prompt:
Chapter: At last, an answer came from the two old ladies. They presented their
compliments to Mr. Copperfield, and informed him that they had given his
letter their best consideration, 'with a view to the happiness of
both parties'--which I thought rather an alarming expression, not
only because of the use they had made of it in relation to the family
difference before-mentioned, but because I had (and have all my life)
observed that conventional phrases are a sort of fireworks, easily let
off, and liable to take a great variety of shapes and colours not at
all suggested by their original form. The Misses Spenlow added that they
begged to forbear expressing, 'through the medium of correspondence', an
opinion on the subject of Mr. Copperfield's communication; but that if
Mr. Copperfield would do them the favour to call, upon a certain day
(accompanied, if he thought proper, by a confidential friend), they
would be happy to hold some conversation on the subject.

To this favour, Mr. Copperfield immediately replied, with his respectful
compliments, that he would have the honour of waiting on the Misses
Spenlow, at the time appointed; accompanied, in accordance with their
kind permission, by his friend Mr. Thomas Traddles of the Inner Temple.
Having dispatched which missive, Mr. Copperfield fell into a condition
of strong nervous agitation; and so remained until the day arrived.

It was a great augmentation of my uneasiness to be bereaved, at this
eventful crisis, of the inestimable services of Miss Mills. But Mr.
Mills, who was always doing something or other to annoy me--or I felt
as if he were, which was the same thing--had brought his conduct to a
climax, by taking it into his head that he would go to India. Why should
he go to India, except to harass me? To be sure he had nothing to do
with any other part of the world, and had a good deal to do with that
part; being entirely in the India trade, whatever that was (I had
floating dreams myself concerning golden shawls and elephants' teeth);
having been at Calcutta in his youth; and designing now to go out there
again, in the capacity of resident partner. But this was nothing to me.
However, it was so much to him that for India he was bound, and
Julia with him; and Julia went into the country to take leave of
her relations; and the house was put into a perfect suit of bills,
announcing that it was to be let or sold, and that the furniture (Mangle
and all) was to be taken at a valuation. So, here was another earthquake
of which I became the sport, before I had recovered from the shock of
its predecessor!

I was in several minds how to dress myself on the important day; being
divided between my desire to appear to advantage, and my apprehensions
of putting on anything that might impair my severely practical character
in the eyes of the Misses Spenlow. I endeavoured to hit a happy medium
between these two extremes; my aunt approved the result; and Mr. Dick
threw one of his shoes after Traddles and me, for luck, as we went
downstairs.

Excellent fellow as I knew Traddles to be, and warmly attached to him as
I was, I could not help wishing, on that delicate occasion, that he had
never contracted the habit of brushing his hair so very upright. It
gave him a surprised look--not to say a hearth-broomy kind of
expression--which, my apprehensions whispered, might be fatal to us.

I took the liberty of mentioning it to Traddles, as we were walking to
Putney; and saying that if he WOULD smooth it down a little--

'My dear Copperfield,' said Traddles, lifting off his hat, and rubbing
his hair all kinds of ways, 'nothing would give me greater pleasure. But
it won't.'

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

'No,' said Traddles. 'Nothing will induce it. If I was to carry a
half-hundred-weight upon it, all the way to Putney, it would be up again
the moment the weight was taken off. You have no idea what obstinate
hair mine is, Copperfield. I am quite a fretful porcupine.'

I was a little disappointed, I must confess, but thoroughly charmed by
his good-nature too. I told him how I esteemed his good-nature; and said
that his hair must have taken all the obstinacy out of his character,
for he had none.

'Oh!' returned Traddles, laughing. 'I assure you, it's quite an old
story, my unfortunate hair. My uncle's wife couldn't bear it. She said
it exasperated her. It stood very much in my way, too, when I first fell
in love with Sophy. Very much!'

'Did she object to it?'

'SHE didn't,' rejoined Traddles; 'but her eldest sister--the one that's
the Beauty--quite made game of it, I understand. In fact, all the
sisters laugh at it.'

'Agreeable!' said I.

'Yes,' returned Traddles with perfect innocence, 'it's a joke for us.
They pretend that Sophy has a lock of it in her desk, and is obliged to
shut it in a clasped book, to keep it down. We laugh about it.'

'By the by, my dear Traddles,' said I, 'your experience may suggest
something to me. When you became engaged to the young lady whom you have
just mentioned, did you make a regular proposal to her family? Was there
anything like--what we are going through today, for instance?' I added,
nervously.

'Why,' replied Traddles, on whose attentive face a thoughtful shade had
stolen, 'it was rather a painful transaction, Copperfield, in my case.
You see, Sophy being of so much use in the family, none of them could
endure the thought of her ever being married. Indeed, they had quite
settled among themselves that she never was to be married, and they
called her the old maid. Accordingly, when I mentioned it, with the
greatest precaution, to Mrs. Crewler--'

'The mama?' said I.

'The mama,' said Traddles--'Reverend Horace Crewler--when I mentioned it
with every possible precaution to Mrs. Crewler, the effect upon her was
such that she gave a scream and became insensible. I couldn't approach
the subject again, for months.'

'You did at last?' said I.

'Well, the Reverend Horace did,' said Traddles. 'He is an excellent man,
most exemplary in every way; and he pointed out to her that she ought,
as a Christian, to reconcile herself to the sacrifice (especially as it
was so uncertain), and to bear no uncharitable feeling towards me. As to
myself, Copperfield, I give you my word, I felt a perfect bird of prey
towards the family.'

'The sisters took your part, I hope, Traddles?'

'Why, I can't say they did,' he returned. 'When we had comparatively
reconciled Mrs. Crewler to it, we had to break it to Sarah. You
recollect my mentioning Sarah, as the one that has something the matter
with her spine?'

'Perfectly!'

'She clenched both her hands,' said Traddles, looking at me in dismay;
'shut her eyes; turned lead-colour; became perfectly stiff; and
took nothing for two days but toast-and-water, administered with a
tea-spoon.'

'What a very unpleasant girl, Traddles!' I remarked.

'Oh, I beg your pardon, Copperfield!' said Traddles. 'She is a very
charming girl, but she has a great deal of feeling. In fact, they all
have. Sophy told me afterwards, that the self-reproach she underwent
while she was in attendance upon Sarah, no words could describe. I know
it must have been severe, by my own feelings, Copperfield; which were
like a criminal's. After Sarah was restored, we still had to break it
to the other eight; and it produced various effects upon them of a most
pathetic nature. The two little ones, whom Sophy educates, have only
just left off de-testing me.'

'At any rate, they are all reconciled to it now, I hope?' said I.

'Ye-yes, I should say they were, on the whole, resigned to it,' said
Traddles, doubtfully. 'The fact is, we avoid mentioning the subject;
and my unsettled prospects and indifferent circumstances are a great
consolation to them. There will be a deplorable scene, whenever we
are married. It will be much more like a funeral, than a wedding. And
they'll all hate me for taking her away!'

His honest face, as he looked at me with a serio-comic shake of his
head, impresses me more in the remembrance than it did in the reality,
for I was by this time in a state of such excessive trepidation
and wandering of mind, as to be quite unable to fix my attention on
anything. On our approaching the house where the Misses Spenlow lived,
I was at such a discount in respect of my personal looks and presence of
mind, that Traddles proposed a gentle stimulant in the form of a glass
of ale. This having been administered at a neighbouring public-house, he
conducted me, with tottering steps, to the Misses Spenlow's door.

I had a vague sensation of being, as it were, on view, when the maid
opened it; and of wavering, somehow, across a hall with a weather-glass
in it, into a quiet little drawing-room on the ground-floor, commanding
a neat garden. Also of sitting down here, on a sofa, and seeing
Traddles's hair start up, now his hat was removed, like one of those
obtrusive little figures made of springs, that fly out of fictitious
snuff-boxes when the lid is taken off. Also of hearing an old-fashioned
clock ticking away on the chimney-piece, and trying to make it keep time
to the jerking of my heart,--which it wouldn't. Also of looking round
the room for any sign of Dora, and seeing none. Also of thinking that
Jip once barked in the distance, and was instantly choked by somebody.
Ultimately I found myself backing Traddles into the fireplace, and
bowing in great confusion to two dry little elderly ladies, dressed in
black, and each looking wonderfully like a preparation in chip or tan of
the late Mr. Spenlow.

'Pray,' said one of the two little ladies, 'be seated.'

When I had done tumbling over Traddles, and had sat upon something which
was not a cat--my first seat was--I so far recovered my sight, as to
perceive that Mr. Spenlow had evidently been the youngest of the
family; that there was a disparity of six or eight years between the
two sisters; and that the younger appeared to be the manager of the
conference, inasmuch as she had my letter in her hand--so familiar as
it looked to me, and yet so odd!--and was referring to it through an
eye-glass. They were dressed alike, but this sister wore her dress with
a more youthful air than the other; and perhaps had a trifle more frill,
or tucker, or brooch, or bracelet, or some little thing of that kind,
which made her look more lively. They were both upright in their
carriage, formal, precise, composed, and quiet. The sister who had
not my letter, had her arms crossed on her breast, and resting on each
other, like an Idol.

'Mr. Copperfield, I believe,' said the sister who had got my letter,
addressing herself to Traddles.

This was a frightful beginning. Traddles had to indicate that I was Mr.
Copperfield, and I had to lay claim to myself, and they had to divest
themselves of a preconceived opinion that Traddles was Mr. Copperfield,
and altogether we were in a nice condition. To improve it, we all
distinctly heard Jip give two short barks, and receive another choke.

'Mr. Copperfield!' said the sister with the letter.

I did something--bowed, I suppose--and was all attention, when the other
sister struck in.

'My sister Lavinia,' said she 'being conversant with matters of this
nature, will state what we consider most calculated to promote the
happiness of both parties.'

I discovered afterwards that Miss Lavinia was an authority in affairs
of the heart, by reason of there having anciently existed a certain Mr.
Pidger, who played short whist, and was supposed to have been enamoured
of her. My private opinion is, that this was entirely a gratuitous
assumption, and that Pidger was altogether innocent of any such
sentiments--to which he had never given any sort of expression that
I could ever hear of. Both Miss Lavinia and Miss Clarissa had a
superstition, however, that he would have declared his passion, if he
had not been cut short in his youth (at about sixty) by over-drinking
his constitution, and over-doing an attempt to set it right again by
swilling Bath water. They had a lurking suspicion even, that he died of
secret love; though I must say there was a picture of him in the house
with a damask nose, which concealment did not appear to have ever preyed
upon.

'We will not,' said Miss Lavinia, 'enter on the past history of this
matter. Our poor brother Francis's death has cancelled that.'

'We had not,' said Miss Clarissa, 'been in the habit of frequent
association with our brother Francis; but there was no decided division
or disunion between us. Francis took his road; we took ours. We
considered it conducive to the happiness of all parties that it should
be so. And it was so.'

Each of the sisters leaned a little forward to speak, shook her head
after speaking, and became upright again when silent. Miss Clarissa
never moved her arms. She sometimes played tunes upon them with her
fingers--minuets and marches I should think--but never moved them.

'Our niece's position, or supposed position, is much changed by our
brother Francis's death,' said Miss Lavinia; 'and therefore we consider
our brother's opinions as regarded her position as being changed too. We
have no reason to doubt, Mr. Copperfield, that you are a young gentleman
possessed of good qualities and honourable character; or that you have
an affection--or are fully persuaded that you have an affection--for our
niece.'

I replied, as I usually did whenever I had a chance, that nobody had
ever loved anybody else as I loved Dora. Traddles came to my assistance
with a confirmatory murmur.

Miss Lavinia was going on to make some rejoinder, when Miss Clarissa,
who appeared to be incessantly beset by a desire to refer to her brother
Francis, struck in again:

'If Dora's mama,' she said, 'when she married our brother Francis, had
at once said that there was not room for the family at the dinner-table,
it would have been better for the happiness of all parties.'

'Sister Clarissa,' said Miss Lavinia. 'Perhaps we needn't mind that
now.'

'Sister Lavinia,' said Miss Clarissa, 'it belongs to the subject. With
your branch of the subject, on which alone you are competent to speak, I
should not think of interfering. On this branch of the subject I have a
voice and an opinion. It would have been better for the happiness of
all parties, if Dora's mama, when she married our brother Francis, had
mentioned plainly what her intentions were. We should then have known
what we had to expect. We should have said "Pray do not invite us,
at any time"; and all possibility of misunderstanding would have been
avoided.'

When Miss Clarissa had shaken her head, Miss Lavinia resumed: again
referring to my letter through her eye-glass. They both had little
bright round twinkling eyes, by the way, which were like birds' eyes.
They were not unlike birds, altogether; having a sharp, brisk, sudden
manner, and a little short, spruce way of adjusting themselves, like
canaries.

Miss Lavinia, as I have said, resumed:

'You ask permission of my sister Clarissa and myself, Mr. Copperfield,
to visit here, as the accepted suitor of our niece.'

'If our brother Francis,' said Miss Clarissa, breaking out again, if I
may call anything so calm a breaking out, 'wished to surround himself
with an atmosphere of Doctors' Commons, and of Doctors' Commons only,
what right or desire had we to object? None, I am sure. We have ever
been far from wishing to obtrude ourselves on anyone. But why not say
so? Let our brother Francis and his wife have their society. Let
my sister Lavinia and myself have our society. We can find it for
ourselves, I hope.'

As this appeared to be addressed to Traddles and me, both Traddles and
I made some sort of reply. Traddles was inaudible. I think I observed,
myself, that it was highly creditable to all concerned. I don't in the
least know what I meant.

'Sister Lavinia,' said Miss Clarissa, having now relieved her mind, 'you
can go on, my dear.'

Miss Lavinia proceeded:

'Mr. Copperfield, my sister Clarissa and I have been very careful
indeed in considering this letter; and we have not considered it without
finally showing it to our niece, and discussing it with our niece. We
have no doubt that you think you like her very much.'

'Think, ma'am,' I rapturously began, 'oh!--'

But Miss Clarissa giving me a look (just like a sharp canary), as
requesting that I would not interrupt the oracle, I begged pardon.

'Affection,' said Miss Lavinia, glancing at her sister for
corroboration, which she gave in the form of a little nod to every
clause, 'mature affection, homage, devotion, does not easily express
itself. Its voice is low. It is modest and retiring, it lies in ambush,
waits and waits. Such is the mature fruit. Sometimes a life glides away,
and finds it still ripening in the shade.'

Of course I did not understand then that this was an allusion to her
supposed experience of the stricken Pidger; but I saw, from the gravity
with which Miss Clarissa nodded her head, that great weight was attached
to these words.

'The light--for I call them, in comparison with such sentiments, the
light--inclinations of very young people,' pursued Miss Lavinia, 'are
dust, compared to rocks. It is owing to the difficulty of knowing
whether they are likely to endure or have any real foundation, that
my sister Clarissa and myself have been very undecided how to act, Mr.
Copperfield, and Mr.--'

'Traddles,' said my friend, finding himself looked at.

'I beg pardon. Of the Inner Temple, I believe?' said Miss Clarissa,
again glancing at my letter.

Traddles said 'Exactly so,' and became pretty red in the face.

Now, although I had not received any express encouragement as yet, I
fancied that I saw in the two little sisters, and particularly in Miss
Lavinia, an intensified enjoyment of this new and fruitful subject of
domestic interest, a settling down to make the most of it, a disposition
to pet it, in which there was a good bright ray of hope. I thought
I perceived that Miss Lavinia would have uncommon satisfaction in
superintending two young lovers, like Dora and me; and that Miss
Clarissa would have hardly less satisfaction in seeing her superintend
us, and in chiming in with her own particular department of the subject
whenever that impulse was strong upon her. This gave me courage to
protest most vehemently that I loved Dora better than I could tell, or
anyone believe; that all my friends knew how I loved her; that my aunt,
Agnes, Traddles, everyone who knew me, knew how I loved her, and how
earnest my love had made me. For the truth of this, I appealed to
Traddles. And Traddles, firing up as if he were plunging into a
Parliamentary Debate, really did come out nobly: confirming me in good
round terms, and in a plain sensible practical manner, that evidently
made a favourable impression.

'I speak, if I may presume to say so, as one who has some little
experience of such things,' said Traddles, 'being myself engaged to a
young lady--one of ten, down in Devonshire--and seeing no probability,
at present, of our engagement coming to a termination.'

'You may be able to confirm what I have said, Mr. Traddles,' observed
Miss Lavinia, evidently taking a new interest in him, 'of the affection
that is modest and retiring; that waits and waits?'

'Entirely, ma'am,' said Traddles.

Miss Clarissa looked at Miss Lavinia, and shook her head gravely. Miss
Lavinia looked consciously at Miss Clarissa, and heaved a little sigh.
'Sister Lavinia,' said Miss Clarissa, 'take my smelling-bottle.'

Miss Lavinia revived herself with a few whiffs of aromatic
vinegar--Traddles and I looking on with great solicitude the while; and
then went on to say, rather faintly:

'My sister and myself have been in great doubt, Mr. Traddles, what
course we ought to take in reference to the likings, or imaginary
likings, of such very young people as your friend Mr. Copperfield and
our niece.'

'Our brother Francis's child,' remarked Miss Clarissa. 'If our brother
Francis's wife had found it convenient in her lifetime (though she had
an unquestionable right to act as she thought best) to invite the family
to her dinner-table, we might have known our brother Francis's child
better at the present moment. Sister Lavinia, proceed.'

Miss Lavinia turned my letter, so as to bring the superscription towards
herself, and referred through her eye-glass to some orderly-looking
notes she had made on that part of it.

'It seems to us,' said she, 'prudent, Mr. Traddles, to bring these
feelings to the test of our own observation. At present we know nothing
of them, and are not in a situation to judge how much reality there
may be in them. Therefore we are inclined so far to accede to Mr.
Copperfield's proposal, as to admit his visits here.'

'I shall never, dear ladies,' I exclaimed, relieved of an immense load
of apprehension, 'forget your kindness!'

'But,' pursued Miss Lavinia,--'but, we would prefer to regard those
visits, Mr. Traddles, as made, at present, to us. We must guard
ourselves from recognizing any positive engagement between Mr.
Copperfield and our niece, until we have had an opportunity--'

'Until YOU have had an opportunity, sister Lavinia,' said Miss Clarissa.

'Be it so,' assented Miss Lavinia, with a sigh--'until I have had an
opportunity of observing them.'

'Copperfield,' said Traddles, turning to me, 'you feel, I am sure, that
nothing could be more reasonable or considerate.'

'Nothing!' cried I. 'I am deeply sensible of it.'

'In this position of affairs,' said Miss Lavinia, again referring to
her notes, 'and admitting his visits on this understanding only, we
must require from Mr. Copperfield a distinct assurance, on his word of
honour, that no communication of any kind shall take place between him
and our niece without our knowledge. That no project whatever shall be
entertained with regard to our niece, without being first submitted to
us--' 'To you, sister Lavinia,' Miss Clarissa interposed.

'Be it so, Clarissa!' assented Miss Lavinia resignedly--'to me--and
receiving our concurrence. We must make this a most express and serious
stipulation, not to be broken on any account. We wished Mr. Copperfield
to be accompanied by some confidential friend today,' with an
inclination of her head towards Traddles, who bowed, 'in order that
there might be no doubt or misconception on this subject. If Mr.
Copperfield, or if you, Mr. Traddles, feel the least scruple, in giving
this promise, I beg you to take time to consider it.'

I exclaimed, in a state of high ecstatic fervour, that not a moment's
consideration could be necessary. I bound myself by the required
promise, in a most impassioned manner; called upon Traddles to witness
it; and denounced myself as the most atrocious of characters if I ever
swerved from it in the least degree.

'Stay!' said Miss Lavinia, holding up her hand; 'we resolved, before we
had the pleasure of receiving you two gentlemen, to leave you alone
for a quarter of an hour, to consider this point. You will allow us to
retire.'

It was in vain for me to say that no consideration was necessary. They
persisted in withdrawing for the specified time. Accordingly, these
little birds hopped out with great dignity; leaving me to receive the
congratulations of Traddles, and to feel as if I were translated to
regions of exquisite happiness. Exactly at the expiration of the
quarter of an hour, they reappeared with no less dignity than they had
disappeared. They had gone rustling away as if their little dresses were
made of autumn-leaves: and they came rustling back, in like manner.

I then bound myself once more to the prescribed conditions.

'Sister Clarissa,' said Miss Lavinia, 'the rest is with you.'

Miss Clarissa, unfolding her arms for the first time, took the notes and
glanced at them.

'We shall be happy,' said Miss Clarissa, 'to see Mr. Copperfield to
dinner, every Sunday, if it should suit his convenience. Our hour is
three.'

I bowed.

'In the course of the week,' said Miss Clarissa, 'we shall be happy to
see Mr. Copperfield to tea. Our hour is half-past six.'

I bowed again.

'Twice in the week,' said Miss Clarissa, 'but, as a rule, not oftener.'

I bowed again.

'Miss Trotwood,' said Miss Clarissa, 'mentioned in Mr. Copperfield's
letter, will perhaps call upon us. When visiting is better for the
happiness of all parties, we are glad to receive visits, and return
them. When it is better for the happiness of all parties that no
visiting should take place, (as in the case of our brother Francis, and
his establishment) that is quite different.'

I intimated that my aunt would be proud and delighted to make their
acquaintance; though I must say I was not quite sure of their getting
on very satisfactorily together. The conditions being now closed, I
expressed my acknowledgements in the warmest manner; and, taking the
hand, first of Miss Clarissa, and then of Miss Lavinia, pressed it, in
each case, to my lips.

Miss Lavinia then arose, and begging Mr. Traddles to excuse us for a
minute, requested me to follow her. I obeyed, all in a tremble, and was
conducted into another room. There I found my blessed darling stopping
her ears behind the door, with her dear little face against the wall;
and Jip in the plate-warmer with his head tied up in a towel.

Oh! How beautiful she was in her black frock, and how she sobbed and
cried at first, and wouldn't come out from behind the door! How fond we
were of one another, when she did come out at last; and what a state of
bliss I was in, when we took Jip out of the plate-warmer, and restored
him to the light, sneezing very much, and were all three reunited!

'My dearest Dora! Now, indeed, my own for ever!'

'Oh, DON'T!' pleaded Dora. 'Please!'

'Are you not my own for ever, Dora?'

'Oh yes, of course I am!' cried Dora, 'but I am so frightened!'

'Frightened, my own?'

'Oh yes! I don't like him,' said Dora. 'Why don't he go?'

'Who, my life?'

'Your friend,' said Dora. 'It isn't any business of his. What a stupid
he must be!'

'My love!' (There never was anything so coaxing as her childish ways.)
'He is the best creature!'

'Oh, but we don't want any best creatures!' pouted Dora.

'My dear,' I argued, 'you will soon know him well, and like him of all
things. And here is my aunt coming soon; and you'll like her of all
things too, when you know her.'

'No, please don't bring her!' said Dora, giving me a horrified
little kiss, and folding her hands. 'Don't. I know she's a naughty,
mischief-making old thing! Don't let her come here, Doady!' which was a
corruption of David.

Remonstrance was of no use, then; so I laughed, and admired, and was
very much in love and very happy; and she showed me Jip's new trick of
standing on his hind legs in a corner--which he did for about the space
of a flash of lightning, and then fell down--and I don't know how long I
should have stayed there, oblivious of Traddles, if Miss Lavinia had not
come in to take me away. Miss Lavinia was very fond of Dora (she told
me Dora was exactly like what she had been herself at her age--she must
have altered a good deal), and she treated Dora just as if she had been
a toy. I wanted to persuade Dora to come and see Traddles, but on my
proposing it she ran off to her own room and locked herself in; so I
went to Traddles without her, and walked away with him on air.

'Nothing could be more satisfactory,' said Traddles; 'and they are very
agreeable old ladies, I am sure. I shouldn't be at all surprised if you
were to be married years before me, Copperfield.'

'Does your Sophy play on any instrument, Traddles?' I inquired, in the
pride of my heart.

'She knows enough of the piano to teach it to her little sisters,' said
Traddles.

'Does she sing at all?' I asked.

'Why, she sings ballads, sometimes, to freshen up the others a little
when they're out of spirits,' said Traddles. 'Nothing scientific.'

'She doesn't sing to the guitar?' said I.

'Oh dear no!' said Traddles.

'Paint at all?'

'Not at all,' said Traddles.

I promised Traddles that he should hear Dora sing, and see some of her
flower-painting. He said he should like it very much, and we went home
arm in arm in great good humour and delight. I encouraged him to talk
about Sophy, on the way; which he did with a loving reliance on her
that I very much admired. I compared her in my mind with Dora, with
considerable inward satisfaction; but I candidly admitted to myself that
she seemed to be an excellent kind of girl for Traddles, too.

Of course my aunt was immediately made acquainted with the successful
issue of the conference, and with all that had been said and done in the
course of it. She was happy to see me so happy, and promised to call on
Dora's aunts without loss of time. But she took such a long walk up and
down our rooms that night, while I was writing to Agnes, that I began to
think she meant to walk till morning.

My letter to Agnes was a fervent and grateful one, narrating all the
good effects that had resulted from my following her advice. She wrote,
by return of post, to me. Her letter was hopeful, earnest, and cheerful.
She was always cheerful from that time.

I had my hands more full than ever, now. My daily journeys to Highgate
considered, Putney was a long way off; and I naturally wanted to go
there as often as I could. The proposed tea-drinkings being quite
impracticable, I compounded with Miss Lavinia for permission to visit
every Saturday afternoon, without detriment to my privileged Sundays.
So, the close of every week was a delicious time for me; and I got
through the rest of the week by looking forward to it.

I was wonderfully relieved to find that my aunt and Dora's aunts
rubbed on, all things considered, much more smoothly than I could have
expected. My aunt made her promised visit within a few days of the
conference; and within a few more days, Dora's aunts called upon her,
in due state and form. Similar but more friendly exchanges took place
afterwards, usually at intervals of three or four weeks. I know that my
aunt distressed Dora's aunts very much, by utterly setting at naught the
dignity of fly-conveyance, and walking out to Putney at extraordinary
times, as shortly after breakfast or just before tea; likewise by
wearing her bonnet in any manner that happened to be comfortable to her
head, without at all deferring to the prejudices of civilization on that
subject. But Dora's aunts soon agreed to regard my aunt as an eccentric
and somewhat masculine lady, with a strong understanding; and although
my aunt occasionally ruffled the feathers of Dora's aunts, by expressing
heretical opinions on various points of ceremony, she loved me too
well not to sacrifice some of her little peculiarities to the general
harmony.

The only member of our small society who positively refused to adapt
himself to circumstances, was Jip. He never saw my aunt without
immediately displaying every tooth in his head, retiring under a chair,
and growling incessantly: with now and then a doleful howl, as if she
really were too much for his feelings. All kinds of treatment were tried
with him, coaxing, scolding, slapping, bringing him to Buckingham
Street (where he instantly dashed at the two cats, to the terror of all
beholders); but he never could prevail upon himself to bear my
aunt's society. He would sometimes think he had got the better of his
objection, and be amiable for a few minutes; and then would put up his
snub nose, and howl to that extent, that there was nothing for it but
to blind him and put him in the plate-warmer. At length, Dora regularly
muffled him in a towel and shut him up there, whenever my aunt was
reported at the door.

One thing troubled me much, after we had fallen into this quiet train.
It was, that Dora seemed by one consent to be regarded like a pretty toy
or plaything. My aunt, with whom she gradually became familiar, always
called her Little Blossom; and the pleasure of Miss Lavinia's life was
to wait upon her, curl her hair, make ornaments for her, and treat her
like a pet child. What Miss Lavinia did, her sister did as a matter of
course. It was very odd to me; but they all seemed to treat Dora, in her
degree, much as Dora treated Jip in his.

I made up my mind to speak to Dora about this; and one day when we were
out walking (for we were licensed by Miss Lavinia, after a while, to
go out walking by ourselves), I said to her that I wished she could get
them to behave towards her differently.

'Because you know, my darling,' I remonstrated, 'you are not a child.'

'There!' said Dora. 'Now you're going to be cross!'

'Cross, my love?'

'I am sure they're very kind to me,' said Dora, 'and I am very happy--'

'Well! But my dearest life!' said I, 'you might be very happy, and yet
be treated rationally.'

Dora gave me a reproachful look--the prettiest look!--and then began to
sob, saying, if I didn't like her, why had I ever wanted so much to be
engaged to her? And why didn't I go away, now, if I couldn't bear her?

What could I do, but kiss away her tears, and tell her how I doted on
her, after that!

'I am sure I am very affectionate,' said Dora; 'you oughtn't to be cruel
to me, Doady!'

'Cruel, my precious love! As if I would--or could--be cruel to you, for
the world!'

'Then don't find fault with me,' said Dora, making a rosebud of her
mouth; 'and I'll be good.'

I was charmed by her presently asking me, of her own accord, to give
her that cookery-book I had once spoken of, and to show her how to keep
accounts as I had once promised I would. I brought the volume with me on
my next visit (I got it prettily bound, first, to make it look less dry
and more inviting); and as we strolled about the Common, I showed her an
old housekeeping-book of my aunt's, and gave her a set of tablets, and
a pretty little pencil-case and box of leads, to practise housekeeping
with.

But the cookery-book made Dora's head ache, and the figures made her
cry. They wouldn't add up, she said. So she rubbed them out, and drew
little nosegays and likenesses of me and Jip, all over the tablets.

Then I playfully tried verbal instruction in domestic matters, as we
walked about on a Saturday afternoon. Sometimes, for example, when we
passed a butcher's shop, I would say:

'Now suppose, my pet, that we were married, and you were going to buy a
shoulder of mutton for dinner, would you know how to buy it?'

My pretty little Dora's face would fall, and she would make her mouth
into a bud again, as if she would very much prefer to shut mine with a
kiss.

'Would you know how to buy it, my darling?' I would repeat, perhaps, if
I were very inflexible.

Dora would think a little, and then reply, perhaps, with great triumph:

'Why, the butcher would know how to sell it, and what need I know? Oh,
you silly boy!'

So, when I once asked Dora, with an eye to the cookery-book, what she
would do, if we were married, and I were to say I should like a nice
Irish stew, she replied that she would tell the servant to make it; and
then clapped her little hands together across my arm, and laughed in
such a charming manner that she was more delightful than ever.

Consequently, the principal use to which the cookery-book was devoted,
was being put down in the corner for Jip to stand upon. But Dora was so
pleased, when she had trained him to stand upon it without offering to
come off, and at the same time to hold the pencil-case in his mouth,
that I was very glad I had bought it.

And we fell back on the guitar-case, and the flower-painting, and the
songs about never leaving off dancing, Ta ra la! and were as happy as
the week was long. I occasionally wished I could venture to hint to Miss
Lavinia, that she treated the darling of my heart a little too much like
a plaything; and I sometimes awoke, as it were, wondering to find that
I had fallen into the general fault, and treated her like a plaything
too--but not often.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Dora's Aunts. Dora's aunts answer David's letter and tell him he is welcome to visit in order to discuss his courtship of Dora. Thrilled, David goes to see the aunts, bringing Traddles along to assist him in convincing them. On the way, David asks Traddles to comb his hair. Traddles says that no amount of combing will make his hair lay flat--a family trait that leads his beloved Sophy Crewler's sisters to make fun of him incessantly. David meets with sisters Lavinia and Clarissa, who obviously revel in the prospect of overseeing David and Dora's courtship. They invite him to dinner once a week and tea as often as he likes. David and Dora spend all their weekends together, and she has begun to call him "Doady. David loves Dora but fails to convince her to learn how to keep house. He objects slightly to the fact that his and Dora's aunts treat Dora the same way that Dora treats her pet dog, Jip. David notices that even he sometimes treats Dora as a plaything


prompt:
Chapter: I feel as if it were not for me to record, even though this manuscript
is intended for no eyes but mine, how hard I worked at that tremendous
short-hand, and all improvement appertaining to it, in my sense of
responsibility to Dora and her aunts. I will only add, to what I have
already written of my perseverance at this time of my life, and of a
patient and continuous energy which then began to be matured within me,
and which I know to be the strong part of my character, if it have any
strength at all, that there, on looking back, I find the source of my
success. I have been very fortunate in worldly matters; many men have
worked much harder, and not succeeded half so well; but I never could
have done what I have done, without the habits of punctuality, order,
and diligence, without the determination to concentrate myself on one
object at a time, no matter how quickly its successor should come upon
its heels, which I then formed. Heaven knows I write this, in no spirit
of self-laudation. The man who reviews his own life, as I do mine,
in going on here, from page to page, had need to have been a good man
indeed, if he would be spared the sharp consciousness of many talents
neglected, many opportunities wasted, many erratic and perverted
feelings constantly at war within his breast, and defeating him. I
do not hold one natural gift, I dare say, that I have not abused. My
meaning simply is, that whatever I have tried to do in life, I have
tried with all my heart to do well; that whatever I have devoted myself
to, I have devoted myself to completely; that in great aims and in
small, I have always been thoroughly in earnest. I have never believed
it possible that any natural or improved ability can claim immunity from
the companionship of the steady, plain, hard-working qualities, and
hope to gain its end. There is no such thing as such fulfilment on this
earth. Some happy talent, and some fortunate opportunity, may form the
two sides of the ladder on which some men mount, but the rounds of that
ladder must be made of stuff to stand wear and tear; and there is no
substitute for thorough-going, ardent, and sincere earnestness. Never
to put one hand to anything, on which I could throw my whole self; and
never to affect depreciation of my work, whatever it was; I find, now,
to have been my golden rules.

How much of the practice I have just reduced to precept, I owe to Agnes,
I will not repeat here. My narrative proceeds to Agnes, with a thankful
love.

She came on a visit of a fortnight to the Doctor's. Mr. Wickfield was
the Doctor's old friend, and the Doctor wished to talk with him, and
do him good. It had been matter of conversation with Agnes when she was
last in town, and this visit was the result. She and her father came
together. I was not much surprised to hear from her that she had engaged
to find a lodging in the neighbourhood for Mrs. Heep, whose rheumatic
complaint required change of air, and who would be charmed to have it in
such company. Neither was I surprised when, on the very next day, Uriah,
like a dutiful son, brought his worthy mother to take possession.

'You see, Master Copperfield,' said he, as he forced himself upon my
company for a turn in the Doctor's garden, 'where a person loves, a
person is a little jealous--leastways, anxious to keep an eye on the
beloved one.'

'Of whom are you jealous, now?' said I.

'Thanks to you, Master Copperfield,' he returned, 'of no one in
particular just at present--no male person, at least.'

'Do you mean that you are jealous of a female person?'

He gave me a sidelong glance out of his sinister red eyes, and laughed.

'Really, Master Copperfield,' he said, '--I should say Mister, but I
know you'll excuse the abit I've got into--you're so insinuating, that
you draw me like a corkscrew! Well, I don't mind telling you,' putting
his fish-like hand on mine, 'I'm not a lady's man in general, sir, and I
never was, with Mrs. Strong.'

His eyes looked green now, as they watched mine with a rascally cunning.

'What do you mean?' said I.

'Why, though I am a lawyer, Master Copperfield,' he replied, with a dry
grin, 'I mean, just at present, what I say.'

'And what do you mean by your look?' I retorted, quietly.

'By my look? Dear me, Copperfield, that's sharp practice! What do I mean
by my look?'

'Yes,' said I. 'By your look.'

He seemed very much amused, and laughed as heartily as it was in his
nature to laugh. After some scraping of his chin with his hand, he went
on to say, with his eyes cast downward--still scraping, very slowly:

'When I was but an umble clerk, she always looked down upon me. She was
for ever having my Agnes backwards and forwards at her ouse, and she was
for ever being a friend to you, Master Copperfield; but I was too far
beneath her, myself, to be noticed.'

'Well?' said I; 'suppose you were!'

'--And beneath him too,' pursued Uriah, very distinctly, and in a
meditative tone of voice, as he continued to scrape his chin.

'Don't you know the Doctor better,' said I, 'than to suppose him
conscious of your existence, when you were not before him?'

He directed his eyes at me in that sidelong glance again, and he made
his face very lantern-jawed, for the greater convenience of scraping, as
he answered:

'Oh dear, I am not referring to the Doctor! Oh no, poor man! I mean Mr.
Maldon!'

My heart quite died within me. All my old doubts and apprehensions on
that subject, all the Doctor's happiness and peace, all the mingled
possibilities of innocence and compromise, that I could not unravel, I
saw, in a moment, at the mercy of this fellow's twisting.

'He never could come into the office, without ordering and shoving me
about,' said Uriah. 'One of your fine gentlemen he was! I was very meek
and umble--and I am. But I didn't like that sort of thing--and I don't!'

He left off scraping his chin, and sucked in his cheeks until they
seemed to meet inside; keeping his sidelong glance upon me all the
while.

'She is one of your lovely women, she is,' he pursued, when he had
slowly restored his face to its natural form; 'and ready to be no friend
to such as me, I know. She's just the person as would put my Agnes up
to higher sort of game. Now, I ain't one of your lady's men, Master
Copperfield; but I've had eyes in my ed, a pretty long time back. We
umble ones have got eyes, mostly speaking--and we look out of 'em.'

I endeavoured to appear unconscious and not disquieted, but, I saw in
his face, with poor success.

'Now, I'm not a-going to let myself be run down, Copperfield,' he
continued, raising that part of his countenance, where his red eyebrows
would have been if he had had any, with malignant triumph, 'and I shall
do what I can to put a stop to this friendship. I don't approve of it.
I don't mind acknowledging to you that I've got rather a grudging
disposition, and want to keep off all intruders. I ain't a-going, if I
know it, to run the risk of being plotted against.'

'You are always plotting, and delude yourself into the belief that
everybody else is doing the like, I think,' said I.

'Perhaps so, Master Copperfield,' he replied. 'But I've got a motive, as
my fellow-partner used to say; and I go at it tooth and nail. I mustn't
be put upon, as a numble person, too much. I can't allow people in my
way. Really they must come out of the cart, Master Copperfield!'

'I don't understand you,' said I.

'Don't you, though?' he returned, with one of his jerks. 'I'm astonished
at that, Master Copperfield, you being usually so quick! I'll try to be
plainer, another time.---Is that Mr. Maldon a-norseback, ringing at the
gate, sir?'

'It looks like him,' I replied, as carelessly as I could.

Uriah stopped short, put his hands between his great knobs of knees, and
doubled himself up with laughter. With perfectly silent laughter. Not
a sound escaped from him. I was so repelled by his odious behaviour,
particularly by this concluding instance, that I turned away without any
ceremony; and left him doubled up in the middle of the garden, like a
scarecrow in want of support.

It was not on that evening; but, as I well remember, on the next evening
but one, which was a Sunday; that I took Agnes to see Dora. I had
arranged the visit, beforehand, with Miss Lavinia; and Agnes was
expected to tea.

I was in a flutter of pride and anxiety; pride in my dear little
betrothed, and anxiety that Agnes should like her. All the way to
Putney, Agnes being inside the stage-coach, and I outside, I pictured
Dora to myself in every one of the pretty looks I knew so well; now
making up my mind that I should like her to look exactly as she looked
at such a time, and then doubting whether I should not prefer her
looking as she looked at such another time; and almost worrying myself
into a fever about it.

I was troubled by no doubt of her being very pretty, in any case; but
it fell out that I had never seen her look so well. She was not in the
drawing-room when I presented Agnes to her little aunts, but was shyly
keeping out of the way. I knew where to look for her, now; and sure
enough I found her stopping her ears again, behind the same dull old
door.

At first she wouldn't come at all; and then she pleaded for five minutes
by my watch. When at length she put her arm through mine, to be taken
to the drawing-room, her charming little face was flushed, and had never
been so pretty. But, when we went into the room, and it turned pale, she
was ten thousand times prettier yet.

Dora was afraid of Agnes. She had told me that she knew Agnes was
'too clever'. But when she saw her looking at once so cheerful and so
earnest, and so thoughtful, and so good, she gave a faint little cry of
pleased surprise, and just put her affectionate arms round Agnes's neck,
and laid her innocent cheek against her face.

I never was so happy. I never was so pleased as when I saw those two sit
down together, side by side. As when I saw my little darling looking up
so naturally to those cordial eyes. As when I saw the tender, beautiful
regard which Agnes cast upon her.

Miss Lavinia and Miss Clarissa partook, in their way, of my joy. It was
the pleasantest tea-table in the world. Miss Clarissa presided. I cut
and handed the sweet seed-cake--the little sisters had a bird-like
fondness for picking up seeds and pecking at sugar; Miss Lavinia looked
on with benignant patronage, as if our happy love were all her work; and
we were perfectly contented with ourselves and one another.

The gentle cheerfulness of Agnes went to all their hearts. Her quiet
interest in everything that interested Dora; her manner of making
acquaintance with Jip (who responded instantly); her pleasant way, when
Dora was ashamed to come over to her usual seat by me; her modest grace
and ease, eliciting a crowd of blushing little marks of confidence from
Dora; seemed to make our circle quite complete.

'I am so glad,' said Dora, after tea, 'that you like me. I didn't think
you would; and I want, more than ever, to be liked, now Julia Mills is
gone.'

I have omitted to mention it, by the by. Miss Mills had sailed, and Dora
and I had gone aboard a great East Indiaman at Gravesend to see her;
and we had had preserved ginger, and guava, and other delicacies of that
sort for lunch; and we had left Miss Mills weeping on a camp-stool on
the quarter-deck, with a large new diary under her arm, in which the
original reflections awakened by the contemplation of Ocean were to be
recorded under lock and key.

Agnes said she was afraid I must have given her an unpromising
character; but Dora corrected that directly.

'Oh no!' she said, shaking her curls at me; 'it was all praise. He
thinks so much of your opinion, that I was quite afraid of it.'

'My good opinion cannot strengthen his attachment to some people whom he
knows,' said Agnes, with a smile; 'it is not worth their having.'

'But please let me have it,' said Dora, in her coaxing way, 'if you
can!'

We made merry about Dora's wanting to be liked, and Dora said I was a
goose, and she didn't like me at any rate, and the short evening flew
away on gossamer-wings. The time was at hand when the coach was to call
for us. I was standing alone before the fire, when Dora came stealing
softly in, to give me that usual precious little kiss before I went.

'Don't you think, if I had had her for a friend a long time ago, Doady,'
said Dora, her bright eyes shining very brightly, and her little right
hand idly busying itself with one of the buttons of my coat, 'I might
have been more clever perhaps?'

'My love!' said I, 'what nonsense!'

'Do you think it is nonsense?' returned Dora, without looking at me.
'Are you sure it is?'

'Of course I am!' 'I have forgotten,' said Dora, still turning the
button round and round, 'what relation Agnes is to you, you dear bad
boy.'

'No blood-relation,' I replied; 'but we were brought up together, like
brother and sister.'

'I wonder why you ever fell in love with me?' said Dora, beginning on
another button of my coat.

'Perhaps because I couldn't see you, and not love you, Dora!'

'Suppose you had never seen me at all,' said Dora, going to another
button.

'Suppose we had never been born!' said I, gaily.

I wondered what she was thinking about, as I glanced in admiring silence
at the little soft hand travelling up the row of buttons on my coat, and
at the clustering hair that lay against my breast, and at the lashes of
her downcast eyes, slightly rising as they followed her idle fingers. At
length her eyes were lifted up to mine, and she stood on tiptoe to
give me, more thoughtfully than usual, that precious little kiss--once,
twice, three times--and went out of the room.

They all came back together within five minutes afterwards, and Dora's
unusual thoughtfulness was quite gone then. She was laughingly resolved
to put Jip through the whole of his performances, before the coach came.
They took some time (not so much on account of their variety, as Jip's
reluctance), and were still unfinished when it was heard at the door.
There was a hurried but affectionate parting between Agnes and herself;
and Dora was to write to Agnes (who was not to mind her letters being
foolish, she said), and Agnes was to write to Dora; and they had a
second parting at the coach door, and a third when Dora, in spite of
the remonstrances of Miss Lavinia, would come running out once more to
remind Agnes at the coach window about writing, and to shake her curls
at me on the box.

The stage-coach was to put us down near Covent Garden, where we were
to take another stage-coach for Highgate. I was impatient for the short
walk in the interval, that Agnes might praise Dora to me. Ah! what
praise it was! How lovingly and fervently did it commend the pretty
creature I had won, with all her artless graces best displayed, to my
most gentle care! How thoughtfully remind me, yet with no pretence of
doing so, of the trust in which I held the orphan child!

Never, never, had I loved Dora so deeply and truly, as I loved her that
night. When we had again alighted, and were walking in the starlight
along the quiet road that led to the Doctor's house, I told Agnes it was
her doing.

'When you were sitting by her,' said I, 'you seemed to be no less her
guardian angel than mine; and you seem so now, Agnes.'

'A poor angel,' she returned, 'but faithful.'

The clear tone of her voice, going straight to my heart, made it natural
to me to say:

'The cheerfulness that belongs to you, Agnes (and to no one else that
ever I have seen), is so restored, I have observed today, that I have
begun to hope you are happier at home?'

'I am happier in myself,' she said; 'I am quite cheerful and
light-hearted.'

I glanced at the serene face looking upward, and thought it was the
stars that made it seem so noble.

'There has been no change at home,' said Agnes, after a few moments.

'No fresh reference,' said I, 'to--I wouldn't distress you, Agnes, but I
cannot help asking--to what we spoke of, when we parted last?'

'No, none,' she answered.

'I have thought so much about it.'

'You must think less about it. Remember that I confide in simple love
and truth at last. Have no apprehensions for me, Trotwood,' she added,
after a moment; 'the step you dread my taking, I shall never take.'

Although I think I had never really feared it, in any season of cool
reflection, it was an unspeakable relief to me to have this assurance
from her own truthful lips. I told her so, earnestly.

'And when this visit is over,' said I,--'for we may not be alone another
time,--how long is it likely to be, my dear Agnes, before you come to
London again?'

'Probably a long time,' she replied; 'I think it will be best--for
papa's sake--to remain at home. We are not likely to meet often, for
some time to come; but I shall be a good correspondent of Dora's, and we
shall frequently hear of one another that way.'

We were now within the little courtyard of the Doctor's cottage. It was
growing late. There was a light in the window of Mrs. Strong's chamber,
and Agnes, pointing to it, bade me good night.

'Do not be troubled,' she said, giving me her hand, 'by our misfortunes
and anxieties. I can be happier in nothing than in your happiness. If
you can ever give me help, rely upon it I will ask you for it. God
bless you always!' In her beaming smile, and in these last tones of her
cheerful voice, I seemed again to see and hear my little Dora in her
company. I stood awhile, looking through the porch at the stars, with
a heart full of love and gratitude, and then walked slowly forth. I had
engaged a bed at a decent alehouse close by, and was going out at the
gate, when, happening to turn my head, I saw a light in the Doctor's
study. A half-reproachful fancy came into my mind, that he had been
working at the Dictionary without my help. With the view of seeing if
this were so, and, in any case, of bidding him good night, if he were
yet sitting among his books, I turned back, and going softly across the
hall, and gently opening the door, looked in.

The first person whom I saw, to my surprise, by the sober light of the
shaded lamp, was Uriah. He was standing close beside it, with one of
his skeleton hands over his mouth, and the other resting on the Doctor's
table. The Doctor sat in his study chair, covering his face with his
hands. Mr. Wickfield, sorely troubled and distressed, was leaning
forward, irresolutely touching the Doctor's arm.

For an instant, I supposed that the Doctor was ill. I hastily advanced a
step under that impression, when I met Uriah's eye, and saw what was the
matter. I would have withdrawn, but the Doctor made a gesture to detain
me, and I remained.

'At any rate,' observed Uriah, with a writhe of his ungainly person, 'we
may keep the door shut. We needn't make it known to ALL the town.'

Saying which, he went on his toes to the door, which I had left open,
and carefully closed it. He then came back, and took up his former
position. There was an obtrusive show of compassionate zeal in his voice
and manner, more intolerable--at least to me--than any demeanour he
could have assumed.

'I have felt it incumbent upon me, Master Copperfield,' said Uriah, 'to
point out to Doctor Strong what you and me have already talked about.
You didn't exactly understand me, though?'

I gave him a look, but no other answer; and, going to my good old
master, said a few words that I meant to be words of comfort and
encouragement. He put his hand upon my shoulder, as it had been his
custom to do when I was quite a little fellow, but did not lift his grey
head.

'As you didn't understand me, Master Copperfield,' resumed Uriah in
the same officious manner, 'I may take the liberty of umbly mentioning,
being among friends, that I have called Doctor Strong's attention to the
goings-on of Mrs. Strong. It's much against the grain with me, I assure
you, Copperfield, to be concerned in anything so unpleasant; but really,
as it is, we're all mixing ourselves up with what oughtn't to be. That
was what my meaning was, sir, when you didn't understand me.' I wonder
now, when I recall his leer, that I did not collar him, and try to shake
the breath out of his body.

'I dare say I didn't make myself very clear,' he went on, 'nor you
neither. Naturally, we was both of us inclined to give such a subject
a wide berth. Hows'ever, at last I have made up my mind to speak plain;
and I have mentioned to Doctor Strong that--did you speak, sir?'

This was to the Doctor, who had moaned. The sound might have touched any
heart, I thought, but it had no effect upon Uriah's.

'--mentioned to Doctor Strong,' he proceeded, 'that anyone may see that
Mr. Maldon, and the lovely and agreeable lady as is Doctor Strong's
wife, are too sweet on one another. Really the time is come (we being at
present all mixing ourselves up with what oughtn't to be), when Doctor
Strong must be told that this was full as plain to everybody as the sun,
before Mr. Maldon went to India; that Mr. Maldon made excuses to come
back, for nothing else; and that he's always here, for nothing else.
When you come in, sir, I was just putting it to my fellow-partner,'
towards whom he turned, 'to say to Doctor Strong upon his word and
honour, whether he'd ever been of this opinion long ago, or not. Come,
Mr. Wickfield, sir! Would you be so good as tell us? Yes or no, sir?
Come, partner!'

'For God's sake, my dear Doctor,' said Mr. Wickfield again laying his
irresolute hand upon the Doctor's arm, 'don't attach too much weight to
any suspicions I may have entertained.'

'There!' cried Uriah, shaking his head. 'What a melancholy confirmation:
ain't it? Him! Such an old friend! Bless your soul, when I was nothing
but a clerk in his office, Copperfield, I've seen him twenty times, if
I've seen him once, quite in a taking about it--quite put out, you know
(and very proper in him as a father; I'm sure I can't blame him), to
think that Miss Agnes was mixing herself up with what oughtn't to be.'

'My dear Strong,' said Mr. Wickfield in a tremulous voice, 'my good
friend, I needn't tell you that it has been my vice to look for some one
master motive in everybody, and to try all actions by one narrow test. I
may have fallen into such doubts as I have had, through this mistake.'

'You have had doubts, Wickfield,' said the Doctor, without lifting up
his head. 'You have had doubts.'

'Speak up, fellow-partner,' urged Uriah.

'I had, at one time, certainly,' said Mr. Wickfield. 'I--God forgive
me--I thought YOU had.'

'No, no, no!' returned the Doctor, in a tone of most pathetic grief.
'I thought, at one time,' said Mr. Wickfield, 'that you wished to send
Maldon abroad to effect a desirable separation.'

'No, no, no!' returned the Doctor. 'To give Annie pleasure, by making
some provision for the companion of her childhood. Nothing else.'

'So I found,' said Mr. Wickfield. 'I couldn't doubt it, when you told
me so. But I thought--I implore you to remember the narrow construction
which has been my besetting sin--that, in a case where there was so much
disparity in point of years--'

'That's the way to put it, you see, Master Copperfield!' observed Uriah,
with fawning and offensive pity.

'--a lady of such youth, and such attractions, however real her
respect for you, might have been influenced in marrying, by worldly
considerations only. I make no allowance for innumerable feelings
and circumstances that may have all tended to good. For Heaven's sake
remember that!'

'How kind he puts it!' said Uriah, shaking his head.

'Always observing her from one point of view,' said Mr. Wickfield; 'but
by all that is dear to you, my old friend, I entreat you to consider
what it was; I am forced to confess now, having no escape-'

'No! There's no way out of it, Mr. Wickfield, sir,' observed Uriah,
'when it's got to this.'

'--that I did,' said Mr. Wickfield, glancing helplessly and distractedly
at his partner, 'that I did doubt her, and think her wanting in her
duty to you; and that I did sometimes, if I must say all, feel averse
to Agnes being in such a familiar relation towards her, as to see what I
saw, or in my diseased theory fancied that I saw. I never mentioned
this to anyone. I never meant it to be known to anyone. And though it
is terrible to you to hear,' said Mr. Wickfield, quite subdued, 'if you
knew how terrible it is for me to tell, you would feel compassion for
me!'

The Doctor, in the perfect goodness of his nature, put out his hand. Mr.
Wickfield held it for a little while in his, with his head bowed down.

'I am sure,' said Uriah, writhing himself into the silence like a
Conger-eel, 'that this is a subject full of unpleasantness to everybody.
But since we have got so far, I ought to take the liberty of mentioning
that Copperfield has noticed it too.'

I turned upon him, and asked him how he dared refer to me!

'Oh! it's very kind of you, Copperfield,' returned Uriah, undulating all
over, 'and we all know what an amiable character yours is; but you know
that the moment I spoke to you the other night, you knew what I meant.
You know you knew what I meant, Copperfield. Don't deny it! You deny it
with the best intentions; but don't do it, Copperfield.'

I saw the mild eye of the good old Doctor turned upon me for a moment,
and I felt that the confession of my old misgivings and remembrances
was too plainly written in my face to be overlooked. It was of no use
raging. I could not undo that. Say what I would, I could not unsay it.

We were silent again, and remained so, until the Doctor rose and walked
twice or thrice across the room. Presently he returned to where his
chair stood; and, leaning on the back of it, and occasionally putting
his handkerchief to his eyes, with a simple honesty that did him more
honour, to my thinking, than any disguise he could have effected, said:

'I have been much to blame. I believe I have been very much to blame.
I have exposed one whom I hold in my heart, to trials and aspersions--I
call them aspersions, even to have been conceived in anybody's inmost
mind--of which she never, but for me, could have been the object.'

Uriah Heep gave a kind of snivel. I think to express sympathy.

'Of which my Annie,' said the Doctor, 'never, but for me, could have
been the object. Gentlemen, I am old now, as you know; I do not feel,
tonight, that I have much to live for. But my life--my Life--upon the
truth and honour of the dear lady who has been the subject of this
conversation!'

I do not think that the best embodiment of chivalry, the realization of
the handsomest and most romantic figure ever imagined by painter, could
have said this, with a more impressive and affecting dignity than the
plain old Doctor did.

'But I am not prepared,' he went on, 'to deny--perhaps I may have been,
without knowing it, in some degree prepared to admit--that I may have
unwittingly ensnared that lady into an unhappy marriage. I am a man
quite unaccustomed to observe; and I cannot but believe that the
observation of several people, of different ages and positions, all too
plainly tending in one direction (and that so natural), is better than
mine.'

I had often admired, as I have elsewhere described, his benignant manner
towards his youthful wife; but the respectful tenderness he manifested
in every reference to her on this occasion, and the almost reverential
manner in which he put away from him the lightest doubt of her
integrity, exalted him, in my eyes, beyond description.

'I married that lady,' said the Doctor, 'when she was extremely young. I
took her to myself when her character was scarcely formed. So far as it
was developed, it had been my happiness to form it. I knew her father
well. I knew her well. I had taught her what I could, for the love of
all her beautiful and virtuous qualities. If I did her wrong; as I fear
I did, in taking advantage (but I never meant it) of her gratitude and
her affection; I ask pardon of that lady, in my heart!'

He walked across the room, and came back to the same place; holding
the chair with a grasp that trembled, like his subdued voice, in its
earnestness.

'I regarded myself as a refuge, for her, from the dangers and
vicissitudes of life. I persuaded myself that, unequal though we were in
years, she would live tranquilly and contentedly with me. I did not shut
out of my consideration the time when I should leave her free, and still
young and still beautiful, but with her judgement more matured--no,
gentlemen--upon my truth!'

His homely figure seemed to be lightened up by his fidelity and
generosity. Every word he uttered had a force that no other grace could
have imparted to it.

'My life with this lady has been very happy. Until tonight, I have
had uninterrupted occasion to bless the day on which I did her great
injustice.'

His voice, more and more faltering in the utterance of these words,
stopped for a few moments; then he went on:

'Once awakened from my dream--I have been a poor dreamer, in one way or
other, all my life--I see how natural it is that she should have some
regretful feeling towards her old companion and her equal. That she does
regard him with some innocent regret, with some blameless thoughts of
what might have been, but for me, is, I fear, too true. Much that I have
seen, but not noted, has come back upon me with new meaning, during
this last trying hour. But, beyond this, gentlemen, the dear lady's name
never must be coupled with a word, a breath, of doubt.'

For a little while, his eye kindled and his voice was firm; for a little
while he was again silent. Presently, he proceeded as before:

'It only remains for me, to bear the knowledge of the unhappiness I have
occasioned, as submissively as I can. It is she who should reproach; not
I. To save her from misconstruction, cruel misconstruction, that even my
friends have not been able to avoid, becomes my duty. The more retired
we live, the better I shall discharge it. And when the time comes--may
it come soon, if it be His merciful pleasure!--when my death shall
release her from constraint, I shall close my eyes upon her honoured
face, with unbounded confidence and love; and leave her, with no sorrow
then, to happier and brighter days.'

I could not see him for the tears which his earnestness and goodness,
so adorned by, and so adorning, the perfect simplicity of his manner,
brought into my eyes. He had moved to the door, when he added:

'Gentlemen, I have shown you my heart. I am sure you will respect it.
What we have said tonight is never to be said more. Wickfield, give me
an old friend's arm upstairs!'

Mr. Wickfield hastened to him. Without interchanging a word they went
slowly out of the room together, Uriah looking after them.

'Well, Master Copperfield!' said Uriah, meekly turning to me. 'The thing
hasn't took quite the turn that might have been expected, for the old
Scholar--what an excellent man!--is as blind as a brickbat; but this
family's out of the cart, I think!'

I needed but the sound of his voice to be so madly enraged as I never
was before, and never have been since.

'You villain,' said I, 'what do you mean by entrapping me into your
schemes? How dare you appeal to me just now, you false rascal, as if we
had been in discussion together?'

As we stood, front to front, I saw so plainly, in the stealthy
exultation of his face, what I already so plainly knew; I mean that he
forced his confidence upon me, expressly to make me miserable, and had
set a deliberate trap for me in this very matter; that I couldn't bear
it. The whole of his lank cheek was invitingly before me, and I struck
it with my open hand with that force that my fingers tingled as if I had
burnt them.

He caught the hand in his, and we stood in that connexion, looking at
each other. We stood so, a long time; long enough for me to see the
white marks of my fingers die out of the deep red of his cheek, and
leave it a deeper red.

'Copperfield,' he said at length, in a breathless voice, 'have you taken
leave of your senses?'

'I have taken leave of you,' said I, wresting my hand away. 'You dog,
I'll know no more of you.'

'Won't you?' said he, constrained by the pain of his cheek to put his
hand there. 'Perhaps you won't be able to help it. Isn't this ungrateful
of you, now?'

'I have shown you often enough,' said I, 'that I despise you. I have
shown you now, more plainly, that I do. Why should I dread your doing
your worst to all about you? What else do you ever do?'

He perfectly understood this allusion to the considerations that had
hitherto restrained me in my communications with him. I rather think
that neither the blow, nor the allusion, would have escaped me, but for
the assurance I had had from Agnes that night. It is no matter.

There was another long pause. His eyes, as he looked at me, seemed to
take every shade of colour that could make eyes ugly.

'Copperfield,' he said, removing his hand from his cheek, 'you have
always gone against me. I know you always used to be against me at Mr.
Wickfield's.'

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

'And yet I always liked you, Copperfield!' he rejoined.

I deigned to make him no reply; and, taking up my hat, was going out to
bed, when he came between me and the door.

'Copperfield,' he said, 'there must be two parties to a quarrel. I won't
be one.'

'You may go to the devil!' said I.

'Don't say that!' he replied. 'I know you'll be sorry afterwards. How
can you make yourself so inferior to me, as to show such a bad spirit?
But I forgive you.'

'You forgive me!' I repeated disdainfully.

'I do, and you can't help yourself,' replied Uriah. 'To think of your
going and attacking me, that have always been a friend to you! But there
can't be a quarrel without two parties, and I won't be one. I will be
a friend to you, in spite of you. So now you know what you've got to
expect.'

The necessity of carrying on this dialogue (his part in which was
very slow; mine very quick) in a low tone, that the house might not be
disturbed at an unseasonable hour, did not improve my temper; though my
passion was cooling down. Merely telling him that I should expect from
him what I always had expected, and had never yet been disappointed in,
I opened the door upon him, as if he had been a great walnut put there
to be cracked, and went out of the house. But he slept out of the house
too, at his mother's lodging; and before I had gone many hundred yards,
came up with me.

'You know, Copperfield,' he said, in my ear (I did not turn my head),
'you're in quite a wrong position'; which I felt to be true, and that
made me chafe the more; 'you can't make this a brave thing, and you
can't help being forgiven. I don't intend to mention it to mother, nor
to any living soul. I'm determined to forgive you. But I do wonder
that you should lift your hand against a person that you knew to be so
umble!'

I felt only less mean than he. He knew me better than I knew myself. If
he had retorted or openly exasperated me, it would have been a relief
and a justification; but he had put me on a slow fire, on which I lay
tormented half the night.

In the morning, when I came out, the early church-bell was ringing,
and he was walking up and down with his mother. He addressed me as if
nothing had happened, and I could do no less than reply. I had struck
him hard enough to give him the toothache, I suppose. At all events
his face was tied up in a black silk handkerchief, which, with his hat
perched on the top of it, was far from improving his appearance. I heard
that he went to a dentist's in London on the Monday morning, and had a
tooth out. I hope it was a double one.

The Doctor gave out that he was not quite well; and remained alone, for
a considerable part of every day, during the remainder of the visit.
Agnes and her father had been gone a week, before we resumed our usual
work. On the day preceding its resumption, the Doctor gave me with his
own hands a folded note not sealed. It was addressed to myself; and laid
an injunction on me, in a few affectionate words, never to refer to the
subject of that evening. I had confided it to my aunt, but to no
one else. It was not a subject I could discuss with Agnes, and Agnes
certainly had not the least suspicion of what had passed.

Neither, I felt convinced, had Mrs. Strong then. Several weeks elapsed
before I saw the least change in her. It came on slowly, like a cloud
when there is no wind. At first, she seemed to wonder at the gentle
compassion with which the Doctor spoke to her, and at his wish that she
should have her mother with her, to relieve the dull monotony of her
life. Often, when we were at work, and she was sitting by, I would see
her pausing and looking at him with that memorable face. Afterwards, I
sometimes observed her rise, with her eyes full of tears, and go out
of the room. Gradually, an unhappy shadow fell upon her beauty, and
deepened every day. Mrs. Markleham was a regular inmate of the cottage
then; but she talked and talked, and saw nothing.

As this change stole on Annie, once like sunshine in the Doctor's house,
the Doctor became older in appearance, and more grave; but the sweetness
of his temper, the placid kindness of his manner, and his benevolent
solicitude for her, if they were capable of any increase, were
increased. I saw him once, early on the morning of her birthday, when
she came to sit in the window while we were at work (which she had
always done, but now began to do with a timid and uncertain air that I
thought very touching), take her forehead between his hands, kiss it,
and go hurriedly away, too much moved to remain. I saw her stand where
he had left her, like a statue; and then bend down her head, and clasp
her hands, and weep, I cannot say how sorrowfully.

Sometimes, after that, I fancied that she tried to speak even to me,
in intervals when we were left alone. But she never uttered a word. The
Doctor always had some new project for her participating in amusements
away from home, with her mother; and Mrs. Markleham, who was very fond
of amusements, and very easily dissatisfied with anything else, entered
into them with great good-will, and was loud in her commendations. But
Annie, in a spiritless unhappy way, only went whither she was led, and
seemed to have no care for anything.

I did not know what to think. Neither did my aunt; who must have walked,
at various times, a hundred miles in her uncertainty. What was strangest
of all was, that the only real relief which seemed to make its way into
the secret region of this domestic unhappiness, made its way there in
the person of Mr. Dick.

What his thoughts were on the subject, or what his observation was, I am
as unable to explain, as I dare say he would have been to assist me in
the task. But, as I have recorded in the narrative of my school days,
his veneration for the Doctor was unbounded; and there is a subtlety of
perception in real attachment, even when it is borne towards man by one
of the lower animals, which leaves the highest intellect behind. To this
mind of the heart, if I may call it so, in Mr. Dick, some bright ray of
the truth shot straight.

He had proudly resumed his privilege, in many of his spare hours,
of walking up and down the garden with the Doctor; as he had been
accustomed to pace up and down The Doctor's Walk at Canterbury. But
matters were no sooner in this state, than he devoted all his spare time
(and got up earlier to make it more) to these perambulations. If he had
never been so happy as when the Doctor read that marvellous performance,
the Dictionary, to him; he was now quite miserable unless the Doctor
pulled it out of his pocket, and began. When the Doctor and I were
engaged, he now fell into the custom of walking up and down with Mrs.
Strong, and helping her to trim her favourite flowers, or weed the
beds. I dare say he rarely spoke a dozen words in an hour: but his quiet
interest, and his wistful face, found immediate response in both their
breasts; each knew that the other liked him, and that he loved both; and
he became what no one else could be--a link between them.

When I think of him, with his impenetrably wise face, walking up and
down with the Doctor, delighted to be battered by the hard words in the
Dictionary; when I think of him carrying huge watering-pots after Annie;
kneeling down, in very paws of gloves, at patient microscopic work among
the little leaves; expressing as no philosopher could have expressed,
in everything he did, a delicate desire to be her friend; showering
sympathy, trustfulness, and affection, out of every hole in the
watering-pot; when I think of him never wandering in that better mind
of his to which unhappiness addressed itself, never bringing the
unfortunate King Charles into the garden, never wavering in his grateful
service, never diverted from his knowledge that there was something
wrong, or from his wish to set it right--I really feel almost ashamed
of having known that he was not quite in his wits, taking account of the
utmost I have done with mine.

'Nobody but myself, Trot, knows what that man is!' my aunt would proudly
remark, when we conversed about it. 'Dick will distinguish himself yet!'

I must refer to one other topic before I close this chapter. While the
visit at the Doctor's was still in progress, I observed that the postman
brought two or three letters every morning for Uriah Heep, who remained
at Highgate until the rest went back, it being a leisure time; and that
these were always directed in a business-like manner by Mr. Micawber,
who now assumed a round legal hand. I was glad to infer, from these
slight premises, that Mr. Micawber was doing well; and consequently was
much surprised to receive, about this time, the following letter from
his amiable wife.

                         'CANTERBURY, Monday Evening.

'You will doubtless be surprised, my dear Mr. Copperfield, to receive
this communication. Still more so, by its contents. Still more so, by
the stipulation of implicit confidence which I beg to impose. But my
feelings as a wife and mother require relief; and as I do not wish to
consult my family (already obnoxious to the feelings of Mr. Micawber),
I know no one of whom I can better ask advice than my friend and former
lodger.

'You may be aware, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that between myself and Mr.
Micawber (whom I will never desert), there has always been preserved a
spirit of mutual confidence. Mr. Micawber may have occasionally given
a bill without consulting me, or he may have misled me as to the period
when that obligation would become due. This has actually happened.
But, in general, Mr. Micawber has had no secrets from the bosom of
affection--I allude to his wife--and has invariably, on our retirement
to rest, recalled the events of the day.

'You will picture to yourself, my dear Mr. Copperfield, what the
poignancy of my feelings must be, when I inform you that Mr. Micawber is
entirely changed. He is reserved. He is secret. His life is a mystery to
the partner of his joys and sorrows--I again allude to his wife--and if
I should assure you that beyond knowing that it is passed from morning
to night at the office, I now know less of it than I do of the man in
the south, connected with whose mouth the thoughtless children repeat
an idle tale respecting cold plum porridge, I should adopt a popular
fallacy to express an actual fact.

'But this is not all. Mr. Micawber is morose. He is severe. He is
estranged from our eldest son and daughter, he has no pride in his
twins, he looks with an eye of coldness even on the unoffending stranger
who last became a member of our circle. The pecuniary means of meeting
our expenses, kept down to the utmost farthing, are obtained from him
with great difficulty, and even under fearful threats that he will
Settle himself (the exact expression); and he inexorably refuses to give
any explanation whatever of this distracting policy.

'This is hard to bear. This is heart-breaking. If you will advise me,
knowing my feeble powers such as they are, how you think it will be best
to exert them in a dilemma so unwonted, you will add another friendly
obligation to the many you have already rendered me. With loves from the
children, and a smile from the happily-unconscious stranger, I remain,
dear Mr. Copperfield,

                              Your afflicted,

                                   'EMMA MICAWBER.'

I did not feel justified in giving a wife of Mrs. Micawber's experience
any other recommendation, than that she should try to reclaim Mr.
Micawber by patience and kindness (as I knew she would in any case); but
the letter set me thinking about him very much.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Mischief My meaning simply is that whatever I have tried to do in life, I have tried with all my heart to do well. I have always been thoroughly in earnest. Mr. Wickfield and Agnes visit the Strongs. Agnes and Dora get along well. Dora is a bit amazed that David loves her considering he has been so close to Agnes for so long. When David takes Agnes home, Agnes assures him that she will never marry Uriah and that, lately, she is happier being alone. David sees a light on in Doctor Strong's study and goes in to say goodnight. In the study, David discovers Uriah and Mr. Wickfield with Doctor Strong, who is crying. Uriah has just told Doctor Strong that his friends all suspect the doctor's wife of cheating on him with Jack Maldon. Uriah forces Mr. Wickfield and David to admit that they have suspected this to be the case. Doctor Strong refuses to doubt Annie. He blames himself for marrying so young and beautiful a woman, who must be unhappy with an old man. After Mr. Wickfield takes Doctor Strong to bed, David strikes Uriah across the face and tells him how much he hates him. Uriah calmly tells David that he forgives him for his outburst. This remark prompts David to feel, for the first time, morally inferior to Uriah. Over the next several weeks, David observes a growing sadness in the Strong house. Only Mr. Dick, who befriends Annie and Doctor Strong, brings any peace into the house because both Annie and Doctor Strong love him so dearly and because he is such a good friend to them both. David receives a letter from Mrs. Micawber, who writes that Mr. Micawber has become a different man, sullen and greedy, a stranger to his children and short with her.