yet
unconscious?'

I said that I should hope to hearwhenever she had an opportunity
of writing.

'Please Heaventhere will be many such opportunities' said Mr.
Micawber. 'The oceanin these timesis a perfect fleet of ships;
and we can hardly fail to encounter manyin running over. It is
merely crossing' said Mr. Micawbertrifling with his eye-glass
'merely crossing. The distance is quite imaginary.'

I thinknowhow odd it wasbut how wonderfully like Mr.
Micawberthatwhen he went from London to Canterburyhe should
have talked as if he were going to the farthest limits of the
earth; andwhen he went from England to Australiaas if he were


going for a little trip across the channel.

'On the voyageI shall endeavour' said Mr. Micawber
'occasionally to spin them a yarn; and the melody of my son Wilkins
willI trustbe acceptable at the galley-fire. When Mrs.
Micawber has her sea-legs on - an expression in which I hope there
is no conventional impropriety - she will give themI dare say
Little Tafflin. Porpoises and dolphinsI believewill be
frequently observed athwart our Bows; andeither on the starboard
or the larboard quarterobjects of interest will be continually
descried. In short' said Mr. Micawberwith the old genteel air
'the probability isall will be found so excitingalow and aloft
that when the lookoutstationed in the main-topcries Land-oh! we
shall be very considerably astonished!'

With that he flourished off the contents of his little tin potas
if he had made the voyageand had passed a first-class examination
before the highest naval authorities.

' What I chiefly hopemy dear Mr. Copperfield' said Mrs.
Micawber'isthat in some branches of our family we may live
again in the old country. Do not frownMicawber! I do not now
refer to my own familybut to our children's children. However
vigorous the sapling' said Mrs. Micawbershaking her head'I
cannot forget the parent-tree; and when our race attains to
eminence and fortuneI 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 meand that I
have no particular wish upon the subject.'

'Micawber' returned Mrs. Micawber'thereyou are wrong. You are
going outMicawberto this distant climeto strengthennot to
weakenthe connexion between yourself and Albion.'

'The connexion in questionmy love' rejoined Mr. Micawber'has
not laid meI repeatunder that load of personal obligationthat
I am at all sensitive as to the formation of another connexion.'

'Micawber' returned Mrs. Micawber. 'ThereI again sayyou are
wrong. You do not know your powerMicawber. It is that which
will strengtheneven in this step you are about to takethe
connexion between yourself and Albion.'

Mr. Micawber sat in his elbow-chairwith his eyebrows raised; half
receiving and half repudiating Mrs. Micawber's views as they were
statedbut 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 shouldfrom the hour of his embarkationfeel his
position. Your old knowledge of memy dear Mr. Copperfieldwill
have told you that I have not the sanguine disposition of Mr.
Micawber. My disposition isif I may say soeminently practical.
I know that this is a long voyage. I know that it will involve
many privations and inconveniences. I cannot shut my eyes to those
facts. But I also know what Mr. Micawber is. I know the latent
power of Mr. Micawber. And therefore I consider it vitally
important that Mr. Micawber should feel his position.'

'My love' he observed'perhaps you will allow me to remark that
it is barely possible that I DO feel my position at the present
moment.'


'I think notMicawber' she rejoined. 'Not fully. My dear Mr.
CopperfieldMr. Micawber's is not a common case. Mr. Micawber is
going to a distant country expressly in order that he may be fully
understood and appreciated for the first time. I wish Mr. Micawber
to take his stand upon that vessel's prowand firmly sayThis
country I am come to conquer! Have you honours? Have you riches?
Have you posts of profitable pecuniary emolument? Let them be
brought forward. They are mine!'

Mr. Micawberglancing at us allseemed to think there was a good
deal in this idea.

'I wish Mr. Micawberif I make myself understood' said Mrs.
Micawberin her argumentative tone'to be the Caesar of his own
fortunes. Thatmy dear Mr. Copperfieldappears to me to be his
true position. From the first moment of this voyageI wish Mr.
Micawber to stand upon that vessel's prow and sayEnough 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 manneras if he were
then stationed on the figure-head.

'And doing that' said Mrs. Micawber'- feeling his position - am
I not right in saying that Mr. Micawber will strengthenand not
weakenhis connexion with Britain? An important public character
arising in that hemisphereshall I be told that its influence will
not be felt at home? Can I be so weak as to imagine that Mr.
Micawberwielding the rod of talent and of power in Australia
will be nothing in England? I am but a woman; but I should be
unworthy of myself and of my papaif I were guilty of such absurd
weakness.'

Mrs. Micawber's conviction that her arguments were unanswerable
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
thatat a future periodwe may live again on the parent soil.
Mr. Micawber may be - I cannot disguise from myself that the
probability isMr. Micawber will be - a page of History; and he
ought then to be represented in the country which gave him birth
and did NOT give him employment!'

'My love' observed Mr. Micawber'it is impossible for me not to
be touched by your affection. I am always willing to defer to your
good sense. What will be - will be. Heaven forbid that I should
grudge my native country any portion of the wealth that may be
accumulated by our descendants!'

'That's well' said my auntnodding towards Mr. Peggotty'and I
drink my love to you alland every blessing and success attend
you!'

Mr. Peggotty put down the two children he had been nursingone on
each kneeto join Mr. and Mrs. Micawber in drinking to all of us
in return; and when he and the Micawbers cordially shook hands as
comradesand his brown face brightened with a smileI felt that
he would make his wayestablish a good nameand be belovedgo
where he would.

Even the children were instructedeach to dip a wooden spoon into


Mr. Micawber's potand pledge us in its contents. When this was
donemy aunt and Agnes roseand 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 conditionsobbing and weeping by a dim candlethat
must have made the room lookfrom the riverlike a miserable
light-house.

I went down again next morning to see that they were away. They
had departedin a boatas early as five o'clock. It was a
wonderful instance to me of the gap such partings makethat
although my association of them with the tumble-down public-house
and the wooden stairs dated only from last nightboth seemed
dreary and desertednow that they were gone.

In the afternoon of the next daymy old nurse and I went down to
Gravesend. We found the ship in the riversurrounded by a crowd
of boats; a favourable wind blowing; the signal for sailing at her
mast-head. I hired a boat directlyand we put off to her; and
getting through the little vortex of confusion of which she was the
centrewent 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 Heepand thatin compliance with a request I had
made to himhe had paid the moneywhich I repaid him. He then
took us down between decks; and thereany lingering fears I had of
his having heard any rumours of what had happenedwere dispelled
by Mr. Micawber's coming out of the gloomtaking his arm with an
air of friendship and protectionand telling me that they had
scarcely been asunder for a momentsince the night before last.

It was such a strange scene to meand so confined and darkthat
at firstI could make out hardly anything; butby degreesit
clearedas my eyes became more accustomed to the gloomand I
seemed to stand in a picture by OSTADE. Among the great beams
bulksand ringbolts of the shipand the emigrant-berthsand
chestsand bundlesand barrelsand heaps of miscellaneous
baggage -'lighted uphere and thereby dangling lanterns; and
elsewhere by the yellow daylight straying down a windsail or a
hatchway - were crowded groups of peoplemaking new friendships
taking leave of one anothertalkinglaughingcryingeating and
drinking; somealready settled down into the possession of their
few feet of spacewith their little households arrangedand tiny
children established on stoolsor in dwarf elbow-chairs; others
despairing of a resting-placeand wandering disconsolately. From
babies who had but a week or two of life behind themto crooked
old men and women who seemed to have but a week or two of life
before them; and from ploughmen bodily carrying out soil of England
on their bootsto smiths taking away samples of its soot and smoke
upon their skins; every age and occupation appeared to be crammed
into the narrow compass of the 'tween decks.

As my eye glanced round this placeI thought I saw sittingby an
open portwith one of the Micawber children near hera figure
like Emily's; it first attracted my attentionby another figure
parting from it with a kiss; and as it glided calmly away through
the disorderreminding me of - Agnes! But in the rapid motion and
confusionand in the unsettlement of my own thoughtsI lost it
again; and only knew that the time was come when all visitors were
being warned to leave the ship; that my nurse was crying on a chest
beside me; and that Mrs. Gummidgeassisted by some younger
stooping woman in blackwas busily arranging Mr. Peggotty's goods.


'Is there any last wuredMas'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 shoulderand
Martha stood before me.

'Heaven bless youyou good man!' cried I. 'You take her with
you!'

She answered for himwith a burst of tears. I could speak no more
at that timebut I wrung his hand; and if ever I have loved and
honoured any manI loved and honoured that man in my soul.

The ship was clearing fast of strangers. The greatest trial that
I hadremained. 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 mein returnwith many messages of affection
and regret for those deaf earshe moved me more.

The time was come. I embraced himtook my weeping nurse upon my
armand hurried away. On deckI took leave of poor Mrs.
Micawber. She was looking distractedly about for her familyeven
then; and her last words to me werethat she never would desert
Mr. Micawber.

We went over the side into our boatand lay at a little distance
to see the ship wafted on her course. It was then calmradiant
sunset. She lay between usand the red light; and every taper
line and spar was visible against the glow. A sight at once so
beautifulso mournfuland so hopefulas the glorious ship
lyingstillon the flushed waterwith all the life on board her
crowded at the bulwarksand there clusteringfor a moment
bare-headed and silentI never saw.

Silentonly for a moment. As the sails rose to the windand the
ship began to movethere broke from all the boats three resounding
cheerswhich those on board took upand echoed backand which
were echoed and re-echoed. My heart burst out when I heard the
soundand beheld the waving of the hats and handkerchiefs - and
then I saw her!

Then I saw herat her uncle's sideand trembling on his shoulder.
He pointed to us with an eager hand; and she saw usand waved her
last good-bye to me. AyeEmilybeautiful and droopingcling to
him with the utmost trust of thy bruised heart; for he has clung to
theewith all the might of his great love!

Surrounded by the rosy lightand standing high upon the deck
apart togethershe clinging to himand he holding herthey
solemnly passed away. The night had fallen on the Kentish hills
when we were rowed ashore - and fallen darkly upon me.

CHAPTER 58
ABSENCE

It was a long and gloomy night that gathered on mehaunted by the
ghosts of many hopesof many dear remembrancesmany errorsmany
unavailing sorrows and regrets.


I went away from England; not knowingeven thenhow great the
shock wasthat I had to bear. I left all who were dear to meand
went away; and believed that I had borne itand it was past. As
a man upon a field of battle will receive a mortal hurtand
scarcely know that he is struckso Iwhen I was left alone with
my undisciplined hearthad no conception of the wound with which
it had to strive.

The knowledge came upon menot quicklybut little by littleand
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 sorrowwherein I could distinguish little else. By
imperceptible degreesit became a hopeless consciousness of all
that I had lost - lovefriendshipinterest; of all that had been
shattered - my first trustmy first affectionthe whole airy
castle of my life; of all that remained - a ruined blank and waste
lying wide around meunbrokento the dark horizon.

If my grief were selfishI did not know it to be so. I mourned
for my child-wifetaken from her blooming worldso young. I
mourned for him who might have won the love and admiration of
thousandsas he 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 homewhere I had heard the night-wind
blowingwhen I was a child.

From the accumulated sadness into which I fellI had at length no
hope of ever issuing again. I roamed from place to placecarrying
my burden with me everywhere. I felt its whole weight now; and I
drooped beneath itand I said in my heart that it could never be
lightened.

When this despondency was at its worstI believed that I should
die. SometimesI thought that I would like to die at home; and
actually turned back on my roadthat I might get there soon. At
other timesI passed on farther away-from city to cityseeking
I know not whatand trying to leave I know not what behind.

It is not in my power to retraceone by oneall the weary phases
of distress of mind through which I passed. There are some dreams
that can only be imperfectly and vaguely described; and when I
oblige myself to look back on this time of my lifeI seem to be
recalling such a dream. I see myself passing on among the
novelties of foreign townspalacescathedralstemplespictures
castlestombsfantastic streets - the old abiding places of
History and Fancy - as a dreamer might; bearing my painful load
through alland hardly conscious of the objects as they fade
before me. Listlessness to everythingbut brooding sorrowwas
the night that fell on my undisciplined heart. Let me look up from
it - as at last I didthank Heaven! - and from its longsad
wretched dreamto dawn.

For many months I travelled with this ever-darkening cloud upon my
mind. Some blind reasons that I had for not returning home reasons
then struggling within mevainlyfor more distinct
expression - kept me on my pilgrimage. SometimesI had proceeded
restlessly from place to placestopping nowhere; sometimesI had
lingered long in one spot. I had had no purposeno sustaining
soul within meanywhere.

I was in Switzerland. I had come out of Italyover one of the
great passes of the Alpsand had since wandered with a guide among
the by-ways of the mountains. If those awful solitudes had spoken
to my heartI did not know it. I had found sublimity and wonder


in the dread heights and precipicesin the roaring torrentsand
the wastes of ice and snow; but as yetthey had taught me nothing
else.

I cameone evening before sunsetdown into a valleywhere I was
to rest. In the course of my descent to itby the winding track
along the mountain-sidefrom which I saw it shining far belowI
think some long-unwonted sense of beauty and tranquillitysome
softening influence awakened by its peacemoved faintly in my
breast. I remember pausing oncewith a kind of sorrow that was
not all oppressivenot quite despairing. I remember almost hoping
that some better change was possible within me.

I came into the valleyas the evening sun was shining on the
remote heights of snowthat closed it inlike eternal clouds.
The bases of the mountains forming the gorge in which the little
village laywere richly green; and high above this gentler
vegetationgrew forests of dark fircleaving the wintry
snow-driftwedge-likeand stemming the avalanche. Above these
were range upon range of craggy steepsgrey rockbright iceand
smooth verdure-specks of pastureall gradually blending with the
crowning snow. Dotted here and there on the mountain's-sideeach
tiny dot a homewere lonely wooden cottagesso dwarfed by the
towering heights that they appeared too small for toys. So did
even the clustered village in the valleywith its wooden bridge
across the streamwhere the stream tumbled over broken rocksand
roared away among the trees. In the quiet airthere was a sound
of distant singing - shepherd voices; butas one bright evening
cloud floated midway along the mountain's-sideI could almost have
believed it came from thereand was not earthly music. All at
oncein this serenitygreat Nature spoke to me; and soothed me to
lay down my weary head upon the grassand weep as I had not wept
yetsince Dora died!

I had found a packet of letters awaiting me but a few minutes
beforeand had strolled out of the village to read them while my
supper was making ready. Other packets had missed meand I had
received none for a long time. Beyond a line or twoto say that
I was welland had arrived at such a placeI had not had
fortitude or constancy to write a letter since I left home.

The packet was in my hand. I opened itand read the writing of
Agnes.

She was happy and usefulwas 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 mannerwhat her trust in me was. She knew (she
said) how such a nature as mine would turn affliction to good. She
knew how trial and emotion would exalt and strengthen it. She was
sure that in my every purpose I should gain a firmer and a higher
tendencythrough the grief I had undergone. Shewho so gloried
in my fameand so looked forward to its augmentationwell knew
that I would labour on. She knew that in mesorrow could not be
weaknessbut must be strength. As the endurance of my childish
days had done its part to make me what I wasso greater calamities
would nerve me onto be yet better than I was; and soas they had
taught mewould I teach others. She commended me to Godwho had
taken my innocent darling to His rest; and in her sisterly
affection cherished me alwaysand was always at my side go where
I would; proud of what I had donebut infinitely prouder yet of
what I was reserved to do.


I put the letter in my breastand thought what had I been an hour
ago! When I heard the voices die awayand saw the quiet evening
cloud grow dimand all the colours in the valley fadeand the
golden snow upon the mountain-tops become a remote part of the pale
night skyyet felt that the night was passing from my mindand
all its shadows clearingthere was no name for the love I bore
herdearer to mehenceforwardthan 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 notand I never had beenwhat she thought me; but that she
inspired me to be thatand I would try.

I did try. In three months morea year would have passed since
the beginning of my sorrow. I determined to make no resolutions
until the expiration of those three monthsbut to try. I lived in
that valleyand its neighbourhoodall the time.

The three months goneI resolved to remain away from home for some
time longer; to settle myself for the present in Switzerlandwhich
was growing dear to me in the remembrance of that evening; to
resume my pen; to work.

I resorted humbly whither Agnes had commended me; I sought out
Naturenever sought in vain; and I admitted to my breast the human
interest I had lately shrunk from. It was not longbefore I had
almost as many friends in the valley as in Yarmouth: and when I
left itbefore the winter set infor Genevaand came back in the
springtheir cordial greetings had a homely sound to mealthough
they were not conveyed in English words.

I worked early and latepatiently and hard. I wrote a Storywith
a purpose growingnot remotelyout of my experienceand sent it
to Traddlesand 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 changeI fell to workin my old ardent way
on a new fancywhich took strong possession of me. As I advanced
in the execution of this taskI felt it more and moreand roused
my utmost energies to do it well. This was my third work of
fiction. It was not half writtenwhenin an interval of restI
thought of returning home.

For a long timethough studying and working patientlyI had
accustomed myself to robust exercise. My healthseverely impaired
when I left Englandwas quite restored. I had seen much. I had
been in many countriesand I hope I had improved my store of
knowledge.

I have now recalled all that I think it needful to recall hereof
this term of absence - with one reservation. I have made itthus
farwith no purpose of suppressing any of my thoughts; foras I
have elsewhere saidthis narrative is my written memory. I have
desired to keep the most secret current of my mind apartand to
the last. I enter on it now. I cannot so completely penetrate the
mystery of my own heartas 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
reflectionthatin my wayward boyhoodI had thrown away the
treasure of her love. I believe I may have heard some whisper of
that distant thoughtin the old unhappy loss or want of something
never to be realizedof which I had been sensible. But the
thought came into my mind as a new reproach and new regretwhen I
was left so sad and lonely in the world.


Ifat that timeI had been much with herI shouldin the
weakness of my desolationhave 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; yetin that betrayalI should have set a
constraint between us hitherto unknown.

I could not forget that the feeling with which she now regarded me
had grown up in my own free choice and course. That if she had
ever loved me with another love - and I sometimes thought the time
was when she might have done so - I had cast it away. It was
nothingnowthat I had accustomed myself to think of herwhen we
were both mere childrenas one who was far removed from my wild
fancies. I had bestowed my passionate tenderness upon another
object; and what I might have doneI had not done; and what Agnes
was to meI and her own noble heart had made her.

In the beginning of the change that gradually worked in mewhen I
tried to get a better understanding of myself and be a better man
I did glancethrough some indefinite probationto a period when
I might possibly hope to cancel the mistaken pastand to be so
blessed as to marry her. Butas time wore onthis shadowy
prospect fadedand departed from me. If she had ever loved me
thenI should hold her the more sacred; remembering the
confidences I had reposed in herher knowledge of my errant heart
the sacrifice she must have made to be my friend and sisterand
the victory she had won. If she had never loved mecould I
believe that she would love me now?

I had always felt my weaknessin comparison with her constancy and
fortitude; and now I felt it more and more. Whatever I might have
been to heror she to meif I had been more worthy of her long
agoI was not nowand she was not. The time was past. I had let
it go byand had deservedly lost her.

That I suffered much in these contentionsthat they filled me with
unhappiness and remorseand yet that I had a sustaining sense that
it was required of mein right and honourto keep away from
myselfwith shamethe thought of turning to the dear girl in the
withering of my hopesfrom whom I had frivolously turned when they
were bright and fresh - which consideration was at the root of
every thought I had concerning her - is all equally true. I made
no effort to conceal from myselfnowthat I loved herthat I was
devoted to her; but I brought the assurance home to myselfthat it
was now too lateand that our long-subsisting relation must be
undisturbed.

I had thoughtmuch and oftenof my Dora's shadowing out to me
what might have happenedin those years that were destined not to
try us; I had considered how the things that never happenare
often as much realities to usin their effectsas those that are
accomplished. The very years she spoke ofwere realities nowfor
my correction; and would have beenone daya little later
perhapsthough we had parted in our earliest folly. I endeavoured
to convert what might have been between myself and Agnesinto a
means of making me more self-denyingmore resolvedmore conscious
of myselfand my defects and errors. Thusthrough the reflection
that it might have beenI arrived at the conviction that it could
never be.

Thesewith their perplexities and inconsistencieswere the
shifting quicksands of my mindfrom the time of my departure to
the time of my return homethree years afterwards. Three years


had elapsed since the sailing of the emigrant ship; whenat that
same hour of sunsetand in the same placeI stood on the deck of
the packet vessel that brought me homelooking on the rosy water
where I had seen the image of that ship reflected.

Three years. Long in the aggregatethough short as they went by.
And home was very dear to meand Agnes too - but she was not mine

-she was never to be mine. She might have beenbut that was
past!
CHAPTER 59
RETURN

I landed in London on a wintry autumn evening. It was dark and
rainingand 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-frontslooking on the
swollen gutterswere like old friends to meI could not but admit
that they were very dingy friends.

I have often remarked - I suppose everybody has - that one's going
away from a familiar placewould seem to be the signal for change
in it. As I looked out of the coach windowand observed that an
old house on Fish-street Hillwhich had stood untouched by
paintercarpenteror bricklayerfor a centuryhad been pulled
down in my absence; and that a neighbouring streetof
time-honoured insalubrity and inconveniencewas being drained and
widened; I half expected to find St. Paul's Cathedral looking
older.

For some changes in the fortunes of my friendsI was prepared. My
aunt had long been re-established at Doverand Traddles had begun
to get into some little practice at the Barin the very first term
after my departure. He had chambers in Gray's Innnow; and had
told mein his last lettersthat 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 themthat I might have
the pleasure of taking them by surprise. And yetI was perverse
enough to feel a chill and disappointment in receiving no welcome
and rattlingalone and silentthrough the misty streets.

The well-known shopshoweverwith their cheerful lightsdid
something for me; and when I alighted at the door of the Gray's Inn
Coffee-houseI had recovered my spirits. It recalledat first
that so-different time when I had put up at the Golden Crossand
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
waiteras I warmed myself by the coffee-room fire.

'Holborn Courtsir. Number two.'

'Mr. Traddles has a rising reputation among the lawyersI
believe?' said I.

'Wellsir' returned the waiter'probably he hassir; but I am
not aware of it myself.'


This waiterwho was middle-aged and sparelooked for help to a
waiter of more authority - a stoutpotential old manwith a
double chinin black breeches and stockingswho came out of a
place like a churchwarden's pewat the end of the coffee-room
where he kept company with a cash-boxa Directorya Law-listand
other books and papers.

'Mr. Traddles' said the spare waiter. 'Number two in the Court.'

The potential waiter waved him awayand turnedgravelyto me.

'I was inquiring' said I'whether Mr. Traddlesat number two in
the Courthas not a rising reputation among the lawyers?'

'Never heard his name' said the waiterin a rich husky voice.

I felt quite apologetic for Traddles.

'He's a young mansure?' said the portentous waiterfixing his
eyes severely on me. 'How long has he been in the Inn?'

'Not above three years' said I.

The waiterwho I supposed had lived in his churchwarden's pew for
forty yearscould not pursue such an insignificant subject. He
asked me what I would have for dinner?

I felt I was in England againand 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 steakand stood before the fire musing
on his obscurity.

As I followed the chief waiter with my eyesI could not help
thinking that the garden in which he had gradually blown to be the
flower he waswas an arduous place to rise in. It had such a
prescriptivestiff-neckedlong-establishedsolemnelderly air.
I glanced about the roomwhich had had its sanded floor sandedno
doubtin exactly the same manner when the chief waiter was a boy

-if he ever was a boywhich appeared improbable; and at the
shining tableswhere I saw myself reflectedin unruffled depths
of old mahogany; and at the lampswithout a flaw in their trimming
or cleaning; and at the comfortable green curtainswith their pure
brass rodssnugly enclosing the boxes; and at the two large coal
firesbrightly burning; and at the rows of decantersburly as if
with the consciousness of pipes of expensive old port wine below;
and both Englandand the lawappeared to me to be very difficult
indeed to be taken by storm. I went up to my bedroom to change my
wet clothes; and the vast extent of that old wainscoted apartment
(which was over the archway leading to the InnI remember)and
the sedate immensity of the four-post bedsteadand the indomitable
gravity of the chests of drawersall seemed to unite in sternly
frowning on the fortunes of Traddlesor on any such daring youth.
I came down again to my dinner; and even the slow comfort of the
mealand the orderly silence of the place - which was bare of
gueststhe Long Vacation not yet being over - were eloquent on the
audacity of Traddlesand his small hopes of a livelihood for
twenty years to come.
I had seen nothing like this since I went awayand 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 gaitersto meet whom a pint of special port seemed to come
out of the cellar of its own accordfor he gave no order. The
second waiter informed mein a whisperthat this old gentleman


was a retired conveyancer living in the Squareand worth a mint of
moneywhich it was expected he would leave to his laundress's
daughter; likewise that it was rumoured that he had a service of
plate in a bureauall tarnished with lying bythough more than
one spoon and a fork had never yet been beheld in his chambers by
mortal vision. By this timeI 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 fellowneverthelessI
dispatched my dinnerin a manner not at all calculated to raise me
in the opinion of the chief waiterand 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 storeyI ascended the staircase. A crazy old
staircase I found it to befeebly lighted on each landing by a
club- headed little oil wickdying away in a little dungeon of
dirty glass.

In the course of my stumbling upstairsI fancied I heard a
pleasant sound of laughter; and not the laughter of an attorney or
barristeror attorney's clerk or barrister's clerkbut of two or
three merry girls. Happeninghoweveras I stopped to listento
put my foot in a hole where the Honourable Society of Gray's Inn
had left a plank deficientI fell down with some noiseand when
I recovered my footing all was silent.

Groping my way more carefullyfor the rest of the journeymy
heart beat high when I found the outer doorwhich had Mr. TRADDLES
painted on itopen. I knocked. A considerable scuffling within
ensuedbut nothing else. I therefore knocked again.

A small sharp-looking ladhalf-footboy and half-clerkwho was
very much out of breathbut who looked at me as if he defied me to
prove it legallypresented himself.

'Is Mr. Traddles within?' I said.

'Yessirbut he's engaged.'

'I want to see him.'

After a moment's survey of methe sharp-looking lad decided to let
me in; and opening the door wider for that purposeadmitted me
firstinto a little closet of a halland next into a little
sitting-room; where I came into the presence of my old friend (also
out of breath)seated at a tableand bending over papers.

'Good God!' cried Traddleslooking up. 'It's Copperfield!' and
rushed into my armswhere I held him tight.

'All wellmy dear Traddles?'

'All wellmy deardear Copperfieldand nothing but good news!'

We cried with pleasureboth of us.

'My dear fellow' said Traddlesrumpling his hair in his
excitementwhich was a most unnecessary operation'my dearest
Copperfieldmy long-lost and most welcome friendhow glad I am to
see you! How brown you are! How glad I am! Upon my life and honour
I never was so rejoicedmy beloved Copperfieldnever!'

I was equally at a loss to express my emotions. I was quite unable
to speakat first.


'My dear fellow!' said Traddles. 'And grown so famous! My glorious
Copperfield! Good gracious meWHEN did you comeWHERE have you
come fromWHAT have you been doing?'

Never pausing for an answer to anything he saidTraddleswho had
clapped me into an easy-chair by the fireall this time
impetuously stirred the fire with one handand pulled at my
neck-kerchief with the otherunder some wild delusion that it was
a great-coat. Without putting down the pokerhe now hugged me
again; and I hugged him; andboth laughingand both wiping our
eyeswe both sat downand shook hands across the hearth.

'To think' said Traddles'that you should have been so nearly
coming home as you must have beenmy dear old boyand not at the
ceremony!'

'What ceremonymy dear Traddles?'

'Good gracious me!' cried Traddlesopening his eyes in his old
way. 'Didn't you get my last letter?'

'Certainly notif it referred to any ceremony.'

'Whymy dear Copperfield' said Traddlessticking his hair
upright with both handsand then putting his hands on my knees'I
am married!'

'Married!' I cried joyfully.

'Lord bless meyes!' said Traddles - 'by the Reverend Horace - to
Sophy - down in Devonshire. Whymy dear boyshe's behind the
window curtain! Look here!'

To my amazementthe dearest girl in the world came at that same
instantlaughing and blushingfrom her place of concealment. And
a more cheerfulamiablehonesthappybright-looking brideI
believe (as I could not help saying on the spot) the world never
saw. I kissed her as an old acquaintance shouldand wished them
joy with all my might of heart.

'Dear me' said Traddles'what a delightful re-union this is! You
are so extremely brownmy dear Copperfield! God bless my soulhow
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 meI 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 - was it you that tumbled upstairsCopperfield?'

'It was' said Ilaughing.

'Well thenwhen you tumbled upstairs' said Traddles'I was
romping with the girls. In point of factwe were playing at Puss
in the Corner. But as that wouldn't do in Westminster Halland as
it wouldn't look quite professional if they were seen by a client


they decamped. And they are now - listeningI have no doubt'
said Traddlesglancing at the door of another room.

'I am sorry' said Ilaughing afresh'to have occasioned such a
dispersion.'

'Upon my word' rejoined Traddlesgreatly delighted'if you had
seen them running awayand running back againafter you had
knockedto pick up the combs they had dropped out of their hair
and going on in the maddest manneryou wouldn't have said so. My
lovewill you fetch the girls?'

Sophy tripped awayand we heard her received in the adjoining room
with a peal of laughter.

'Really musicalisn't itmy dear Copperfield?' said Traddles.
'It's very agreeable to hear. It quite lights up these old rooms.
To an unfortunate bachelor of a fellow who has lived alone all his
lifeyou knowit's positively delicious. It's charming. Poor
thingsthey have had a great loss in Sophy - whoI do assure you
Copperfield isand ever wasthe dearest girl! - and it gratifies
me beyond expression to find them in such good spirits. The
society of girls is a very delightful thingCopperfield. It's not
professionalbut it's very delightful.'

Observing that he slightly falteredand comprehending that in the
goodness of his heart he was fearful of giving me some pain by what
he had saidI expressed my concurrence with a heartiness that
evidently relieved and pleased him greatly.

'But then' said Traddles'our domestic arrangements areto say
the truthquite unprofessional altogethermy dear Copperfield.
Even Sophy's being hereis unprofessional. And we have no other
place of abode. We have put to sea in a cockboatbut 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 eldestthe Beauty is here' said Traddlesin a low
confidential voice'Caroline. And Sarah's here - the one I
mentioned to you as having something the matter with her spineyou
know. Immensely better! And the two youngest that Sophy educated
are with us. And Louisa's here.'

'Indeed!' cried I.

'Yes' said Traddles. 'Now the whole set - I mean the chambers is
only three rooms; but Sophy arranges for the girls in the most
wonderful wayand they sleep as comfortably as possible. Three in
that room' said Traddlespointing. 'Two in that.'

I could not help glancing roundin search of the accommodation
remaining for Mr. and Mrs. Traddles. Traddles understood me.

'Well!' said Traddles'we are prepared to rough itas I said just
nowand we did improvise a bed last weekupon the floor here.
But there's a little room in the roof - a very nice roomwhen
you're up there - which Sophy papered herselfto surprise me; and
that's our room at present. It's a capital little gipsy sort of
place. There's quite a view from it.'

'And you are happily married at lastmy dear Traddles!' said I.


'How rejoiced I am!'

'Thank youmy dear Copperfield' said Traddlesas we shook hands
once more. 'YesI am as happy as it's possible to be. There's
your old friendyou see' said Traddlesnodding triumphantly at
the flower-pot and stand; 'and there's the table with the marble
top! All the other furniture is plain and serviceableyou
perceive. And as to plateLord bless youwe haven't so much as
a tea-spoon.'

'All to be earned?' said Icheerfully.

'Exactly so' replied Traddles'all to be earned. Of course we
have something in the shape of tea-spoonsbecause 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 seemy dear
Copperfield' falling again into the low confidential tone'after
I had delivered my argument in DOE dem. JIPES versus WIGZIELL
which did me great service with the professionI went down into
Devonshireand had some serious conversation in private with the
Reverend Horace. I dwelt upon the fact that Sophy - who I do
assure youCopperfieldis the dearest girl! -'

'I am certain she is!' said I.

'She isindeed!' rejoined Traddles. 'But I am afraid I am
wandering from the subject. Did I mention the Reverend Horace?'

'You said that you dwelt upon the fact -'

'True! Upon the fact that Sophy and I had been engaged for a long
periodand that Sophywith the permission of her parentswas
more than content to take me - in short' said Traddleswith his
old frank smile'on our present Britannia-metal footing. Very
well. I then proposed to the Reverend Horace - who is a most
excellent clergymanCopperfieldand ought to be a Bishop; or at
least ought to have enough to live uponwithout pinching himself

-that if I could turn the cornersay of two hundred and fifty
poundsin one year; and could see my way pretty clearly to that
or something betternext year; and could plainly furnish a little
place like thisbesides; thenand in that caseSophy and I
should be united. I took the liberty of representing that we had
been patient for a good many years; and that the circumstance of
Sophy's being extraordinarily useful at homeought not to operate
with her affectionate parentsagainst her establishment in life don't
you see?'
'Certainly it ought not' said I.

'I am glad you think soCopperfield' rejoined Traddles'because
without any imputation on the Reverend HoraceI do think parents
and brothersand so forthare sometimes rather selfish in such
cases. Well! I also pointed outthat my most earnest desire was
to be useful to the family; and that if I got on in the worldand
anything should happen to him - I refer to the Reverend Horace -'

'I understand' said I.

'- Or to Mrs. Crewler - it would be the utmost gratification of my
wishesto be a parent to the girls. He replied in a most
admirable mannerexceedingly flattering to my feelingsand


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 chestand then into her head -'

'What mounted?' I asked.

'Her grief' replied Traddleswith a serious look. 'Her feelings
generally. As I mentioned on a former occasionshe is a very
superior womanbut has lost the use of her limbs. Whatever occurs
to harass herusually settles in her legs; but on this occasion it
mounted to the chestand then to the headandin shortpervaded
the whole system in a most alarming manner. Howeverthey brought
her through it by unremitting and affectionate attention; and we
were married yesterday six weeks. You have no idea what a Monster
I feltCopperfieldwhen I saw the whole family crying and
fainting away in every direction! Mrs. Crewler couldn't see me
before we left - couldn't forgive methenfor depriving her of
her child - but she is a good creatureand has done so since. I
had a delightful letter from heronly this morning.'

'And in shortmy dear friend' said I'you feel as blest as you
deserve to feel!'

'Oh! That's your partiality!' laughed Traddles. 'ButindeedI am
in a most enviable state. I work hardand read Law insatiably.
I get up at five every morningand don't mind it at all. I hide
the girls in the daytimeand make merry with them in the evening.
And I assure you I am quite sorry that they are going home on
Tuesdaywhich is the day before the first day of Michaelmas Term.
But here' said Traddlesbreaking off in his confidenceand
speaking aloud'ARE the girls! Mr. CopperfieldMiss Crewler Miss
Sarah - Miss Louisa - Margaret and Lucy!'

They were a perfect nest of roses; they looked so wholesome and
fresh. They were all prettyand Miss Caroline was very handsome;
but there was a lovingcheerfulfireside quality in Sophy's
bright lookswhich was better than thatand which assured me that
my friend had chosen well. We all sat round the fire; while the
sharp boywho I now divined had lost his breath in putting the
papers outcleared them away againand produced the tea-things.
After thathe retired for the nightshutting the outer door upon
us with a bang. Mrs. Traddleswith perfect pleasure and composure
beaming from her household eyeshaving made the teathen quietly
made the toast as she sat in a corner by the fire.

She had seen Agnesshe told me while she was toasting. 'Tom' had
taken her down into Kent for a wedding tripand there she had seen
my aunttoo; and both my aunt and Agnes were welland they had
all talked of nothing but me. 'Tom' had never had me out of his
thoughtsshe really believedall the time I had been away. 'Tom'
was the authority for everything. 'Tom' was evidently the idol of
her life; never to be shaken on his pedestal by any commotion;
always to be believed inand done homage to with the whole faith
of her heartcome what might.

The deference which both she and Traddles showed towards the
Beautypleased me very much. I don't know that I thought it very
reasonable; but I thought it very delightfuland essentially a
part of their character. If Traddles ever for an instant missed
the tea-spoons that were still to be wonI 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 anyoneI am satisfied
it could only have been because she was the Beauty's sister. A few
slight indications of a rather petted and capricious mannerwhich


I observed in the Beautywere manifestly consideredby Traddles
and his wifeas her birthright and natural endowment. If she had
been born a Queen Beeand they labouring Beesthey could not have
been more satisfied of that.

But their self-forgetfulness charmed me. Their pride in these
girlsand their submission of themselves to all their whimswas
the pleasantest little testimony to their own worth I could have
desired to see. If Traddles were addressed as 'a darling'once in
the course of that evening; and besought to bring something here
or carry something thereor take something upor put something
downor find somethingor fetch somethinghe was so addressed
by one or other of his sisters-in-lawat least twelve times in an
hour. Neither could they do anything without Sophy. Somebody's
hair fell downand nobody but Sophy could put it up. Somebody
forgot how a particular tune wentand nobody but Sophy could hum
that tune right. Somebody wanted to recall the name of a place in
Devonshireand only Sophy knew it. Something was wanted to be
written homeand Sophy alone could be trusted to write before
breakfast in the morning. Somebody broke down in a piece of
knittingand no one but Sophy was able to put the defaulter in the
right direction. They were entire mistresses of the placeand
Sophy and Traddles waited on them. How many children Sophy could
have taken care of in her timeI 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 worldone after another (every
sister issuing directions for a different tuneand the Beauty
generally striking in last)so that I was quite fascinated. The
best of all wasthatin the midst of their exactionsall the
sisters had a great tenderness and respect both for Sophy and
Traddles. I am surewhen I took my leaveand Traddles was coming
out to walk with me to the coffee-houseI thought I had never seen
an obstinate head of hairor any other head of hairrolling about
in such a shower of kisses.

Altogetherit was a scene I could not help dwelling on with
pleasurefor 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 chambersin that withered Gray's Innthey 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 toastand children's songsin that grim atmosphere of
pounce and parchmentred-tapedusty wafersink-jarsbrief and
draft paperlaw reportswritsdeclarationsand 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 birdthe singing treeand the golden
water into Gray's Inn Hall. SomehowI found that I had taken
leave of Traddles for the nightand come back to the coffee-house
with a great change in my despondency about him. I began to think
he would get onin spite of all the many orders of chief waiters
in England.

Drawing a chair before one of the coffee-room fires to think about
him at my leisureI gradually fell from the consideration of his
happiness to tracing prospects in the live-coalsand to thinking
as they broke and changedof 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 watchedas it crumbled into hoary ashesand mingled with
the feathery heap upon the hearthwhich not inaptly figured to me
in my despondencymy own dead hopes.


I could think of the past nowgravelybut not bitterly; and could
contemplate the future in a brave spirit. Homein its best sense
was for me no more. She in whom I might have inspired a dearer
loveI had taught to be my sister. She would marryand would
have new claimants on her tenderness; and in doing itwould 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
reapedI had sown.

I was thinking. And had I truly disciplined my heart to thisand
could I resolutely bear itand calmly hold the place in her home
which she had calmly held in mine- when I found my eyes resting
on a countenance that might have arisen out of the firein its
association with my early remembrances.

Little Mr. Chillip the Doctorto whose good offices I was indebted
in the very first chapter of this historysat reading a newspaper
in the shadow of an opposite corner. He was tolerably stricken in
years by this time; butbeing a mildmeekcalm little manhad
worn so easilythat I thought he looked at that moment just as he
might have looked when he sat in our parlourwaiting for me to be
born.

Mr. Chillip had left Blunderstone six or seven years agoand I had
never seen him since. He sat placidly perusing the newspaperwith
his little head on one sideand a glass of warm sherry negus at
his elbow. He was so extremely conciliatory 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 sittingand said'How do you doMr.
Chillip?'

He was greatly fluttered by this unexpected address from a
strangerand repliedin his slow way'I thank yousiryou are
very good. Thank yousir. I hope YOU are well.'

'You don't remember me?' said I.

'Wellsir' returned Mr. Chillipsmiling very meeklyand shaking
his head as he surveyed me'I have a kind of an impression that
something in your countenance is familiar to mesir; but I
couldn't lay my hand upon your namereally.'

'And yet you knew itlong before I knew it myself' I returned.

'Did I indeedsir?' said Mr. Chillip. 'Is it possible that I had
the honoursirof officiating when -?'

'Yes' said I.

'Dear me!' cried Mr. Chillip. 'But no doubt you are a good deal
changed since thensir?'

'Probably' said I.

'Wellsir' observed Mr. Chillip'I hope you'll excuse meif I
am compelled to ask the favour of your name?'

On my telling him my namehe was really moved. He quite shook
hands with me - which was a violent proceeding for himhis usual
course being to slide a tepid little fish-slicean inch or two in
advance of his hipand evince the greatest discomposure when
anybody grappled with it. Even nowhe put his hand in his


coat-pocket as soon as he could disengage itand seemed relieved
when he had got it safe back.

'Dear mesir!' said Mr. Chillipsurveying me with his head on one
side. 'And it's Mr. Copperfieldis it? WellsirI think I
should have known youif I had taken the liberty of looking more
closely at you. There's a strong resemblance between you and your
poor fathersir.'

'I never had the happiness of seeing my father' I observed.

'Very truesir' said Mr. Chillipin a soothing tone. 'And very
much to be deplored it wason all accounts! We are not ignorant
sir' said Mr. Chillipslowly shaking his little head again'down
in our part of the countryof your fame. There must be great
excitement heresir' said Mr. Chilliptapping himself on the
forehead with his forefinger. 'You must find it a trying
occupationsir!'

'What is your part of the country now?' I askedseating myself
near him.

'I am established within a few miles of Bury St. Edmund'ssir'
said Mr. Chillip. 'Mrs. Chillipcoming into a little property in
that neighbourhoodunder her father's willI bought a practice
down therein which you will be glad to hear I am doing well. My
daughter is growing quite a tall lass nowsir' said Mr. Chillip
giving his little head another little shake. 'Her mother let down
two tucks in her frocks only last week. Such is timeyou see
sir!'

As the little man put his now empty glass to his lipswhen he made
this reflectionI proposed to him to have it refilledand I would
keep him company with another. 'Wellsir' he returnedin 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 honour of attending you in the measles. You came
through them charminglysir!'

I acknowledged this complimentand ordered the neguswhich was
soon produced. 'Quite an uncommon dissipation!' said Mr. Chillip
stirring it'but I can't resist so extraordinary an occasion. You
have no familysir?'

I shook my head.

'I was aware that you sustained a bereavementsirsome time ago'
said Mr. Chillip. 'I heard it from your father-in-law's sister.
Very decided character theresir?'

'Whyyes' said I'decided enough. Where did you see herMr.
Chillip?'

'Are you not awaresir' returned Mr. Chillipwith his placidest
smile'that your father-in-law is again a neighbour of mine?'

'No' said I.

'He is indeedsir!' said Mr. Chillip. 'Married a young lady of
that partwith a very good little propertypoor thing. - And
this action of the brain nowsir? Don't you find it fatigue you?'
said Mr. Chilliplooking at me like an admiring Robin.

I waived that questionand 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 developments of the organ of firmnessin Mr.
Murdstone and his sistersir.'

I replied with such an expressive lookthat Mr. Chillip was
emboldened by thatand the negus togetherto give his head
several short shakesand thoughtfully exclaim'Ahdear me! We
remember old timesMr. Copperfield!'

'And the brother and sister are pursuing their old courseare
they?' said I.

'Wellsir' replied Mr. Chillip'a medical manbeing so much in
familiesought to have neither eyes nor ears for anything but his
profession. StillI must saythey are very severesir: both as
to this life and the next.'

'The next will be regulated without much reference to themI dare
say' I returned: 'what are they doing as to this?'

Mr. Chillip shook his headstirred his negusand sipped it.

'She was a charming womansir!' he observed in a plaintive manner.

'The present Mrs. Murdstone?'

A charming woman indeedsir' said Mr. Chillip; 'as amiableI am
sureas it was possible to be! Mrs. Chillip's opinion isthat her
spirit has been entirely broken since her marriageand that she is
all but melancholy mad. And the ladies' observed Mr. Chillip
timorously'are great observerssir.'

'I suppose she was to be subdued and broken to their detestable
mouldHeaven help her!' said I. 'And she has been.'

'Wellsirthere were violent quarrels at firstI assure you'
said Mr. Chillip; 'but she is quite a shadow now. Would it be
considered forward if I was to say to yousirin confidencethat
since the sister came to helpthe brother and sister between them
have nearly reduced her to a state of imbecility?'

I told him I could easily believe it.

'I have no hesitation in saying' said Mr. Chillipfortifying
himself with another sip of negus'between you and mesirthat
her mother died of it - or that tyrannygloomand worry have made
Mrs. Murdstone nearly imbecile. She was a lively young womansir
before marriageand their gloom and austerity destroyed her. They
go about with hernowmore like her keepers than her husband and
sister-in-law. That was Mrs. Chillip's remark to meonly last
week. And I assure yousirthe 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 anticipatesir' said Mr. Chilliphis eyelids getting quite
red with the unwonted stimulus in which he was indulging. 'One of
Mrs. Chillip's most impressive remarks. Mrs. Chillip' he
proceededin the calmest and slowest manner'quite electrified
meby 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 backsirwith the feather of a penI assure you
when Mrs. Chillip said so. The ladies are great observerssir?'

'Intuitively' said Ito his extreme delight.

'I am very happy to receive such support in my opinionsir' he
rejoined. 'It is not often that I venture to give a non-medical
opinionI assure you. Mr. Murdstone delivers public addresses
sometimesand it is said- in shortsirit is said by Mrs.
Chillip- that the darker tyrant he has lately beenthe 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 menmuch encouraged'that what such people miscall their
religionis a vent for their bad humours and arrogance. And do
you know I must saysir' he continuedmildly laying his head on
one side'that I DON'T find authority for Mr. and Miss Murdstone
in the New Testament?'

'I never found it either!' said I.

'In the meantimesir' said Mr. Chillip'they are much disliked;
and as they are very free in consigning everybody who dislikes them
to perditionwe really have a good deal of perdition going on in
our neighbourhood! Howeveras Mrs. Chillip sayssirthey undergo
a continual punishment; for they are turned inwardto feed upon
their own heartsand their own hearts are very bad feeding. Now
sirabout that brain of yoursif you'll excuse my returning to
it. Don't you expose it to a good deal of excitementsir?'

I found it not difficultin the excitement of Mr. Chillip's own
brainunder his potations of negusto divert his attention from
this topic to his own affairson whichfor the next half-hourhe
was quite loquacious; giving me to understandamong other pieces
of informationthat he was then at the Gray's Inn Coffee-house to
lay his professional evidence before a Commission of Lunacy
touching the state of mind of a patient who had become deranged
from excessive drinking.
'And I assure yousir' he said'I am extremely nervous on such
occasions. I could not support being what is called Bulliedsir.
It would quite unman me. Do you know it was some time before I
recovered the conduct of that alarming ladyon the night of your
birthMr. Copperfield?'

I told him that I was going down to my auntthe Dragon of that
nightearly in the morning; and that she was one of the most
tender-hearted and excellent of womenas he would know full well
if he knew her better. The mere notion of the possibility of his
ever seeing her againappeared to terrify him. He replied with a
small pale smile'Is she soindeedsir? Really?' and almost
immediately called for a candleand went to bedas 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 minutethan it had done since the
great night of my aunt's disappointmentwhen she struck at him
with her bonnet.

Thoroughly tiredI went to bed tooat midnight; passed the next
day on the Dover coach; burst safe and sound into my aunt's old
parlour while she was at tea (she wore spectacles now); and was
received by herand Mr. Dickand dear old Peggottywho acted as


housekeeperwith open arms and tears of joy. My aunt was mightily
amusedwhen we began to talk composedlyby my account of my
meeting with Mr. Chillipand 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 husbandand 'that murdering woman of
a sister'- on whom I think no pain or penalty would have induced
my aunt to bestow any Christian or Proper Nameor any other
designation.

CHAPTER 60
AGNES

My aunt and Iwhen we were left alonetalked far into the night.
How the emigrants never wrote homeotherwise than cheerfully and
hopefully; how Mr. Micawber had actually remitted divers small sums
of moneyon account of those 'pecuniary liabilities'in reference
to which he had been so business-like as between man and man; how
Janetreturning into my aunt's service when she came back to
Doverhad finally carried out her renunciation of mankind by
entering into wedlock with a thriving tavern-keeper; and how my
aunt had finally set her seal on the same great principleby
aiding and abetting the brideand crowning the marriage-ceremony
with her presence; were among our topics - already more or less
familiar to me through the letters I had had. Mr. Dickas usual
was not forgotten. My aunt informed me how he incessantly occupied
himself in copying everything he could lay his hands onand 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 happyinstead of pining in monotonous
restraint; and how (as a novel general conclusion) nobody but she
could ever fully know what he was.

'And whenTrot' said my auntpatting the back of my handas we
sat in our old way before the fire'when are you going over to
Canterbury?'

'I shall get a horseand ride over tomorrow morningauntunless
you will go with me?'

'No!' said my auntin her short abrupt way. 'I mean to stay where
I am.'

ThenI should rideI said. I could not have come through
Canterbury today without stoppingif I had been coming to anyone
but her.

She was pleasedbut answered'TutTrot; MY old bones would have
kept till tomorrow!' and softly patted my hand againas I sat
looking thoughtfully at the fire.

Thoughtfullyfor I could not be here once moreand so near Agnes
without the revival of those regrets with which I had so long been
occupied. Softened regrets they might beteaching me what I had
failed to learn when my younger life was all before mebut not the
less regrets. 'OhTrot' I seemed to hear my aunt say once more;
and I understood her better now - 'Blindblindblind!'

We both kept silence for some minutes. When I raised my eyesI
found that she was steadily observant of me. Perhaps she had
followed the current of my mind; for it seemed to me an easy one to
track nowwilful as it had been once.


'You will find her father a white-haired old man' said my aunt
'though a better man in all other respects - a reclaimed man.
Neither will you find him measuring all human interestsand joys
and sorrowswith his one poor little inch-rule now. Trust me
childsuch things must shrink very muchbefore they can be
measured off in that way.'

'Indeed they must' said I.

'You will find her' pursued my aunt'as goodas beautifulas
earnestas disinterestedas she has always been. If I knew
higher praiseTrotI 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 herto be like
herself' said my auntearnest even to the filling of her eyes
with tears'Heaven knowsher life will be well employed! Useful
and happyas she said that day! How could she be otherwise than
useful and happy!'

'Has Agnes any -' I was thinking aloudrather than speaking.

'Well? Hey? Any what?' said my auntsharply.

'Any lover' said I.

'A score' cried my auntwith a kind of indignant pride. 'She
might have married twenty timesmy dearsince 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 whilewith her chin upon her hand.
Slowly raising her eyes to mineshe said:

'I suspect she has an attachmentTrot.'

'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 mebut I
suspect it.'

She looked so attentively and anxiously at me (I even saw her
tremble)that I felt nowmore than everthat she had followed my
late thoughts. I summoned all the resolutions I had madein all
those many days and nightsand all those many conflicts of my
heart.

'If it should be so' I began'and I hope it is-'

'I don't know that it is' said my aunt curtly. 'You must not be
ruled by my suspicions. You must keep them secret. They are very
slightperhaps. 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 muchauntwill
not be reluctant to confide in me.'

My aunt withdrew her eyes from mineas slowly as she had turned


them upon me; and covered them thoughtfully with her hand. By and
by she put her other hand on my shoulder; and so we both sat
looking into the pastwithout saying another worduntil we parted
for the night.

I rode awayearly in the morningfor the scene of my old
school-days. I cannot say that I was yet quite happyin 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 traversedand I came into the
quiet streetswhere every stone was a boy's book to me. I went on
foot to the old houseand went away with a heart too full to
enter. I returned; and lookingas I passedthrough the low
window of the turret-room where first Uriah Heepand afterwards
Mr. Micawberhad been wont to sitsaw that it was a little
parlour nowand that there was no office. Otherwise the staid old
house wasas to its cleanliness and orderstill just as it had
been when I first saw it. I requested the new maid who admitted
meto tell Miss Wickfield that a gentleman who waited on her from
a friend abroadwas 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
togetherwere on their shelves; and the desk where I had laboured
at my lessonsmany a nightstood yet at the same old corner of
the table. All the little changes that had crept in when the Heeps
were therewere changed again. Everything was as it used to be
in the happy time.

I stood in a windowand looked across the ancient street at the
opposite housesrecalling how I had watched them on wet
afternoonswhen I first came there; and how I had used to
speculate about the people who appeared at any of the windowsand
had followed them with my eyes up and down stairswhile women went
clicking along the pavement in pattensand the dull rain fell in
slanting linesand poured out of the water-spout yonderand
flowed into the road. The feeling with which I used to watch the
trampsas they came into the town on those wet eveningsat dusk
and limped pastwith their bundles drooping over their shoulders
at the ends of stickscame freshly back to me; fraughtas then
with the smell of damp earthand wet leaves and briarand the
sensation of the very airs that blew upon me in my own toilsome
journey.

The opening of the little door in the panelled wall made me start
and turn. Her beautiful serene eyes met mine as she came towards
me. She stopped and laid her hand upon her bosomand I caught her
in my arms.

'Agnes! my dear girl! I have come too suddenly upon you.'

'Nono! I am so rejoiced to see youTrotwood!'

'Dear Agnesthe happiness it is to meto see you once again!'

I folded her to my heartandfor a little whilewe were both
silent. Presently we sat downside by side; and her angel-face
was turned upon me with the welcome I had dreamed ofwaking and
sleepingfor whole years.

She was so trueshe was so beautifulshe was so good- I owed
her so much gratitudeshe was so dear to methat I could find no
utterance for what I felt. I tried to bless hertried to thank
hertried to tell her (as I had often done in letters) what an


influence she had upon me; but all my efforts were in vain. My
love and joy were dumb.

With her own sweet tranquillityshe calmed my agitation; led me
back to the time of our parting; spoke to me of Emilywhom she had
visitedin secretmany times; spoke to me tenderly of Dora's
grave. With the unerring instinct of her noble heartshe touched
the chords of my memory so softly and harmoniouslythat not one
jarred within me; I could listen to the sorrowfuldistant music
and desire to shrink from nothing it awoke. How could Iwhen
blended with it allwas her dear selfthe better angel of my
life?

'And youAgnes' I saidby and by. 'Tell me of yourself. You
have hardly ever told me of your own lifein all this lapse of
time!'

'What should I tell?' she answeredwith her radiant smile. 'Papa
is well. You see us herequiet in our own home; our anxieties set
at restour home restored to us; and knowing thatdear Trotwood
you know all.'

'AllAgnes?' said I.

She looked at mewith some fluttering wonder in her face.

'Is there nothing elseSister?' I said.

Her colourwhich had just now fadedreturnedand faded again.
She smiled; with a quiet sadnessI thought; and shook her head.

I had sought to lead her to what my aunt had hinted at; for
sharply painful to me as it must be to receive that confidenceI
was to discipline my heartand do my duty to her. I sawhowever
that she was uneasyand I let it pass.

'You have much to dodear Agnes?'

'With my school?' said shelooking up againin all her bright
composure.

'Yes. It is laboriousis it not?'

'The labour is so pleasant' she returned'that it is scarcely
grateful in me to call it by that name.'

'Nothing good is difficult to you' said I.

Her colour came and went once more; and once moreas she bent her
headI saw the same sad smile.

'You will wait and see papa' said Agnescheerfully'and pass the
day with us? Perhaps you will sleep in your own room? We always
call it yours.'

I could not do thathaving promised to ride back to my aunt's at
night; but I would pass the day therejoyfully.

'I must be a prisoner for a little while' said Agnes'but here
are the old booksTrotwoodand the old music.'

'Even the old flowers are here' said Ilooking round; 'or the old
kinds.'


'I have found a pleasure' returned Agnessmiling'while you have
been absentin keeping everything as it used to be when we were
children. For we were very happy thenI think.'

'Heaven knows we were!' said I.

'And every little thing that has reminded me of my brother' said
Agneswith her cordial eyes turned cheerfully upon me'has been
a welcome companion. Even this' showing me the basket-trifle
full of keysstill hanging at her side'seems to jingle a kind of
old tune!'

She smiled againand 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 myselfand it was a treasure. If I
once shook the foundations of the sacred confidence and usagein
virtue of which it was given to meit was lostand could never be
recovered. I set this steadily before myself. The better I loved
herthe more it behoved me never to forget it.

I walked through the streets; andonce more seeing my old
adversary the butcher - now a constablewith his staff hanging up
in the shop - went down to look at the place where I had fought
him; and there meditated on Miss Shepherd and the eldest Miss
Larkinsand all the idle loves and likingsand dislikingsof
that time. Nothing seemed to have survived that time but Agnes;
and sheever a star above mewas brighter and higher.

When I returnedMr. Wickfield had come homefrom a garden he had
a couple of miles or so out of townwhere he now employed himself
almost every day. I found him as my aunt had described him. We
sat down to dinnerwith some half-dozen little girls; and he
seemed but the shadow of his handsome picture on the wall.

The tranquillity and peace belongingof oldto that quiet ground
in my memorypervaded it again. When dinner was doneMr.
Wickfield taking no wineand I desiring nonewe went up-stairs;
where Agnes and her little charges sang and playedand worked.
After tea the children left us; and we three sat togethertalking
of the bygone days.

'My part in them' said Mr. Wickfieldshaking his white head'has
much matter for regret - for deep regretand deep contrition
Trotwoodyou well know. But I would not cancel itif it were in
my power.'

I could readily believe thatlooking at the face beside him.

'I should cancel with it' he pursued'such patience and devotion
such fidelitysuch a child's loveas I must not forgetno! even
to forget myself.'

'I understand yousir' I softly said. 'I hold it - I have always
held it - in veneration.'

'But no one knowsnot even you' he returned'how much she has
donehow much she has undergonehow hard she has striven. Dear
Agnes!'

She had put her hand entreatingly on his armto stop him; and was
veryvery pale.

'Wellwell!' he said with a sighdismissingas I then sawsome


trial she had borneor was yet to bearin connexion with what my
aunt had told me. 'Well! I have never told youTrotwoodof her
mother. Has anyone?'

'Neversir.'

'It's not much - though it was much to suffer. She married me in
opposition to her father's wishand he renounced her. She prayed
him to forgive herbefore my Agnes came into this world. He was
a very hard manand her mother had long been dead. He repulsed
her. He broke her heart.'

Agnes leaned upon his shoulderand 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 couldif I
did not. She loved me dearlybut was never happy. She was always
labouringin secretunder this distress; and being delicate and
downcast at the time of his last repulse - for it was not the
firstby many - pined away and died. She left me Agnestwo weeks
old; and the grey hair that you recollect me withwhen you first
came.' He kissed Agnes on her cheek.

'My love for my dear child was a diseased lovebut my mind was all
unhealthy then. I say no more of that. I am not speaking of
myselfTrotwoodbut of her motherand of her. If I give you any
clue to what I amor to what I have beenyou will unravel itI
know. What Agnes isI need not say. I have always read something
of her poor mother's storyin her character; and so I tell it you
tonightwhen we three are again togetherafter such great
changes. I have told it all.'

His bowed headand her angel-face and filial dutyderived a more
pathetic meaning from it than they had had before. If I had wanted
anything by which to mark this night of our re-unionI should have
found it in this.

Agnes rose up from her father's sidebefore long; and going softly
to her pianoplayed some of the old airs to which we had often
listened in that place.

'Have you any intention of going away again?' Agnes asked meas I
was standing by.

'What does my sister say to that?'

'I hope not.'

'Then I have no such intentionAgnes.'

'I think you ought notTrotwoodsince 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 amyou have made meAgnes. You should know best.'

'I made youTrotwood?'

'Yes! Agnesmy dear girl!' I saidbending over her. 'I tried to
tell youwhen we met todaysomething that has been in my thoughts
since Dora died. You rememberwhen you came down to me in our
little room - pointing upwardAgnes?'


'OhTrotwood!' she returnedher eyes filled with tears. 'So
lovingso confidingand so young! Can I ever forget?'

'As you were thenmy sisterI have often thought sinceyou have
ever been to me. Ever pointing upwardAgnes; 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 itAgnesso bound to youthat
there is no name for the affection of my heart. I want you to
knowyet don't know how to tell youthat all my life long I shall
look up to youand be guided by youas I have been through the
darkness that is past. Whatever betideswhatever new ties you may
formwhatever changes may come between usI shall always look to
youand love youas I do nowand have always done. You will
always be my solace and resourceas you have always been. Until
I diemy dearest sisterI shall see you always before me
pointing upward!'

She put her hand in mineand told me she was proud of meand of
what I said; although I praised her very far beyond her worth.
Then she went on softly playingbut without removing her eyes from
me.
'Do you knowwhat I have heard tonightAgnes' said Istrangely
seems to be a part of the feeling with which I regarded you when I
saw you first - with which I sat beside you in my rough
school-days?'

'You knew I had no mother' she replied with a smile'and felt
kindly towards me.'

'More than thatAgnesI knewalmost as if I had known this
storythat there was something inexplicably gentle and softened
surrounding you; something that might have been sorrowful in
someone else (as I can now understand it was)but was not so in
you.'

She softly played onlooking at me still.

'Will you laugh at my cherishing such fanciesAgnes?'

'No!'

'Or at my saying that I really believe I felteven thenthat you
could be faithfully affectionate against all discouragementand
never cease to be sountil you ceased to live? - Will you laugh
at such a dream?'

'Ohno! Ohno!'

For an instanta distressful shadow crossed her face; buteven in
the start it gave meit was gone; and she was playing onand
looking at me with her own calm smile.

As I rode back in the lonely nightthe wind going by me like a
restless memoryI thought of thisand feared she was not happy.
I was not happy; butthus farI had faithfully set the seal upon
the Pastandthinking of herpointing upwardthought of her as
pointing to that sky above mewherein the mystery to comeI
might yet love her with a love unknown on earthand tell her what
the strife had been within me when I loved her here.


CHAPTER 61
I AM SHOWN TWO INTERESTING PENITENTS

For a time - at all events until my book should be completedwhich
would be the work of several months - I took up my abode in my
aunt's house at Dover; and theresitting in the window from which
I had looked out at the moon upon the seawhen that roof first
gave me shelterI 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 storyI do not enter on the aspirationsthe
delightsanxietiesand triumphs of my art. That I truly devoted
myself to it with my strongest earnestnessand bestowed upon it
every energy of my soulI have already said. If the books I have
written be of any worththey will supply the rest. I shall
otherwise have written to poor purposeand the rest will be of
interest to no one.

OccasionallyI went to London; to lose myself in the swarm of life
thereor to consult with Traddles on some business point. He had
managed for mein my absencewith the soundest judgement; and my
worldly affairs were prospering. As my notoriety began to bring
upon me an enormous quantity of letters from people of whom I had
no knowledge - chiefly about nothingand extremely difficult to
answer - I agreed with Traddles to have my name painted up on his
door. Therethe devoted postman on that beat delivered bushels of
letters for me; and thereat intervalsI laboured through them
like a Home Secretary of State without the salary.

Among this correspondencethere dropped inevery now and thenan
obliging proposal from one of the numerous outsiders always lurking
about the Commonsto practise under cover of my name (if I would
take the necessary steps remaining 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 existenceand considering the Commons quite bad
enoughwithout my doing anything to make it worse.

The girls had gone homewhen my name burst into bloom on
Traddles's door; and the sharp boy lookedall dayas if he had
never heard of Sophyshut up in a back roomglancing down from
her work into a sooty little strip of garden with a pump in it.
But there I always found herthe same bright housewife; often
humming her Devonshire ballads when no strange foot was coming up
the stairsand blunting the sharp boy in his official closet with
melody.

I wonderedat firstwhy I so often found Sophy writing in a
copy-book; and why she always shut it up when I appearedand
hurried it into the table-drawer. But the secret soon came out.
One dayTraddles (who had just come home through the drizzling
sleet from Court) took a paper out of his deskand asked me what
I thought of that handwriting?

'OhDON'TTom!' cried Sophywho was warming his slippers before
the fire.

'My dear' returned Tomin a delighted state'why not? What do
you say to that writingCopperfield?'


'It's extraordinarily legal and formal' said I. 'I don't think I
ever saw such a stiff hand.'

'Not like a lady's handis it?' said Traddles.

'A lady's!' I repeated. 'Bricks and mortar are more like a lady's
hand!'

Traddles broke into a rapturous laughand informed me that it was
Sophy's writing; that Sophy had vowed and declared he would need a
copying-clerk soonand she would be that clerk; that she had
acquired this hand from a pattern; and that she could throw off I
forget how many folios an hour. Sophy was very much confused by
my being told all thisand said that when 'Tom' was made a judge
he wouldn't be so ready to proclaim it. Which 'Tom' denied;
averring that he should always be equally proud of itunder all
circumstances.

'What a thoroughly good and charming wife she ismy dear
Traddles!' said Iwhen she had gone awaylaughing.

'My dear Copperfield' returned Traddles'she iswithout any
exceptionthe dearest girl! The way she manages this place; her
punctualitydomestic knowledgeeconomyand order; her
cheerfulnessCopperfield!'

'Indeedyou have reason to commend her!' I returned. 'You are a
happy fellow. I believe you make yourselvesand each othertwo
of the happiest people in the world.'

'I am sure we ARE two of the happiest people' returned Traddles.
'I admit thatat all events. Bless my soulwhen I see her
getting up by candle-light on these dark morningsbusying herself
in the day's arrangementsgoing out to market before the clerks
come into the Inncaring for no weatherdevising the most capital
little dinners out of the plainest materialsmaking puddings and
pieskeeping everything in its right placealways so neat and
ornamental herselfsitting up at night with me if it's ever so
latesweet-tempered and encouraging alwaysand all for meI
positively sometimes can't believe itCopperfield!'

He was tender of the very slippers she had been warmingas he put
them onand stretched his feet enjoyingly upon the fender.

'I positively sometimes can't believe it' said Traddles. 'Then
our pleasures! Dear methey are inexpensivebut they are quite
wonderful! When we are at home hereof an eveningand shut the
outer doorand draw those curtains - which she made - where could
we be more snug? When it's fineand we go out for a walk in the
eveningthe streets abound in enjoyment for us. We look into the
glittering windows of the jewellers' shops; and I show Sophy which
of the diamond-eyed serpentscoiled up on white satin rising
groundsI would give her if I could afford it; and Sophy shows me
which of the gold watches that are capped and jewelled and
engine-turnedand possessed of the horizontal leverescape-
movementand all sorts of thingsshe would buy for me if
she could afford it; and we pick out the spoons and forks
fish-slicesbutter-knivesand sugar-tongswe should both prefer
if we could both afford it; and really we go away as if we had got
them! Thenwhen we stroll into the squaresand great streetsand
see a house to letsometimes we look up at itand sayhow would
THAT doif I was made a judge? And we parcel it out - such a room
for ussuch rooms for the girlsand so forth; until we settle to
our satisfaction that it would door it wouldn't doas the case


may be. Sometimeswe go at half-price to the pit of the theatre
- the very smell of which is cheapin my opinionat the money and
there we thoroughly enjoy the play: which Sophy believes every
word ofand so do I. In walking homeperhaps we buy a little bit
of something at a cook's-shopor a little lobster at the
fishmongersand bring it hereand make a splendid supper
chatting about what we have seen. Nowyou knowCopperfieldif
I was Lord Chancellorwe couldn't do this!'

'You would do somethingwhatever you weremy 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 Traddleslaughingand reddening'I can't
wholly deny that I domy dear Copperfield. For being in one of
the back rows of the King's Bench the other daywith a pen in my
handthe fancy came into my head to try how I had preserved that
accomplishment. And I am afraid there's a skeleton - in a wig - on
the ledge of the desk.'

After we had both laughed heartilyTraddles wound up by looking
with a smile at the fireand sayingin his forgiving way'Old
Creakle!'

'I have a letter from that old - Rascal here' said I. For I never
was less disposed to forgive him the way he used to batter
Traddlesthan when I saw Traddles so ready to forgive him himself.

'From Creakle the schoolmaster?' exclaimed Traddles. 'No!'

'Among the persons who are attracted to me in my rising fame and
fortune' said Ilooking over my letters'and who discover that
they were always much attached to meis the self-same Creakle. He
is not a schoolmaster nowTraddles. He is retired. He is a
Middlesex Magistrate.'

I thought Traddles might be surprised to hear itbut he was not so
at all.

'How do you suppose he comes to be a Middlesex Magistrate?' said I.

'Oh dear me!' replied Traddles'it would be very difficult to
answer that question. Perhaps he voted for somebodyor lent money
to somebodyor bought something of somebodyor otherwise obliged
somebodyor jobbed for somebodywho knew somebody who got the
lieutenant of the county to nominate him for the commission.'

'On the commission he isat any rate' said I. 'And he writes to
me herethat he will be glad to show mein operationthe only
true system of prison discipline; the only unchallengeable way of
making sincere and lasting converts and penitents - whichyou
knowis by solitary confinement. What do you say?'

'To the system?' inquired Traddleslooking grave.

'No. To my accepting the offerand your going with me?'

'I don't object' said Traddles.

'Then I'll write to say so. You remember (to say nothing of our
treatment) this same Creakle turning his son out of doorsI
supposeand the life he used to lead his wife and daughter?'

'Perfectly' said Traddles.


'Yetif you'll read his letteryou'll find he is the tenderest of
men to prisoners convicted of the whole calendar of felonies' said
I; 'though I can't find that his tenderness extends to any other
class of created beings.'

Traddles shrugged his shouldersand was not at all surprised. I
had not expected him to beand was not surprised myself; or my
observation of similar practical satires would have been but
scanty. We arranged the time of our visitand I wrote accordingly
to Mr. Creakle that evening.

On the appointed day - I think it was the next daybut no matter

-Traddles and I repaired to the prison where Mr. Creakle was
powerful. It was an immense and solid buildingerected at a vast
expense. I could not help thinkingas we approached the gate
what an uproar would have been made in the countryif any deluded
man had proposed to spend one half the money it had coston the
erection of an industrial school for the youngor a house of
refuge for the deserving old.
In an office that might have been on the ground-floor of the Tower
of Babelit was so massively constructedwe were presented to our
old schoolmaster; who was one of a groupcomposed of two or three
of the busier sort of magistratesand some visitors they had
brought. He received melike a man who had formed my mind in
bygone yearsand had always loved me tenderly. On my introducing
TraddlesMr. Creakle expressedin like mannerbut in an inferior
degreethat he had always been Traddles's guidephilosopherand
friend. Our venerable instructor was a great deal olderand not
improved in appearance. His face was as fiery as ever; his eyes
were as smalland rather deeper set. The scantywet-looking grey
hairby which I remembered himwas almost gone; and the thick
veins in his bald head were none the more agreeable to look at.

After some conversation among these gentlemenfrom which I might
have supposed that there was nothing in the world to be
legitimately taken into account but the supreme comfort of
prisonersat any expenseand nothing on the wide earth to be done
outside prison-doorswe began our inspection. It being then just
dinner-timewe wentfirst into the great kitchenwhere 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 asideto Traddlesthat I wondered whether it
occurred to anybodythat there was a striking contrast between
these plentiful repasts of choice qualityand the dinnersnot to
say of paupersbut of soldierssailorslabourersthe great bulk
of the honestworking community; of whom not one man in five
hundred ever dined half so well. But I learned that the 'system'
required high living; andin shortto dispose of the systemonce
for allI found that on that head and on all others'the system'
put an end to all doubtsand disposed of all anomalies. Nobody
appeared to have the least idea that there was any other system
but THE systemto be considered.

As we were going through some of the magnificent passagesI
inquired of Mr. Creakle and his friends what were supposed to be
the main advantages of this all-governing and universally
over-riding system? I found them to be the perfect isolation of
prisoners - so that no one man in confinement thereknew anything
about another; and the reduction of prisoners to a wholesome state
of mindleading to sincere contrition and repentance.

Nowit struck mewhen we began to visit individuals in their


cellsand to traverse the passages in which those cells wereand
to have the manner of the going to chapel and so forthexplained
to usthat there was a strong probability of the prisoners knowing
a good deal about each otherand of their carrying on a pretty
complete system of intercourse. Thisat the time I writehas
been provedI believeto be the case; butas 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 againI had great misgivings. I found as prevalent a
fashion in the form of the penitenceas 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 professionvarying 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 allI found that the most professing men were the greatest
objects of interest; and that their conceittheir vanitytheir
want of excitementand their love of deception (which many of them
possessed to an almost incredible extentas their histories
showed)all prompted to these professionsand were all gratified
by them.

HoweverI heard so repeatedlyin the course of our goings to and
froof a certain Number Twenty Sevenwho was the Favouriteand
who really appeared to be a Model Prisonerthat I resolved to
suspend my judgement until I should see Twenty Seven. Twenty
EightI understoodwas also a bright particular star; but it was
his misfortune to have his glory a little dimmed by the
extraordinary lustre of Twenty Seven. I heard so much of Twenty
Sevenof his pious admonitions to everybody around himand 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 timeon account of Twenty
Seven being reserved for a concluding effect. Butat lastwe
came to the door of his cell; and Mr. Creaklelooking through a
little hole in itreported to usin a state of the greatest
admirationthat he was reading a Hymn Book.

There was such a rush of heads immediatelyto see Number Twenty
Seven reading his Hymn Bookthat the little hole was blocked up
six or seven heads deep. To remedy this inconvenienceand give us
an opportunity of conversing with Twenty Seven in all his purity
Mr. Creakle directed the door of the cell to be unlockedand
Twenty Seven to be invited out into the passage. This was done;
and whom should Traddles and I then beholdto our amazementin
this converted Number Twenty Sevenbut Uriah Heep!

He knew us directly; and saidas he came out - with the old
writhe


'How do you doMr. Copperfield? How do you doMr. Traddles?'

This recognition caused a general admiration in the party. I
rather thought that everyone was struck by his not being proudand
taking notice of us.

'WellTwenty Seven' said Mr. Creaklemournfully admiring him.
'How do you find yourself today?'

'I am very umblesir!' replied Uriah Heep.


'You are always soTwenty Seven' said Mr. Creakle.

Hereanother gentleman askedwith extreme anxiety: 'Are you quite
comfortable?'

'YesI thank yousir!' said Uriah Heeplooking in that
direction. 'Far more comfortable herethan ever I was outside.
I see my folliesnowsir. That's what makes me comfortable.'

Several gentlemen were much affected; and a third questioner
forcing himself to the frontinquired with extreme feeling: 'How
do you find the beef?'

'Thank yousir' replied Uriahglancing in the new direction of
this voice'it was tougher yesterday than I could wish; but it's
my duty to bear. I have committed folliesgentlemen' said Uriah
looking round with a meek smile'and I ought to bear the
consequences without repining.'
A murmurpartly of gratification at Twenty Seven's celestial state
of mindand partly of indignation against the Contractor who had
given him any cause of complaint (a note of which was immediately
made by Mr. Creakle)having subsidedTwenty Seven stood in the
midst of usas if he felt himself the principal object of merit in
a highly meritorious museum. That wethe neophytesmight have an
excess of light shining upon us all at onceorders were given to
let out Twenty Eight.

I had been so much astonished alreadythat I only felt a kind of
resigned wonder when Mr. Littimer walked forthreading a good
book!

'Twenty Eight' said a gentleman in spectacleswho had not yet
spoken'you complained last weekmy good fellowof the cocoa.
How has it been since?'

'I thank yousir' said Mr. Littimer'it has been better made.
If I might take the liberty of saying sosirI don't think the
milk which is boiled with it is quite genuine; but I am awaresir
that there is a great adulteration of milkin Londonand that the
article in a pure state is difficult to be obtained.'

It appeared to me that the gentleman in spectacles backed his
Twenty Eight against Mr. Creakle's Twenty Sevenfor each of them
took his own man in hand.

'What is your state of mindTwenty Eight?' said the questioner in
spectacles.

'I thank yousir' returned Mr. Littimer; 'I see my follies now
sir. I am a good deal troubled when I think of the sins of my
former companionssir; but I trust they may find forgiveness.'

'You are quite happy yourself?' said the questionernodding
encouragement.

'I am much obliged to yousir' returned Mr. Littimer. 'Perfectly
so.'

'Is there anything at all on your mind now?' said the questioner.
'If somention itTwenty Eight.'

'Sir' said Mr. Littimerwithout looking up'if my eyes have not
deceived methere is a gentleman present who was acquainted with


me in my former life. It may be profitable to that gentleman to
knowsirthat I attribute my past folliesentirely to having
lived a thoughtless life in the service of young men; and to having
allowed myself to be led by them into weaknesseswhich I had not
the strength to resist. I hope that gentleman will take warning
sirand will not be offended at my freedom. It is for his good.
I am conscious of my own past 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 eyeseach
with one handas if they had just come into church.

'This does you creditTwenty Eight' returned the questioner. 'I
should have expected it of you. Is there anything else?'

'Sir' returned Mr. Littimerslightly lifting up his eyebrowsbut
not his eyes'there was a young woman who fell into dissolute
coursesthat I endeavoured to savesirbut could not rescue. I
beg that gentlemanif he has it in his powerto inform that young
woman from me that I forgive her her bad conduct towards myself
and that I call her to repentance - if he will be so good.'

'I have no doubtTwenty Eight' returned the questioner'that the
gentleman you refer to feels very strongly - as we all must - what
you have so properly said. We will not detain you.'

'I thank yousir' said Mr. Littimer. 'GentlemenI wish you a
good dayand hoping you and your families will also see your
wickednessand amend!'

With thisNumber Twenty Eight retiredafter a glance between him
and Uriah; as if they were not altogether unknown to each other
through some medium of communication; and a murmur went round the
groupas his door shut upon himthat he was a most respectable
manand a beautiful case.

'NowTwenty Seven' said Mr. Creakleentering on a clear stage
with his man'is there anything that anyone can do for you? If
somention it.'

'I would umbly asksir' returned Uriahwith a jerk of his
malevolent head'for leave to write again to mother.'

'It shall certainly be granted' said Mr. Creakle.

'Thank yousir! I am anxious about mother. I am afraid she ain't
safe.'

Somebody incautiously askedwhat from? But there was a
scandalized whisper of 'Hush!'

'Immortally safesir' returned Uriahwrithing 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
everybodyif they got took upand was brought here.'

This sentiment gave unbounded satisfaction - greater satisfaction
I thinkthan anything that had passed yet.

'Before I come here' said Uriahstealing a look at usas if he
would have blighted the outer world to which we belongedif 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 - except here.'

'You are quite changed?' said Mr. Creakle.

'Oh dearyessir!' cried this hopeful penitent.

'You wouldn't relapseif you were going out?' asked somebody else.

'Oh de-ar nosir!'

'Well!' said Mr. Creakle'this is very gratifying. You have
addressed Mr. CopperfieldTwenty Seven. Do you wish to say
anything further to him?'


'You knew mea long time before I came here and was changedMr.
Copperfield' said Uriahlooking at me; and a more villainous look
I never saweven on his visage. 'You knew me whenin spite of my
folliesI was umble among them that was proudand meek among them
that was violent - you was violent to me yourselfMr. Copperfield.
Onceyou struck me a blow in the faceyou know.'


General commiseration. Several indignant glances directed at me.


'But I forgive youMr. Copperfield' said Uriahmaking 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 youand I hope you'll
curb your passions in future. I hope Mr. W. will repentand Miss
W.and all of that sinful lot. You've been visited with
afflictionand I hope it may do you good; but you'd better have
come here. Mr. W. had better have come hereand Miss W. too. The
best wish I could give youMr. Copperfieldand give all of you
gentlemenisthat you could be took up and brought here. When I
think of my past folliesand my present stateI am sure it would
be best for you. I pity all who ain't brought here!'


He sneaked back into his cellamidst 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 repentancethat I was fain
to ask what these two men had doneto 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 warderswhoI suspected from
certain latent indications in their facesknew pretty well what
all this stir was worth.


'Do you know' said Ias we walked along the passage'what felony
was Number Twenty Seven's last "folly"?'


The answer was that it was a Bank case.


'A fraud on the Bank of England?' I asked.
'Yessir. Fraudforgeryand conspiracy. He and some others.
He set the others on. It was a deep plot for a large sum.
Sentencetransportation for life. Twenty Seven was the knowingest
bird of the lotand had very nearly kept himself safe; but not
quite. The Bank was just able to put salt upon his tail - and only
just.'


'Do you know Twenty Eight's offence?'


'Twenty Eight' returned my informantspeaking throughout in a low
toneand looking over his shoulder as we walked along the passage



to guard himself from being overheardin such an unlawful
reference to these Immaculatesby Creakle and the rest; 'Twenty
Eight (also transportation) got a placeand 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 casefrom his being took by a dwarf.'

'A what?'

'A little woman. I have forgot her name?'

'Not Mowcher?'

'That's it! He had eluded pursuitand was going to America in a
flaxen wigand whiskersand such a complete disguise as never you
see in all your born days; when the little womanbeing in
Southamptonmet him walking along the street - picked him out with
her sharp eye in a moment - ran betwixt his legs to upset him - and
held on to him like grim Death.'

'Excellent Miss Mowcher!' cried I.

'You'd have said soif you had seen herstanding on a chair in
the witness-box at the trialas I did' said my friend. 'He cut
her face right openand 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 himin factthat the officers were
obliged to take 'em both together. She gave her evidence in the
gamest wayand was highly complimented by the Benchand 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 tooand 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. Creaklethat
Twenty Seven and Twenty Eight were perfectly consistent and
unchanged; that exactly what they were thenthey 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 didin the immediate service it would do
them when they were expatriated; in a wordthat it was a rotten
hollowpainfully suggestive piece of business altogether. We left
them to their system and themselvesand went home wondering.

'Perhaps it's a good thingTraddles' said I'to have an unsound
Hobby ridden hard; for it's the sooner ridden to death.'

'I hope so' replied Traddles.

CHAPTER 62
A LIGHT SHINES ON MY WAY

The year came round to Christmas-timeand I had been at home above
two months. I had seen Agnes frequently. However loud the general
voice might be in giving me encouragementand however fervent the
emotions and endeavours to which it roused meI heard her lightest
word of praise as I heard nothing else.

At least once a weekand sometimes oftenerI rode over thereand


passed the evening. I usually rode back at night; for the old
unhappy sense was always hovering about me now - most sorrowfully
when I left her - and I was glad to be up and outrather than
wandering over the past in weary wakefulness or miserable dreams.
I wore away the longest part of many wild sad nightsin those
rides; revivingas I wentthe thoughts that had occupied me in my
long absence.

Orif I were to say rather that I listened to the echoes of those
thoughtsI should better express the truth. They spoke to me from
afar off. I had put them at a distanceand accepted my inevitable
place. When I read to Agnes what I wrote; when I saw her listening
face; moved her to smiles or tears; and heard her cordial voice so
earnest on the shadowy events of that imaginative world in which I
lived; I thought what a fate mine might have been - but only
thought soas I had thought after I was married to Dorawhat I
could have wished my wife to be.

My duty to Agneswho loved me with a lovewhichif I disquieted
I wronged most selfishly and poorlyand could never restore; my
matured assurance that Iwho had worked out my own destinyand
won what I had impetuously set my heart onhad 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 mevaguely
to conceive a distant day when I might blamelessly avow it; when
all this should be over; when I could say 'Agnesso it was when I
came home; and now I am oldand I never have loved since!'

She did not once show me any change in herself. What she always
had been to meshe still was; wholly unaltered.

Between my aunt and me there had been somethingin this connexion
since the night of my returnwhich I cannot call a restraintor
an avoidance of the subjectso much as an implied understanding
that we thought of it togetherbut did not shape our thoughts into
words. Whenaccording to our old customwe sat before the fire
at nightwe often fell into this train; as naturallyand as
consciously to each otheras if we had unreservedly said so. But
we preserved an unbroken silence. I believed that she had reador
partly readmy thoughts that night; and that she fully
comprehended why I gave mine no more distinct expression.

This Christmas-time being comeand Agnes having reposed no new
confidence in mea doubt that had several times arisen in my mind

-whether she could have that perception of the true state of my
breastwhich restrained her with the apprehension of giving me
pain - began to oppress me heavily. If that were somy sacrifice
was nothing; my plainest obligation to her unfulfilled; and every
poor action I had shrunk fromI was hourly doing. I resolved to
set this right beyond all doubt; - if such a barrier were between
usto break it down at once with a determined hand.
It was - what lasting reason have I to remember it! - a cold
harshwinter day. There had been snowsome hours before; and it
laynot deepbut hard-frozen on the ground. Out at seabeyond
my windowthe wind blew ruggedly from the north. I had been
thinking of itsweeping over those mountain wastes of snow in
Switzerlandthen inaccessible to any human foot; and had been
speculating which was the lonelierthose solitary regionsor a
deserted ocean.

'Riding todayTrot?' said my auntputting 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 earsstanding before the door
thereas if he thought his stable preferable.'

My auntI may observeallowed my horse on the forbidden ground
but had not at all relented towards the donkeys.

'He will be fresh enoughpresently!' said I.

'The ride will do his master goodat all events' observed my
auntglancing at the papers on my table. 'Ahchildyou pass a
good many hours here! I never thoughtwhen I used to read books
what work it was to write them.'

'It's work enough to read themsometimes' I returned. 'As to the
writingit has its own charmsaunt.'

'Ah! I see!' said my aunt. 'Ambitionlove of approbation
sympathyand much moreI suppose? Well: go along with you!'

'Do you know anything more' said Istanding composedly before her

-she had patted me on the shoulderand sat down in my chair - 'of
that attachment of Agnes?'
She looked up in my face a little whilebefore replying:

'I think I doTrot.'

'Are you confirmed in your impression?' I inquired.

'I think I amTrot.'

She looked so steadfastly at me: with a kind of doubtor pityor
suspense in her affection: that I summoned the stronger
determination to show her a perfectly cheerful face.

'And what is moreTrot -' said my aunt.

'Yes!'

'I think Agnes is going to be married.'

'God bless her!' said Icheerfully.

'God bless her!' said my aunt'and her husband too!'

I echoed itparted from my auntand went lightly downstairs
mountedand rode away. There was greater reason than before to do
what I had resolved to do.

How well I recollect the wintry ride! The frozen particles of ice
brushed from the blades of grass by the windand borne across my
face; the hard clatter of the horse's hoofsbeating a tune upon
the ground; the stiff-tilled soil; the snowdriftlightly eddying
in the chalk-pit as the breeze ruffled it; the smoking team with
the waggon of old haystopping to breathe on the hill-topand
shaking their bells musically; the whitened slopes and sweeps of
Down-land lying against the dark skyas if they were drawn on a
huge slate!

I found Agnes alone. The little girls had gone to their own homes


nowand she was alone by the firereading. She put down her book
on seeing me come in; and having welcomed me as usualtook her
work-basket and sat in one of the old-fashioned windows.

I sat beside her on the window-seatand we talked of what I was
doingand when it would be doneand of the progress I had made
since my last visit. Agnes was very cheerful; and laughingly
predicted that I should soon become too famous to be talked toon
such subjects.

'So I make the most of the present timeyou see' said Agnes'and
talk to you while I may.'

As I looked at her beautiful faceobservant of her workshe
raised her mild clear eyesand saw that I was looking at her.

'You are thoughtful todayTrotwood!'

'Agnesshall I tell you what about? I came to tell you.'

She put aside her workas she was used to do when we were
seriously discussing anything; and gave me her whole attention.

'My dear Agnesdo you doubt my being true to you?'

'No!' she answeredwith a look of astonishment.

'Do you doubt my being what I always have been to you?'

'No!' she answeredas before.

'Do you remember that I tried to tell youwhen I came homewhat
a debt of gratitude I owed youdearest Agnesand how fervently I
felt towards you?'

'I remember it' she saidgently'very well.'

'You have a secret' said I. 'Let me share itAgnes.'

She cast down her eyesand trembled.

'I could hardly fail to knoweven if I had not heard - but from
other lips than yoursAgneswhich seems strange - that there is
someone 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 meas you say you canand as I know you maylet me be
your friendyour brotherin this matterof all others!'

With an appealingalmost a reproachfulglanceshe rose from the
window; and hurrying across the room as if without knowing where
put her hands before her faceand burst into such tears as smote
me to the heart.

And yet they awakened something in mebringing promise to my
heart. Without my knowing whythese tears allied themselves with
the quietly sad smile which was so fixed in my remembranceand
shook me more with hope than fear or sorrow.

'Agnes! Sister! Dearest! What have I done?'

'Let me go awayTrotwood. I am not well. I am not myself. I
will speak to you by and by - another time. I will write to you.
Don't speak to me now. Don't! don't!'


I sought to recollect what she had saidwhen I had spoken to her
on that former nightof her affection needing no return. It
seemed a very world that I must search through in a moment.
'AgnesI cannot bear to see you soand think that I have been the
cause. My dearest girldearer to me than anything in lifeif you
are unhappylet me share your unhappiness. If you are in need of
help or counsellet me try to give it to you. If you have indeed
a burden on your heartlet me try to lighten it. For whom do I
live nowAgnesif it is not for you!'

'Ohspare me! I am not myself! Another time!' was all I could
distinguish.

Was it a selfish error that was leading me away? Orhaving once
a clue to hopewas 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
Agneslet us not mistake each other after all these yearsand 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 protectorof your
own choosing; that I could notfrom my removed placebe a
contented witness of your joy; dismiss itfor I don't deserve it!
I have not suffered quite in vain. You have not taught me quite in
vain. There is no alloy of self in what I feel for you.'

She was quiet now. In a little timeshe turned her pale face
towards meand said in a low voicebroken here and therebut
very clear:

'I owe it to your pure friendship for meTrotwood - whichindeed
I do not doubt - to tell youyou are mistaken. I can do no more.
If I have sometimesin the course of yearswanted help and
counselthey have come to me. If I have sometimes been unhappy
the feeling has passed away. If I have ever had a burden on my
heartit has been lightened for me. If I have any secretit is

-no new one; and is - not what you suppose. I cannot reveal it
or divide it. It has long been mineand must remain mine.'
'Agnes! Stay! A moment!'

She was going awaybut I detained her. I clasped my arm about her
waist. 'In the course of years!' 'It is not a new one!' New
thoughts and hopes were whirling through my mindand all the
colours of my life were changing.

'Dearest Agnes! Whom I so respect and honour - whom I so devotedly
love! When I came here todayI thought that nothing could have
wrested this confession from me. I thought I could have kept it in
my bosom all our livestill we were old. ButAgnesif I have
indeed any new-born hope that I may ever call you something more
than Sisterwidely different from Sister! -'

Her tears fell fast; but they were not like those she had lately
shedand I saw my hope brighten in them.

'Agnes! Ever my guideand best support! If you had been more
mindful of yourselfand less of mewhen we grew up here together
I think my heedless fancy never would have wandered from you. But
you were so much better than Iso necessary to me in every boyish
hope and disappointmentthat to have you to confide inand rely
upon in everythingbecame a second naturesupplanting for the
time the first and greater one of loving you as I do!'


Still weepingbut not sadly - joyfully! And clasped in my arms as
she had never beenas I had thought she never was to be!

'When I loved Dora - fondlyAgnesas you know -'

'Yes!' she criedearnestly. 'I am glad to know it!'

'When I loved her - even thenmy love would have been incomplete
without your sympathy. I had itand it was perfected. And when
I lost herAgneswhat should I have been without youstill!'

Closer in my armsnearer to my hearther trembling hand upon my
shoulderher sweet eyes shining through her tearson mine!

'I went awaydear Agnesloving you. I stayed awayloving you.
I returned homeloving you!'

And nowI tried to tell her of the struggle I had hadand the
conclusion I had come to. I tried to lay my mind before her
trulyand 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 thereeven that dayin my fidelity to this. If she did
so love me (I said) that she could take me for her husbandshe
could do soon no deserving of mineexcept upon the truth of my
love for herand the trouble in which it had ripened to be what it
was; and hence it was that I revealed it. And OAgneseven out
of thy true eyesin that same timethe spirit of my child-wife
looked upon mesaying it was well; and winning methrough thee
to tenderest recollections of the Blossom that had withered in its
bloom!

'I am so blestTrotwood - my heart is so overcharged - but there
is one thing I must say.'

'Dearestwhat?'

She laid her gentle hands upon my shouldersand looked calmly in
my face.

'Do you knowyetwhat it is?'

'I am afraid to speculate on what it is. Tell memy dear.'

'I have loved you all my life!'

Owe were happywe 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 thusnever to be divided more!

We walkedthat winter eveningin 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 onand
looking up to themwe thanked our GOD for having guided us to this
tranquillity.

We stood together in the same old-fashioned window at nightwhen
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; andtoiling onI saw a ragged way-worn boyforsaken and
neglectedwho should come to call even the heart now beating
against minehis own.


It was nearly dinner-time next day when we appeared before my aunt.
She was up in my studyPeggotty said: which it was her pride to
keep in readiness and order for me. We found herin her
spectaclessitting by the fire.

'Goodness me!' said my auntpeering through the dusk'who's this
you're bringing home?'

'Agnes' said I.

As we had arranged to say nothing at firstmy aunt was not a
little discomfited. She darted a hopeful glance at mewhen I said
'Agnes'; but seeing that I looked as usualshe took off her
spectacles in despairand rubbed her nose with them.

She greeted Agnes heartilynevertheless; and we were soon in the
lighted parlour downstairsat dinner. My aunt put on her
spectacles twice or thriceto take another look at mebut as
often took them off againdisappointedand rubbed her nose with
them. Much to the discomfiture of Mr. Dickwho knew this to be a
bad symptom.

'By the byaunt' said Iafter dinner; 'I have been speaking to
Agnes about what you told me.'

'ThenTrot' said my auntturning scarlet'you did wrongand
broke your promise.'

'You are not angryauntI trust? I am sure you won't bewhen
you learn that Agnes is not unhappy in any attachment.'

'Stuff and nonsense!' said my aunt.

As my aunt appeared to be annoyedI thought the best way was to
cut her annoyance short. I took Agnes in my arm to the back of her
chairand we both leaned over her. My auntwith one clap of her
handsand one look through her spectaclesimmediately went into
hystericsfor 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 Peggottyand calling her a silly old creaturehugged
her with all her might. After thatshe hugged Mr. Dick (who was
highly honouredbut a good deal surprised); and after thattold
them why. Thenwe were all happy together.

I could not discover whether my auntin her last short
conversation with mehad fallen on a pious fraudor had really
mistaken the state of my mind. It was quite enoughshe saidthat
she had told me Agnes was going to be married; and that I now knew
better than anyone how true it was.

We were married within a fortnight. Traddles and Sophyand Doctor
and Mrs. Strongwere the only guests at our quiet wedding. We
left them full of joy; and drove away together. Clasped in my
embraceI held the source of every worthy aspiration I had ever
had; the centre of myselfthe circle of my lifemy ownmy wife;
my love of whom was founded on a rock!

'Dearest husband!' said Agnes. 'Now that I may call you by that
nameI have one thing more to tell you.'

'Let me hear itlove.'


'It grows out of the night when Dora died. She sent you for me.'

'She did.'

'She told me that she left me something. Can you think what it
was?'

I believed I could. I drew the wife who had so long loved me
closer to my side.

'She told me that she made a last request to meand left me a last
charge.'

'And it was -'

'That only I would occupy this vacant place.'

And Agnes laid her head upon my breastand wept; and I wept with
herthough we were so happy.

CHAPTER 63
A VISITOR

What I have purposed to record is nearly finished; but there is yet
an incident conspicuous in my memoryon which it often rests with
delightand without which one thread in the web I have spun would
have a ravelled end.

I had advanced in fame and fortunemy domestic joy was perfectI
had been married ten happy years. Agnes and I were sitting by the
firein our house in Londonone night in springand three of our
children were playing in the roomwhen I was told that a stranger
wished to see me.

He had been asked if he came on businessand had answered No; he
had come for the pleasure of seeing meand had come a long way.
He was an old manmy servant saidand looked like a farmer.

As this sounded mysterious to the childrenand moreover was like
the beginning of a favourite story Agnes used to tell them
introductory to the arrival of a wicked old Fairy in a cloak who
hated everybodyit produced some commotion. One of our boys laid
his head in his mother's lap to be out of harm's wayand little
Agnes (our eldest child) left her doll in a chair to represent her
and thrust out her little heap of golden curls from between the
window-curtainsto see what happened next.

'Let him come in here!' said I.

There soon appearedpausing in the dark doorway as he entereda
halegrey-haired old man. Little Agnesattracted by his looks
had run to bring him inand I had not yet clearly seen his face
when my wifestarting upcried out to mein a pleased and
agitated voicethat it was Mr. Peggotty!

It WAS Mr. Peggotty. An old man nowbut in a ruddyhearty
strong old age. When our first emotion was overand he sat before
the fire with the children on his kneesand the blaze shining on
his facehe lookedto meas vigorous and robustwithal as
handsomean old manas ever I had seen.


'Mas'r Davy' said he. And the old name in the old tone fell so
naturally on my ear! 'Mas'r Davy'tis a joyful hour as I see you
once more'long with your own trew wife!'

'A joyful hour indeedold friend!' cried I.

'And these heer pretty ones' said Mr. Peggotty. 'To look at these
heer flowers! WhyMas'r Davyyou was but the heighth of the
littlest of thesewhen I first see you! When Em'ly warn't no
biggerand 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 youtell me where to send for your
luggage (is the old black bag among itthat went so farI
wonder!)and thenover a glass of Yarmouth grogwe will have the
tidings of ten years!'
'Are you alone?' asked Agnes.

'Yesma'am' he saidkissing her hand'quite alone.'

We sat him between usnot knowing how to give him welcome enough;
and as I began to listen to his old familiar voiceI could have
fancied he was still pursuing his long journey in search of his
darling niece.

'It's a mort of water' said Mr. Peggotty'fur to come acrossand
on'y stay a matter of fower weeks. But water ('specially when 'tis
salt) comes nat'ral to me; and friends is dearand I am heer. -
Which is verse' said Mr. Peggottysurprised to find it out
'though I hadn't such intentions.'

'Are you going back those many thousand milesso soon?' asked
Agnes.

'Yesma'am' he returned. 'I giv the promise to Em'lyafore I
come away. You seeI doen't grow younger as the years comes
roundand if I hadn't sailed as 'twasmost like I shouldn't never
have done 't. And it's allus been on my mindas I must come and
see Mas'r Davy and your own sweet blooming selfin your wedded
happinessafore I got to be too old.'

He looked at usas if he could never feast his eyes on us
sufficiently. Agnes laughingly put back some scattered locks of
his grey hairthat he might see us better.

'And now tell us' said I'everything relating to your fortunes.'

'Our fortunsMas'r Davy' he rejoined'is soon told. We haven't
fared nohowsbut fared to thrive. We've allus thrived. We've
worked as we ought to 'tand maybe we lived a leetle hard at first
or sobut we have allus thrived. What with sheep-farmingand
what with stock-farmingand what with one thing and what with
t'otherwe are as well to doas well could be. Theer's been
kiender a blessing fell upon us' said Mr. Peggottyreverentially
inclining his head'and we've done nowt but prosper. That isin
the long run. If not yesterdaywhy then today. If not todaywhy
then tomorrow.'

'And Emily?' said Agnes and Iboth together.

'Em'ly' said he'arter you left herma'am - and I never heerd


her saying of her prayers at nightt'other side the canvas screen
when we was settled in the Bushbut what I heerd your name - and
arter she and me lost sight of Mas'r Davythat theer shining
sundown - was that lowat firstthatif she had know'd then what
Mas'r Davy kep from us so kind and thowtful'tis my opinion she'd
have drooped away. But theer was some poor folks aboard as had
illness among 'emand she took care of them; and theer was the
children in our companyand she took care of them; and so she got
to be busyand to be doing goodand 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 placebut among
the beautifullest treesand with the roses a-covering our Beein to
the roof. Theer come along one daywhen I was out a-working on
the landa traveller from our own Norfolk or Suffolk in England (I
doen't rightly mind which)and of course we took him inand giv
him to eat and drinkand made him welcome. We all do thatall
the colony over. He'd got an old newspaper with himand some
other account in print of the storm. That's how she know'd it.
When I came home at nightI found she know'd it.'

He dropped his voice as he said these wordsand the gravity I so
well remembered overspread his face.

'Did it change her much?' we asked.

'Ayefor a good long time' he saidshaking 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 likeand
minded of itand come through. I wonder' he said thoughtfully
'if you could see my Em'ly nowMas'r Davywhether you'd know
her!'

'Is she so altered?' I inquired.

'I doen't know. I see her ev'ry dayand doen't know; But
odd-timesI have thowt so. A slight figure' said Mr. Peggotty
looking at the fire'kiender worn; softsorrowfulblue eyes; a
delicate face; a pritty headleaning a little down; a quiet voice
and way - timid a'most. That's Em'ly!'

We silently observed him as he satstill looking at the fire.

'Some thinks' he said'as her affection was ill-bestowed; some
as her marriage was broken off by death. No one knows how 'tis.
She might have married wella mort of timesbut, uncle,she
says to methat's gone for ever.Cheerful along with me; retired
when others is by; fond of going any distance fur to teach a child
or fur to tend a sick personor fur to do some kindness tow'rds a
young girl's wedding (and she's done a manybut has never seen
one); fondly loving of her uncle; patient; liked by young and old;
sowt out by all that has any trouble. That's Em'ly!'

He drew his hand across his faceand with a half-suppressed sigh
looked up from the fire.

'Is Martha with you yet?' I asked.

'Martha' he replied'got marriedMas'r Davyin the second year.
A young mana farm-laboureras come by us on his way to market
with his mas'r's drays - a journey of over five hundred miletheer
and back - made offers fur to take her fur his wife (wives is very


scarce theer)and then to set up fur their two selves in the Bush.
She spoke to me fur to tell him her trew story. I did. They was
marriedand they live fower hundred mile away from any voices but
their own and the singing birds.'

'Mrs. Gummidge?' I suggested.

It was a pleasant key to touchfor Mr. Peggotty suddenly burst
into a roar of laughterand rubbed his hands up and down his legs
as he had been accustomed to do when he enjoyed himself in the
long-shipwrecked boat.

'Would you believe it!' he said. 'Whysomeun even made offer fur
to marry her! If a ship's cook that was turning settlerMas'r
Davydidn't make offers fur to marry Missis GummidgeI'm Gormed

-and I can't say no fairer than that!'
I never saw Agnes laugh so. This sudden ecstasy on the part of Mr.
Peggotty was so delightful to herthat she could not leave off
laughing; and the more she laughed the more she made me laughand
the greater Mr. Peggotty's ecstasy becameand the more he rubbed
his legs.


'And what did Mrs. Gummidge say?' I askedwhen I was grave enough.


'If you'll believe me' returned Mr. Peggotty'Missis Gummidge
'stead of saying "thank youI'm much obleeged to youI ain't
a-going fur to change my condition at my time of life up'd with
a bucket as was standing by, and laid it over that theer ship's
cook's head 'till he sung out fur help, and I went in and reskied
of him.'


Mr. Peggotty burst into a great roar of laughter, and Agnes and I
both kept him company.


'But I must say this, for the good creetur,' he resumed, wiping his
face, when we were quite exhausted; 'she has been all she said
she'd be to us, and more. She's the willingest, the trewest, the
honestest-helping woman, Mas'r Davy, as ever draw'd the breath of
life. I have never know'd her to be lone and lorn, for a single
minute, not even when the colony was all afore us, and we was new
to it. And 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 - even to Traddles's bill, you
remember my dear Agnes - and therefore we may take it for granted
that he is doing well. But what is the latest news of him?'


Mr. Peggotty, with a smile, put his hand in his breast-pocket, and
produced a flat-folded, paper parcel, from which he took out, with
much care, a little odd-looking newspaper.


'You are to 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 Harbour, wheer theer's what we call a town.'


'Mr. Micawber was in the Bush near you?' said I.


'Bless you, yes,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'and turned to with a will.
I never wish to meet a better gen'l'man for turning to with a will.
I've seen that theer bald head of his a perspiring 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 newspaper, where
I read aloud as follows, from the Port Middlebay Times:

'The public dinner to our distinguished fellow-colonist and
townsman, WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, Port Middlebay District
Magistrate, came off yesterday in the large room of the Hotel,
which was crowded to suffocation. It is estimated that not fewer
than forty-seven persons must have been accommodated with dinner at
one time, exclusive of the company in the passage and on the
stairs. The beauty, fashion, and exclusiveness of Port Middlebay,
flocked to do honour to one so deservedly esteemed, so highly
talented, and so widely popular. Doctor Mell (of Colonial
Salem-House Grammar School, Port Middlebay) presided, and on his
right sat the distinguished guest. After the removal of the cloth,
and the singing of Non Nobis (beautifully executed, and in which we
were at no loss to distinguish the bell-like notes of that gifted
amateur, WILKINS MICAWBER, ESQUIRE, JUNIOR), the usual loyal and
patriotic toasts were severally given and rapturously received.
Doctor Mell, in a speech replete with feeling, then proposed Our
distinguished Guestthe ornament of our town. May he never leave
us but to better himselfand may his success among us be such as
to render his bettering himself impossible!" The cheering with
which the toast was received defies description. Again and again
it rose and felllike the waves of ocean. At length all was
hushedand WILKINS MICAWBERESQUIREpresented himself to return
thanks. Far be it from usin the present comparatively imperfect
state of the resources of our establishmentto endeavour to follow
our distinguished townsman through the smoothly-flowing periods of
his polished and highly-ornate address! Suffice it to observethat
it was a masterpiece of eloquence; and that those passages in which
he more particularly traced his own successful career to its
sourceand warned the younger portion of his auditory from the
shoals of ever incurring pecuniary liabilities which they were
unable to liquidatebrought a tear into the manliest eye present.
The remaining toasts were DOCTOR MELL; Mrs. MICAWBER (who
gracefully bowed her acknowledgements from the side-doorwhere a
galaxy of beauty was elevated on chairsat once to witness and
adorn the gratifying scene)Mrs. RIDGER BEGS (late Miss Micawber);
Mrs. MELL; WILKINS MICAWBERESQUIREJUNIOR (who convulsed the
assembly by humorously remarking that he found himself unable to
return thanks in a speechbut would do sowith their permission
in a song); Mrs. MICAWBER'S FAMILY (well knownit is needless to
remarkin 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 TERPSICHOREwho disported
themselves until Sol gave warning for departureWilkins Micawber
EsquireJuniorand the lovely and accomplished Miss Helena
fourth daughter of Doctor Mellwere particularly remarkable.'

I was looking back to the name of Doctor Mellpleased to have
discoveredin these happier circumstancesMr. Mellformerly poor
pinched usher to my Middlesex magistratewhen Mr. Peggotty
pointing to another part of the papermy eyes rested on my own
nameand I read thus:

' TO DAVID COPPERFIELDESQUIRE

'THE EMINENT AUTHOR.


'My Dear Sir

'Years have elapsedsince I had an opportunity of ocularly
perusing the lineamentsnow familiar to the imaginations of a
considerable portion of the civilized world.

'Butmy dear Sirthough estranged (by the force of circumstances
over which I have had no control) from the personal society of the
friend and companion of my youthI 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 cannotthereforeallow of the departure from this place of an
individual whom we mutually respect and esteemwithoutmy dear
Sirtaking this public opportunity of thanking youon my own
behalfandI may undertake to addon that of the whole of the
Inhabitants of Port Middlebayfor the gratification of which you
are the ministering agent.

'Go onmy dear Sir! You are not unknown hereyou are not
unappreciated. Though "remote"we are neither "unfriended"
melancholynor (I may add) "slow". Go onmy dear Sirin your
Eagle course! The inhabitants of Port Middlebay may at least aspire
to watch itwith delightwith entertainmentwith instruction!

'Among the eyes elevated towards you from this portion of the
globewill ever be foundwhile it has light and life

'The
'Eye
'Appertaining to

'WILKINS MICAWBER
'Magistrate.'

I foundon glancing at the remaining contents of the newspaper
that Mr. Micawber was a diligent and esteemed correspondent of that
journal. There was another letter from him in the same paper
touching a bridge; there was an advertisement of a collection of
similar letters by himto be shortly republishedin a neat
volume'with considerable additions'; andunless I am very much
mistakenthe Leading Article was his also.

We talked much of Mr. Micawberon many other evenings while Mr.
Peggotty remained with us. He lived with us during the whole term
of his stay- whichI thinkwas something less than a monthand
his sister and my aunt came to London to see him. Agnes and I
parted from him aboard-shipwhen he sailed; and we shall never
part from him moreon earth.

But before he lefthe went with me to Yarmouthto 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 requestI saw
him stoopand gather a tuft of grass from the grave and a little
earth.

'For Em'ly' he saidas he put it in his breast. 'I promised
Mas'r Davy.'


CHAPTER 64
A LAST RETROSPECT

And now my written story ends. I look backonce more - for the
last time - before I close these leaves.

I see myselfwith Agnes at my sidejourneying along the road of
life. I see our children and our friends around us; and I hear the
roar of many voicesnot 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 auntin stronger spectaclesan old woman of four-score
years and morebut upright yetand a steady walker of six miles
at a stretch in winter weather.

Always with herhere comes Peggottymy good old nurselikewise
in spectaclesaccustomed to do needle-work at night very close to
the lampbut never sitting down to it without a bit of wax candle
a yard-measure in a little houseand a work-box with a picture of
St. Paul's upon the lid.

The cheeks and arms of Peggottyso hard and red in my childish
dayswhen I wondered why the birds didn't peck her in preference
to applesare shrivelled now; and her eyesthat used to darken
their whole neighbourhood in her faceare fainter (though they
glitter still); but her rough forefingerwhich I once associated
with a pocket nutmeg-grateris just the sameand when I see my
least child catching at it as it totters from my aunt to herI
think of our little parlour at homewhen I could scarcely walk.
My aunt's old disappointment is set rightnow. She is godmother
to a real living Betsey Trotwood; and Dora (the next in order) says
she spoils her.

There is something bulky in Peggotty's pocket. It is nothing
smaller than the Crocodile Bookwhich is in rather a dilapidated
condition by this timewith divers of the leaves torn and stitched
acrossbut which Peggotty exhibits to the children as a precious
relic. I find it very curious to see my own infant facelooking
up at me from the Crocodile stories; and to be reminded by it of my
old acquaintance Brooks of Sheffield.

Among my boysthis summer holiday timeI see an old man making
giant kitesand gazing at them in the airwith a delight for
which there are no words. He greets me rapturouslyand whispers
with many nods and winks'Trotwoodyou will be glad to hear that
I shall finish the Memorial when I have nothing else to doand
that your aunt's the most extraordinary woman in the worldsir!'

Who is this bent ladysupporting herself by a stickand showing
me a countenance in which there are some traces of old pride and
beautyfeebly contending with a querulousimbecilefretful
wandering of the mind? She is in a garden; and near her stands a
sharpdarkwithered womanwith a white scar on her lip. Let me
hear what they say.

'RosaI have forgotten this gentleman's name.'

Rosa bends over herand calls to her'Mr. Copperfield.'


'I am glad to see yousir. I am sorry to observe you are in
mourning. I hope Time will be good to you.'

Her impatient attendant scolds hertells her I am not in mourning
bids her look againtries to rouse her.

'You have seen my sonsir' says the elder lady. 'Are you
reconciled?'

Looking fixedly at meshe puts her hand to her foreheadand
moans. Suddenlyshe criesin a terrible voice'Rosacome to
me. He is dead!' Rosa kneeling at her feetby turns caresses her
and quarrels with her; now fiercely telling her'I loved him
better than you ever did!'- now soothing her to sleep on her
breastlike a sick child. Thus I leave them; thus I always find
them; thus they wear their time awayfrom year to year.

What ship comes sailing home from Indiaand what English lady is
thismarried to a growling old Scotch Croesus with great flaps of
ears? Can this be Julia Mills?

Indeed it is Julia Millspeevish and finewith a black man to
carry cards and letters to her on a golden salverand a
copper-coloured woman in linenwith a bright handkerchief round
her headto 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 Croesuswho is a sort of
yellow bear with a tanned hide. Julia is steeped in money to the
throatand talks and thinks of nothing else. I liked her better
in the Desert of Sahara.

Or perhaps this IS the Desert of Sahara! Forthough Julia has a
stately houseand mighty companyand sumptuous dinners every day
I see no green growth near her; nothing that can ever come to fruit
or flower. What Julia calls 'society'I see; among it Mr. Jack
Maldonfrom his Patent Placesneering at the hand that gave it
himand speaking to me of the Doctor as 'so charmingly antique'.
But when society is the name for such hollow gentlemen and ladies
Juliaand when its breeding is professed indifference to
everything that can advance or can retard mankindI think we must
have lost ourselves in that same Desert of Saharaand had better
find the way out.

And lothe Doctoralways our good friendlabouring at his
Dictionary (somewhere about the letter D)and happy in his home
and wife. Also the Old Soldieron a considerably reduced footing
and by no means so influential as in days of yore!

Working at his chambers in the Templewith a busy aspectand his
hair (where he is not bald) made more rebellious than ever by the
constant friction of his lawyer's-wigI comein a later time
upon my dear old Traddles. His table is covered with thick piles
of papers; and I sayas I look around me:

'If Sophy were your clerknowTraddlesshe would have enough to
do!'

'You may say thatmy dear Copperfield! But those were capital
daystooin 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 -'
'Whyyou know you will be.'

'Wellmy dear CopperfieldWHEN I am oneI shall tell the story
as I said I would.'

We walk awayarm in arm. I am going to have a family dinner with
Traddles. It is Sophy's birthday; andon our roadTraddles
discourses to me of the good fortune he has enjoyed.

'I really have been ablemy dear Copperfieldto do all that I had
most at heart. There's the Reverend Horace promoted to that living
at four hundred and fifty pounds a year; there are our two boys
receiving the very best educationand distinguishing themselves as
steady scholars and good fellows; there are three of the girls
married very comfortably; there 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 -' 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. Howevernow we have got
her safe at our houseand got rid of himwe must cheer her up
again.'

Traddles's house is one of the very houses - or it easily may have
been - which he and Sophy used to parcel outin 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 roomsreserving the best bedrooms
for the Beauty and the girls. There is no room to spare in the
house; for more of 'the girls' are hereand always are hereby
some accident or otherthan I know how to count. Herewhen we go
inis a crowd of themrunning down to the doorand handing
Traddles about to be kisseduntil he is out of breath. Here
established in perpetuityis the poor Beautya widow with a
little girl; hereat dinner on Sophy's birthdayare the three
married girls with their three husbandsand one of the husband's
brothersand another husband's cousinand another husband's
sisterwho appears to me to be engaged to the cousin. Traddles
exactly the same simpleunaffected fellow as he ever wassits at
the foot of the large table like a Patriarch; and Sophy beams upon
himfrom the headacross a cheerful space that is certainly not
glittering with Britannia metal.

And nowas I close my tasksubduing my desire to linger yet
these faces fade away. But one faceshining on me like a Heavenly
light by which I see all other objectsis above them and beyond
them all. And that remains.

I turn my headand see itin its beautiful serenitybeside me.

My lamp burns lowand I have written far into the night; but the
dear presencewithout which I were nothingbears me company.

O AgnesO my soulso may thy face be by me when I close my life
indeed; so may Iwhen realities are melting from melike the
shadows which I now dismissstill find thee near mepointing
upward!