prompt:
Chapter: My aunt, beginning, I imagine, to be made seriously uncomfortable by my
prolonged dejection, made a pretence of being anxious that I should go
to Dover, to see that all was working well at the cottage, which was
let; and to conclude an agreement, with the same tenant, for a longer
term of occupation. Janet was drafted into the service of Mrs. Strong,
where I saw her every day. She had been undecided, on leaving Dover,
whether or no to give the finishing touch to that renunciation of
mankind in which she had been educated, by marrying a pilot; but she
decided against that venture. Not so much for the sake of principle, I
believe, as because she happened not to like him.

Although it required an effort to leave Miss Mills, I fell rather
willingly into my aunt's pretence, as a means of enabling me to pass a
few tranquil hours with Agnes. I consulted the good Doctor relative
to an absence of three days; and the Doctor wishing me to take that
relaxation,--he wished me to take more; but my energy could not bear
that,--I made up my mind to go.

As to the Commons, I had no great occasion to be particular about my
duties in that quarter. To say the truth, we were getting in no very
good odour among the tip-top proctors, and were rapidly sliding down
to but a doubtful position. The business had been indifferent under Mr.
Jorkins, before Mr. Spenlow's time; and although it had been quickened
by the infusion of new blood, and by the display which Mr. Spenlow made,
still it was not established on a sufficiently strong basis to bear,
without being shaken, such a blow as the sudden loss of its active
manager. It fell off very much. Mr. Jorkins, notwithstanding his
reputation in the firm, was an easy-going, incapable sort of man, whose
reputation out of doors was not calculated to back it up. I was turned
over to him now, and when I saw him take his snuff and let the business
go, I regretted my aunt's thousand pounds more than ever.

But this was not the worst of it. There were a number of hangers-on and
outsiders about the Commons, who, without being proctors themselves,
dabbled in common-form business, and got it done by real proctors, who
lent their names in consideration of a share in the spoil;--and there
were a good many of these too. As our house now wanted business on any
terms, we joined this noble band; and threw out lures to the hangers-on
and outsiders, to bring their business to us. Marriage licences and
small probates were what we all looked for, and what paid us best;
and the competition for these ran very high indeed. Kidnappers and
inveiglers were planted in all the avenues of entrance to the Commons,
with instructions to do their utmost to cut off all persons in mourning,
and all gentlemen with anything bashful in their appearance, and entice
them to the offices in which their respective employers were interested;
which instructions were so well observed, that I myself, before I was
known by sight, was twice hustled into the premises of our principal
opponent. The conflicting interests of these touting gentlemen being of
a nature to irritate their feelings, personal collisions took place;
and the Commons was even scandalized by our principal inveigler (who
had formerly been in the wine trade, and afterwards in the sworn brokery
line) walking about for some days with a black eye. Any one of these
scouts used to think nothing of politely assisting an old lady in
black out of a vehicle, killing any proctor whom she inquired for,
representing his employer as the lawful successor and representative of
that proctor, and bearing the old lady off (sometimes greatly affected)
to his employer's office. Many captives were brought to me in this way.
As to marriage licences, the competition rose to such a pitch, that a
shy gentleman in want of one, had nothing to do but submit himself
to the first inveigler, or be fought for, and become the prey of the
strongest. One of our clerks, who was an outsider, used, in the height
of this contest, to sit with his hat on, that he might be ready to rush
out and swear before a surrogate any victim who was brought in. The
system of inveigling continues, I believe, to this day. The last time I
was in the Commons, a civil able-bodied person in a white apron pounced
out upon me from a doorway, and whispering the word 'Marriage-licence'
in my ear, was with great difficulty prevented from taking me up in
his arms and lifting me into a proctor's. From this digression, let me
proceed to Dover.

I found everything in a satisfactory state at the cottage; and was
enabled to gratify my aunt exceedingly by reporting that the tenant
inherited her feud, and waged incessant war against donkeys. Having
settled the little business I had to transact there, and slept there one
night, I walked on to Canterbury early in the morning. It was now
winter again; and the fresh, cold windy day, and the sweeping downland,
brightened up my hopes a little.

Coming into Canterbury, I loitered through the old streets with a sober
pleasure that calmed my spirits, and eased my heart. There were the old
signs, the old names over the shops, the old people serving in them. It
appeared so long, since I had been a schoolboy there, that I wondered
the place was so little changed, until I reflected how little I
was changed myself. Strange to say, that quiet influence which was
inseparable in my mind from Agnes, seemed to pervade even the city where
she dwelt. The venerable cathedral towers, and the old jackdaws and
rooks whose airy voices made them more retired than perfect silence
would have done; the battered gateways, one stuck full with statues,
long thrown down, and crumbled away, like the reverential pilgrims
who had gazed upon them; the still nooks, where the ivied growth of
centuries crept over gabled ends and ruined walls; the ancient houses,
the pastoral landscape of field, orchard, and garden; everywhere--on
everything--I felt the same serener air, the same calm, thoughtful,
softening spirit.

Arrived at Mr. Wickfield's house, I found, in the little lower room on
the ground floor, where Uriah Heep had been of old accustomed to sit,
Mr. Micawber plying his pen with great assiduity. He was dressed in a
legal-looking suit of black, and loomed, burly and large, in that small
office.

Mr. Micawber was extremely glad to see me, but a little confused too.
He would have conducted me immediately into the presence of Uriah, but I
declined.

'I know the house of old, you recollect,' said I, 'and will find my way
upstairs. How do you like the law, Mr. Micawber?'

'My dear Copperfield,' he replied. 'To a man possessed of the higher
imaginative powers, the objection to legal studies is the amount of
detail which they involve. Even in our professional correspondence,'
said Mr. Micawber, glancing at some letters he was writing, 'the mind is
not at liberty to soar to any exalted form of expression. Still, it is a
great pursuit. A great pursuit!'

He then told me that he had become the tenant of Uriah Heep's old house;
and that Mrs. Micawber would be delighted to receive me, once more,
under her own roof.

'It is humble,' said Mr. Micawber, '--to quote a favourite expression
of my friend Heep; but it may prove the stepping-stone to more ambitious
domiciliary accommodation.'

I asked him whether he had reason, so far, to be satisfied with his
friend Heep's treatment of him? He got up to ascertain if the door were
close shut, before he replied, in a lower voice:

'My dear Copperfield, a man who labours under the pressure of pecuniary
embarrassments, is, with the generality of people, at a disadvantage.
That disadvantage is not diminished, when that pressure necessitates the
drawing of stipendiary emoluments, before those emoluments are strictly
due and payable. All I can say is, that my friend Heep has responded
to appeals to which I need not more particularly refer, in a manner
calculated to redound equally to the honour of his head, and of his
heart.'

'I should not have supposed him to be very free with his money either,'
I observed.

'Pardon me!' said Mr. Micawber, with an air of constraint, 'I speak of
my friend Heep as I have experience.'

'I am glad your experience is so favourable,' I returned.

'You are very obliging, my dear Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber; and
hummed a tune.

'Do you see much of Mr. Wickfield?' I asked, to change the subject.

'Not much,' said Mr. Micawber, slightingly. 'Mr. Wickfield is, I dare
say, a man of very excellent intentions; but he is--in short, he is
obsolete.'

'I am afraid his partner seeks to make him so,' said I.

'My dear Copperfield!' returned Mr. Micawber, after some uneasy
evolutions on his stool, 'allow me to offer a remark! I am here, in
a capacity of confidence. I am here, in a position of trust. The
discussion of some topics, even with Mrs. Micawber herself (so long the
partner of my various vicissitudes, and a woman of a remarkable lucidity
of intellect), is, I am led to consider, incompatible with the functions
now devolving on me. I would therefore take the liberty of suggesting
that in our friendly intercourse--which I trust will never be
disturbed!--we draw a line. On one side of this line,' said Mr.
Micawber, representing it on the desk with the office ruler, 'is the
whole range of the human intellect, with a trifling exception; on
the other, IS that exception; that is to say, the affairs of Messrs
Wickfield and Heep, with all belonging and appertaining thereunto. I
trust I give no offence to the companion of my youth, in submitting this
proposition to his cooler judgement?'

Though I saw an uneasy change in Mr. Micawber, which sat tightly on
him, as if his new duties were a misfit, I felt I had no right to be
offended. My telling him so, appeared to relieve him; and he shook hands
with me.

'I am charmed, Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber, 'let me assure you, with
Miss Wickfield. She is a very superior young lady, of very remarkable
attractions, graces, and virtues. Upon my honour,' said Mr. Micawber,
indefinitely kissing his hand and bowing with his genteelest air, 'I do
Homage to Miss Wickfield! Hem!' 'I am glad of that, at least,' said I.

'If you had not assured us, my dear Copperfield, on the occasion of that
agreeable afternoon we had the happiness of passing with you, that D.
was your favourite letter,' said Mr. Micawber, 'I should unquestionably
have supposed that A. had been so.'

We have all some experience of a feeling, that comes over us
occasionally, of what we are saying and doing having been said and done
before, in a remote time--of our having been surrounded, dim ages ago,
by the same faces, objects, and circumstances--of our knowing perfectly
what will be said next, as if we suddenly remembered it! I never had
this mysterious impression more strongly in my life, than before he
uttered those words.

I took my leave of Mr. Micawber, for the time, charging him with my best
remembrances to all at home. As I left him, resuming his stool and his
pen, and rolling his head in his stock, to get it into easier writing
order, I clearly perceived that there was something interposed between
him and me, since he had come into his new functions, which prevented
our getting at each other as we used to do, and quite altered the
character of our intercourse.

There was no one in the quaint old drawing-room, though it presented
tokens of Mrs. Heep's whereabouts. I looked into the room still
belonging to Agnes, and saw her sitting by the fire, at a pretty
old-fashioned desk she had, writing.

My darkening the light made her look up. What a pleasure to be the cause
of that bright change in her attentive face, and the object of that
sweet regard and welcome!

'Ah, Agnes!' said I, when we were sitting together, side by side; 'I
have missed you so much, lately!'

'Indeed?' she replied. 'Again! And so soon?'

I shook my head.

'I don't know how it is, Agnes; I seem to want some faculty of mind that
I ought to have. You were so much in the habit of thinking for me, in
the happy old days here, and I came so naturally to you for counsel and
support, that I really think I have missed acquiring it.'

'And what is it?' said Agnes, cheerfully.

'I don't know what to call it,' I replied. 'I think I am earnest and
persevering?'

'I am sure of it,' said Agnes.

'And patient, Agnes?' I inquired, with a little hesitation.

'Yes,' returned Agnes, laughing. 'Pretty well.'

'And yet,' said I, 'I get so miserable and worried, and am so unsteady
and irresolute in my power of assuring myself, that I know I must
want--shall I call it--reliance, of some kind?'

'Call it so, if you will,' said Agnes.

'Well!' I returned. 'See here! You come to London, I rely on you, and I
have an object and a course at once. I am driven out of it, I come
here, and in a moment I feel an altered person. The circumstances that
distressed me are not changed, since I came into this room; but an
influence comes over me in that short interval that alters me, oh, how
much for the better! What is it? What is your secret, Agnes?'

Her head was bent down, looking at the fire.

'It's the old story,' said I. 'Don't laugh, when I say it was always
the same in little things as it is in greater ones. My old troubles were
nonsense, and now they are serious; but whenever I have gone away from
my adopted sister--'

Agnes looked up--with such a Heavenly face!--and gave me her hand, which
I kissed.

'Whenever I have not had you, Agnes, to advise and approve in the
beginning, I have seemed to go wild, and to get into all sorts of
difficulty. When I have come to you, at last (as I have always done),
I have come to peace and happiness. I come home, now, like a tired
traveller, and find such a blessed sense of rest!'

I felt so deeply what I said, it affected me so sincerely, that my voice
failed, and I covered my face with my hand, and broke into tears. I
write the truth. Whatever contradictions and inconsistencies there were
within me, as there are within so many of us; whatever might have been
so different, and so much better; whatever I had done, in which I had
perversely wandered away from the voice of my own heart; I knew nothing
of. I only knew that I was fervently in earnest, when I felt the rest
and peace of having Agnes near me.

In her placid sisterly manner; with her beaming eyes; with her tender
voice; and with that sweet composure, which had long ago made the house
that held her quite a sacred place to me; she soon won me from this
weakness, and led me on to tell all that had happened since our last
meeting.

'And there is not another word to tell, Agnes,' said I, when I had made
an end of my confidence. 'Now, my reliance is on you.'

'But it must not be on me, Trotwood,' returned Agnes, with a pleasant
smile. 'It must be on someone else.'

'On Dora?' said I.

'Assuredly.'

'Why, I have not mentioned, Agnes,' said I, a little embarrassed, 'that
Dora is rather difficult to--I would not, for the world, say, to rely
upon, because she is the soul of purity and truth--but rather difficult
to--I hardly know how to express it, really, Agnes. She is a timid
little thing, and easily disturbed and frightened. Some time ago, before
her father's death, when I thought it right to mention to her--but I'll
tell you, if you will bear with me, how it was.'

Accordingly, I told Agnes about my declaration of poverty, about the
cookery-book, the housekeeping accounts, and all the rest of it.

'Oh, Trotwood!' she remonstrated, with a smile. 'Just your old headlong
way! You might have been in earnest in striving to get on in the world,
without being so very sudden with a timid, loving, inexperienced girl.
Poor Dora!'

I never heard such sweet forbearing kindness expressed in a voice,
as she expressed in making this reply. It was as if I had seen her
admiringly and tenderly embracing Dora, and tacitly reproving me, by
her considerate protection, for my hot haste in fluttering that little
heart. It was as if I had seen Dora, in all her fascinating artlessness,
caressing Agnes, and thanking her, and coaxingly appealing against me,
and loving me with all her childish innocence.

I felt so grateful to Agnes, and admired her so! I saw those two
together, in a bright perspective, such well-associated friends, each
adorning the other so much!

'What ought I to do then, Agnes?' I inquired, after looking at the fire
a little while. 'What would it be right to do?'

'I think,' said Agnes, 'that the honourable course to take, would be to
write to those two ladies. Don't you think that any secret course is an
unworthy one?'

'Yes. If YOU think so,' said I.

'I am poorly qualified to judge of such matters,' replied Agnes, with
a modest hesitation, 'but I certainly feel--in short, I feel that your
being secret and clandestine, is not being like yourself.'

'Like myself, in the too high opinion you have of me, Agnes, I am
afraid,' said I.

'Like yourself, in the candour of your nature,' she returned; 'and
therefore I would write to those two ladies. I would relate, as plainly
and as openly as possible, all that has taken place; and I would ask
their permission to visit sometimes, at their house. Considering that
you are young, and striving for a place in life, I think it would be
well to say that you would readily abide by any conditions they might
impose upon you. I would entreat them not to dismiss your request,
without a reference to Dora; and to discuss it with her when they should
think the time suitable. I would not be too vehement,' said Agnes,
gently, 'or propose too much. I would trust to my fidelity and
perseverance--and to Dora.'

'But if they were to frighten Dora again, Agnes, by speaking to her,'
said I. 'And if Dora were to cry, and say nothing about me!'

'Is that likely?' inquired Agnes, with the same sweet consideration in
her face.

'God bless her, she is as easily scared as a bird,' said I. 'It might
be! Or if the two Miss Spenlows (elderly ladies of that sort are odd
characters sometimes) should not be likely persons to address in that
way!'

'I don't think, Trotwood,' returned Agnes, raising her soft eyes
to mine, 'I would consider that. Perhaps it would be better only to
consider whether it is right to do this; and, if it is, to do it.'

I had no longer any doubt on the subject. With a lightened heart, though
with a profound sense of the weighty importance of my task, I devoted
the whole afternoon to the composition of the draft of this letter; for
which great purpose, Agnes relinquished her desk to me. But first I went
downstairs to see Mr. Wickfield and Uriah Heep.

I found Uriah in possession of a new, plaster-smelling office, built out
in the garden; looking extraordinarily mean, in the midst of a quantity
of books and papers. He received me in his usual fawning way, and
pretended not to have heard of my arrival from Mr. Micawber; a
pretence I took the liberty of disbelieving. He accompanied me into Mr.
Wickfield's room, which was the shadow of its former self--having been
divested of a variety of conveniences, for the accommodation of the new
partner--and stood before the fire, warming his back, and shaving his
chin with his bony hand, while Mr. Wickfield and I exchanged greetings.

'You stay with us, Trotwood, while you remain in Canterbury?' said Mr.
Wickfield, not without a glance at Uriah for his approval.

'Is there room for me?' said I.

'I am sure, Master Copperfield--I should say Mister, but the other
comes so natural,' said Uriah,--'I would turn out of your old room with
pleasure, if it would be agreeable.'

'No, no,' said Mr. Wickfield. 'Why should you be inconvenienced? There's
another room. There's another room.' 'Oh, but you know,' returned Uriah,
with a grin, 'I should really be delighted!'

To cut the matter short, I said I would have the other room or none at
all; so it was settled that I should have the other room; and, taking my
leave of the firm until dinner, I went upstairs again.

I had hoped to have no other companion than Agnes. But Mrs. Heep had
asked permission to bring herself and her knitting near the fire, in
that room; on pretence of its having an aspect more favourable for
her rheumatics, as the wind then was, than the drawing-room or
dining-parlour. Though I could almost have consigned her to the mercies
of the wind on the topmost pinnacle of the Cathedral, without remorse, I
made a virtue of necessity, and gave her a friendly salutation.

'I'm umbly thankful to you, sir,' said Mrs. Heep, in acknowledgement of
my inquiries concerning her health, 'but I'm only pretty well. I haven't
much to boast of. If I could see my Uriah well settled in life, I
couldn't expect much more I think. How do you think my Ury looking,
sir?'

I thought him looking as villainous as ever, and I replied that I saw no
change in him.

'Oh, don't you think he's changed?' said Mrs. Heep. 'There I must umbly
beg leave to differ from you. Don't you see a thinness in him?'

'Not more than usual,' I replied.

'Don't you though!' said Mrs. Heep. 'But you don't take notice of him
with a mother's eye!'

His mother's eye was an evil eye to the rest of the world, I thought as
it met mine, howsoever affectionate to him; and I believe she and her
son were devoted to one another. It passed me, and went on to Agnes.

'Don't YOU see a wasting and a wearing in him, Miss Wickfield?' inquired
Mrs. Heep.

'No,' said Agnes, quietly pursuing the work on which she was engaged.
'You are too solicitous about him. He is very well.'

Mrs. Heep, with a prodigious sniff, resumed her knitting.

She never left off, or left us for a moment. I had arrived early in the
day, and we had still three or four hours before dinner; but she sat
there, plying her knitting-needles as monotonously as an hour-glass
might have poured out its sands. She sat on one side of the fire; I sat
at the desk in front of it; a little beyond me, on the other side, sat
Agnes. Whensoever, slowly pondering over my letter, I lifted up my
eyes, and meeting the thoughtful face of Agnes, saw it clear, and beam
encouragement upon me, with its own angelic expression, I was conscious
presently of the evil eye passing me, and going on to her, and coming
back to me again, and dropping furtively upon the knitting. What the
knitting was, I don't know, not being learned in that art; but it looked
like a net; and as she worked away with those Chinese chopsticks of
knitting-needles, she showed in the firelight like an ill-looking
enchantress, baulked as yet by the radiant goodness opposite, but
getting ready for a cast of her net by and by.

At dinner she maintained her watch, with the same unwinking eyes. After
dinner, her son took his turn; and when Mr. Wickfield, himself, and I
were left alone together, leered at me, and writhed until I could hardly
bear it. In the drawing-room, there was the mother knitting and watching
again. All the time that Agnes sang and played, the mother sat at the
piano. Once she asked for a particular ballad, which she said her Ury
(who was yawning in a great chair) doted on; and at intervals she looked
round at him, and reported to Agnes that he was in raptures with the
music. But she hardly ever spoke--I question if she ever did--without
making some mention of him. It was evident to me that this was the duty
assigned to her.

This lasted until bedtime. To have seen the mother and son, like two
great bats hanging over the whole house, and darkening it with their
ugly forms, made me so uncomfortable, that I would rather have remained
downstairs, knitting and all, than gone to bed. I hardly got any sleep.
Next day the knitting and watching began again, and lasted all day.

I had not an opportunity of speaking to Agnes, for ten minutes. I could
barely show her my letter. I proposed to her to walk out with me; but
Mrs. Heep repeatedly complaining that she was worse, Agnes charitably
remained within, to bear her company. Towards the twilight I went out
by myself, musing on what I ought to do, and whether I was justified
in withholding from Agnes, any longer, what Uriah Heep had told me in
London; for that began to trouble me again, very much.

I had not walked out far enough to be quite clear of the town, upon the
Ramsgate road, where there was a good path, when I was hailed, through
the dust, by somebody behind me. The shambling figure, and the scanty
great-coat, were not to be mistaken. I stopped, and Uriah Heep came up.

'Well?' said I.

'How fast you walk!' said he. 'My legs are pretty long, but you've given
'em quite a job.'

'Where are you going?' said I.

'I am going with you, Master Copperfield, if you'll allow me the
pleasure of a walk with an old acquaintance.' Saying this, with a jerk
of his body, which might have been either propitiatory or derisive, he
fell into step beside me.

'Uriah!' said I, as civilly as I could, after a silence.

'Master Copperfield!' said Uriah.

'To tell you the truth (at which you will not be offended), I came Out
to walk alone, because I have had so much company.'

He looked at me sideways, and said with his hardest grin, 'You mean
mother.'

'Why yes, I do,' said I.

'Ah! But you know we're so very umble,' he returned. 'And having such a
knowledge of our own umbleness, we must really take care that we're not
pushed to the wall by them as isn't umble. All stratagems are fair in
love, sir.'

Raising his great hands until they touched his chin, he rubbed them
softly, and softly chuckled; looking as like a malevolent baboon, I
thought, as anything human could look.

'You see,' he said, still hugging himself in that unpleasant way,
and shaking his head at me, 'you're quite a dangerous rival, Master
Copperfield. You always was, you know.'

'Do you set a watch upon Miss Wickfield, and make her home no home,
because of me?' said I.

'Oh! Master Copperfield! Those are very arsh words,' he replied.

'Put my meaning into any words you like,' said I. 'You know what it is,
Uriah, as well as I do.'

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

'Do you suppose,' said I, constraining myself to be very temperate
and quiet with him, on account of Agnes, 'that I regard Miss Wickfield
otherwise than as a very dear sister?'

'Well, Master Copperfield,' he replied, 'you perceive I am not bound
to answer that question. You may not, you know. But then, you see, you
may!'

Anything to equal the low cunning of his visage, and of his shadowless
eyes without the ghost of an eyelash, I never saw.

'Come then!' said I. 'For the sake of Miss Wickfield--'

'My Agnes!' he exclaimed, with a sickly, angular contortion of himself.
'Would you be so good as call her Agnes, Master Copperfield!'

'For the sake of Agnes Wickfield--Heaven bless her!'

'Thank you for that blessing, Master Copperfield!' he interposed.

'I will tell you what I should, under any other circumstances, as soon
have thought of telling to--Jack Ketch.'

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

'To the hangman,' I returned. 'The most unlikely person I could think
of,'--though his own face had suggested the allusion quite as a natural
sequence. 'I am engaged to another young lady. I hope that contents
you.'

'Upon your soul?' said Uriah.

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

'Oh, Master Copperfield!' he said. 'If you had only had the
condescension to return my confidence when I poured out the fulness of
my art, the night I put you so much out of the way by sleeping before
your sitting-room fire, I never should have doubted you. As it is, I'm
sure I'll take off mother directly, and only too appy. I know you'll
excuse the precautions of affection, won't you? What a pity, Master
Copperfield, that you didn't condescend to return my confidence! I'm
sure I gave you every opportunity. But you never have condescended to
me, as much as I could have wished. I know you have never liked me, as I
have liked you!'

All this time he was squeezing my hand with his damp fishy fingers,
while I made every effort I decently could to get it away. But I was
quite unsuccessful. He drew it under the sleeve of his mulberry-coloured
great-coat, and I walked on, almost upon compulsion, arm-in-arm with
him.

'Shall we turn?' said Uriah, by and by wheeling me face about towards
the town, on which the early moon was now shining, silvering the distant
windows.

'Before we leave the subject, you ought to understand,' said I, breaking
a pretty long silence, 'that I believe Agnes Wickfield to be as far
above you, and as far removed from all your aspirations, as that moon
herself!'

'Peaceful! Ain't she!' said Uriah. 'Very! Now confess, Master
Copperfield, that you haven't liked me quite as I have liked you. All
along you've thought me too umble now, I shouldn't wonder?'

'I am not fond of professions of humility,' I returned, 'or professions
of anything else.' 'There now!' said Uriah, looking flabby and
lead-coloured in the moonlight. 'Didn't I know it! But how little
you think of the rightful umbleness of a person in my station, Master
Copperfield! Father and me was both brought up at a foundation school
for boys; and mother, she was likewise brought up at a public, sort of
charitable, establishment. They taught us all a deal of umbleness--not
much else that I know of, from morning to night. We was to be umble to
this person, and umble to that; and to pull off our caps here, and
to make bows there; and always to know our place, and abase ourselves
before our betters. And we had such a lot of betters! Father got the
monitor-medal by being umble. So did I. Father got made a sexton by
being umble. He had the character, among the gentlefolks, of being
such a well-behaved man, that they were determined to bring him in. "Be
umble, Uriah," says father to me, "and you'll get on. It was what was
always being dinned into you and me at school; it's what goes down best.
Be umble," says father, "and you'll do!" And really it ain't done bad!'

It was the first time it had ever occurred to me, that this detestable
cant of false humility might have originated out of the Heep family. I
had seen the harvest, but had never thought of the seed.

'When I was quite a young boy,' said Uriah, 'I got to know what
umbleness did, and I took to it. I ate umble pie with an appetite. I
stopped at the umble point of my learning, and says I, "Hold hard!" When
you offered to teach me Latin, I knew better. "People like to be above
you," says father, "keep yourself down." I am very umble to the present
moment, Master Copperfield, but I've got a little power!'

And he said all this--I knew, as I saw his face in the moonlight--that
I might understand he was resolved to recompense himself by using his
power. I had never doubted his meanness, his craft and malice; but I
fully comprehended now, for the first time, what a base, unrelenting,
and revengeful spirit, must have been engendered by this early, and this
long, suppression.

His account of himself was so far attended with an agreeable result,
that it led to his withdrawing his hand in order that he might have
another hug of himself under the chin. Once apart from him, I was
determined to keep apart; and we walked back, side by side, saying
very little more by the way. Whether his spirits were elevated by the
communication I had made to him, or by his having indulged in this
retrospect, I don't know; but they were raised by some influence. He
talked more at dinner than was usual with him; asked his mother (off
duty, from the moment of our re-entering the house) whether he was not
growing too old for a bachelor; and once looked at Agnes so, that I
would have given all I had, for leave to knock him down.

When we three males were left alone after dinner, he got into a more
adventurous state. He had taken little or no wine; and I presume it was
the mere insolence of triumph that was upon him, flushed perhaps by the
temptation my presence furnished to its exhibition.

I had observed yesterday, that he tried to entice Mr. Wickfield to
drink; and, interpreting the look which Agnes had given me as she went
out, had limited myself to one glass, and then proposed that we should
follow her. I would have done so again today; but Uriah was too quick
for me.

'We seldom see our present visitor, sir,' he said, addressing Mr.
Wickfield, sitting, such a contrast to him, at the end of the table,
'and I should propose to give him welcome in another glass or two
of wine, if you have no objections. Mr. Copperfield, your elth and
appiness!'

I was obliged to make a show of taking the hand he stretched across
to me; and then, with very different emotions, I took the hand of the
broken gentleman, his partner.

'Come, fellow-partner,' said Uriah, 'if I may take the liberty,--now,
suppose you give us something or another appropriate to Copperfield!'

I pass over Mr. Wickfield's proposing my aunt, his proposing Mr. Dick,
his proposing Doctors' Commons, his proposing Uriah, his drinking
everything twice; his consciousness of his own weakness, the ineffectual
effort that he made against it; the struggle between his shame in
Uriah's deportment, and his desire to conciliate him; the manifest
exultation with which Uriah twisted and turned, and held him up before
me. It made me sick at heart to see, and my hand recoils from writing
it.

'Come, fellow-partner!' said Uriah, at last, 'I'll give you another one,
and I umbly ask for bumpers, seeing I intend to make it the divinest of
her sex.'

Her father had his empty glass in his hand. I saw him set it down, look
at the picture she was so like, put his hand to his forehead, and shrink
back in his elbow-chair.

'I'm an umble individual to give you her elth,' proceeded Uriah, 'but I
admire--adore her.'

No physical pain that her father's grey head could have borne, I think,
could have been more terrible to me, than the mental endurance I saw
compressed now within both his hands.

'Agnes,' said Uriah, either not regarding him, or not knowing what the
nature of his action was, 'Agnes Wickfield is, I am safe to say, the
divinest of her sex. May I speak out, among friends? To be her father is
a proud distinction, but to be her usband--'

Spare me from ever again hearing such a cry, as that with which her
father rose up from the table! 'What's the matter?' said Uriah, turning
of a deadly colour. 'You are not gone mad, after all, Mr. Wickfield, I
hope? If I say I've an ambition to make your Agnes my Agnes, I have as
good a right to it as another man. I have a better right to it than any
other man!'

I had my arms round Mr. Wickfield, imploring him by everything that I
could think of, oftenest of all by his love for Agnes, to calm himself
a little. He was mad for the moment; tearing out his hair, beating his
head, trying to force me from him, and to force himself from me, not
answering a word, not looking at or seeing anyone; blindly striving
for he knew not what, his face all staring and distorted--a frightful
spectacle.

I conjured him, incoherently, but in the most impassioned manner, not
to abandon himself to this wildness, but to hear me. I besought him to
think of Agnes, to connect me with Agnes, to recollect how Agnes and I
had grown up together, how I honoured her and loved her, how she was his
pride and joy. I tried to bring her idea before him in any form; I even
reproached him with not having firmness to spare her the knowledge of
such a scene as this. I may have effected something, or his wildness may
have spent itself; but by degrees he struggled less, and began to look
at me--strangely at first, then with recognition in his eyes. At length
he said, 'I know, Trotwood! My darling child and you--I know! But look
at him!'

He pointed to Uriah, pale and glowering in a corner, evidently very much
out in his calculations, and taken by surprise.

'Look at my torturer,' he replied. 'Before him I have step by step
abandoned name and reputation, peace and quiet, house and home.'

'I have kept your name and reputation for you, and your peace and
quiet, and your house and home too,' said Uriah, with a sulky, hurried,
defeated air of compromise. 'Don't be foolish, Mr. Wickfield. If I
have gone a little beyond what you were prepared for, I can go back, I
suppose? There's no harm done.'

'I looked for single motives in everyone,' said Mr. Wickfield, 'and I was
satisfied I had bound him to me by motives of interest. But see what he
is--oh, see what he is!'

'You had better stop him, Copperfield, if you can,' cried Uriah,
with his long forefinger pointing towards me. 'He'll say something
presently--mind you!--he'll be sorry to have said afterwards, and you'll
be sorry to have heard!'

'I'll say anything!' cried Mr. Wickfield, with a desperate air. 'Why
should I not be in all the world's power if I am in yours?'

'Mind! I tell you!' said Uriah, continuing to warn me. 'If you don't
stop his mouth, you're not his friend! Why shouldn't you be in all the
world's power, Mr. Wickfield? Because you have got a daughter. You and
me know what we know, don't we? Let sleeping dogs lie--who wants to
rouse 'em? I don't. Can't you see I am as umble as I can be? I tell you,
if I've gone too far, I'm sorry. What would you have, sir?'

'Oh, Trotwood, Trotwood!'exclaimed Mr. Wickfield, wringing his hands.
'What I have come down to be, since I first saw you in this house! I was
on my downward way then, but the dreary, dreary road I have traversed
since! Weak indulgence has ruined me. Indulgence in remembrance, and
indulgence in forgetfulness. My natural grief for my child's mother
turned to disease; my natural love for my child turned to disease. I
have infected everything I touched. I have brought misery on what I
dearly love, I know--you know! I thought it possible that I could truly
love one creature in the world, and not love the rest; I thought it
possible that I could truly mourn for one creature gone out of the
world, and not have some part in the grief of all who mourned. Thus the
lessons of my life have been perverted! I have preyed on my own morbid
coward heart, and it has preyed on me. Sordid in my grief, sordid in my
love, sordid in my miserable escape from the darker side of both, oh see
the ruin I am, and hate me, shun me!'

He dropped into a chair, and weakly sobbed. The excitement into which he
had been roused was leaving him. Uriah came out of his corner.

'I don't know all I have done, in my fatuity,' said Mr. Wickfield,
putting out his hands, as if to deprecate my condemnation. 'He knows
best,' meaning Uriah Heep, 'for he has always been at my elbow,
whispering me. You see the millstone that he is about my neck. You
find him in my house, you find him in my business. You heard him, but a
little time ago. What need have I to say more!'

'You haven't need to say so much, nor half so much, nor anything at
all,' observed Uriah, half defiant, and half fawning. 'You wouldn't have
took it up so, if it hadn't been for the wine. You'll think better of
it tomorrow, sir. If I have said too much, or more than I meant, what of
it? I haven't stood by it!'

The door opened, and Agnes, gliding in, without a vestige of colour in
her face, put her arm round his neck, and steadily said, 'Papa, you are
not well. Come with me!'

He laid his head upon her shoulder, as if he were oppressed with heavy
shame, and went out with her. Her eyes met mine for but an instant, yet
I saw how much she knew of what had passed.

'I didn't expect he'd cut up so rough, Master Copperfield,' said Uriah.
'But it's nothing. I'll be friends with him tomorrow. It's for his good.
I'm umbly anxious for his good.'

I gave him no answer, and went upstairs into the quiet room where Agnes
had so often sat beside me at my books. Nobody came near me until late
at night. I took up a book, and tried to read. I heard the clocks strike
twelve, and was still reading, without knowing what I read, when Agnes
touched me.

'You will be going early in the morning, Trotwood! Let us say good-bye,
now!'

She had been weeping, but her face then was so calm and beautiful!

'Heaven bless you!' she said, giving me her hand.

'Dearest Agnes!' I returned, 'I see you ask me not to speak of
tonight--but is there nothing to be done?'

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

'Can I do nothing--I, who come to you with my poor sorrows?'

'And make mine so much lighter,' she replied. 'Dear Trotwood, no!'

'Dear Agnes,' I said, 'it is presumptuous for me, who am so poor in all
in which you are so rich--goodness, resolution, all noble qualities--to
doubt or direct you; but you know how much I love you, and how much I
owe you. You will never sacrifice yourself to a mistaken sense of duty,
Agnes?'

More agitated for a moment than I had ever seen her, she took her hands
from me, and moved a step back.

'Say you have no such thought, dear Agnes! Much more than sister!
Think of the priceless gift of such a heart as yours, of such a love as
yours!'

Oh! long, long afterwards, I saw that face rise up before me, with its
momentary look, not wondering, not accusing, not regretting. Oh, long,
long afterwards, I saw that look subside, as it did now, into the lovely
smile, with which she told me she had no fear for herself--I need have
none for her--and parted from me by the name of Brother, and was gone!

It was dark in the morning, when I got upon the coach at the inn door.
The day was just breaking when we were about to start, and then, as
I sat thinking of her, came struggling up the coach side, through the
mingled day and night, Uriah's head.

'Copperfield!' said he, in a croaking whisper, as he hung by the iron
on the roof, 'I thought you'd be glad to hear before you went off, that
there are no squares broke between us. I've been into his room already,
and we've made it all smooth. Why, though I'm umble, I'm useful to him,
you know; and he understands his interest when he isn't in liquor! What
an agreeable man he is, after all, Master Copperfield!'

I obliged myself to say that I was glad he had made his apology.

'Oh, to be sure!' said Uriah. 'When a person's umble, you know, what's
an apology? So easy! I say! I suppose,' with a jerk, 'you have sometimes
plucked a pear before it was ripe, Master Copperfield?'

'I suppose I have,' I replied.

'I did that last night,' said Uriah; 'but it'll ripen yet! It only wants
attending to. I can wait!'

Profuse in his farewells, he got down again as the coachman got up. For
anything I know, he was eating something to keep the raw morning
air out; but he made motions with his mouth as if the pear were ripe
already, and he were smacking his lips over it.

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

completion: Miss Betsey is worried about David's state of mind. She sends him to Dover to check up on the cottage and to oversee the tenant's signing of a long-term lease. Janet has gone into Annie's service, so David sees her regularly. David is glad to go because he wants to spend a few hours talking to Agnes. Doctor Strong is happy to give David three days off, and there's nothing very pressing going on at the law office. In fact, business isn't so great without Mr. Spenlow to manage things energetically. Mr. Jorkins actually isn't very capable, and he doesn't get much business. David is really disappointed that he's stuck with this guy, and that Miss Betsey's thousand pounds is going to waste. The cottage looks great, and David is pleased to see that the tenant is faithfully keeping the donkeys off the lawn. David visits Mr. Wickfield's house, where he finds Mr. Micawber working where Uriah Heep used to. Mr. Micawber is renting Uriah Heep's old house, and he would be happy to get a visit from David some time. Micawber tells David that he appreciates Uriah Heep because he has been willing to advance Mr. Micawber's salary from time to time. David is glad that Mr. Micawber is getting along all right. He asks how Mr. Wickfield is doing. Mr. Micawber comments that Mr. Wickfield isn't needed in the office much. In fact, Mr. Micawber refuses to discuss the dealings of Wickfield and Heep with David any longer. David tells Mr. Micawber that's fine, and they shake hands. Mr. Micawber does really like Miss Wickfield, who seems superior and virtuous. He's surprised that David isn't pursuing Agnes. David has a strange moment of knowing exactly what Mr. Micawber was going to say before he says it. He feels uncomfortable: Mr. Micawber's new job has put an unfamiliar distance between him and David. David heads off to find Agnes. He tells Agnes that, as his adopted sister, she gives him a sense of steadiness and self-reliance that he lacks without her. David can rest when he is with Agnes, so he bursts into tears. She comforts him. Agnes reminds David that his reliance should no longer come from Agnes, but from Dora. David tells Agnes about that evening when he came in to tell Dora of his poverty and she couldn't hear it without freaking out. Agnes says that it's just like David to barge in on a timid and inexperienced girl like Dora. David admires Agnes's kind, protective regard for Dora. He asks Agnes what he should do. Agnes suggests that David should not be secretive again: he should write to Dora's aunts about their relationship, and he should ask permission to visit sometimes. David agrees happily. He then goes downstairs to see Mr. Wickfield and Uriah Heep. Mr. Wickfield asks if David will stay with them while he is at Canterbury. David asks if there is room, and Uriah offers to give up his room to David. Mr. Wickfield won't hear of that, and says there is another room. After deciding to stay, David retreats upstairs until dinner. He wants to sit with Agnes, but Mrs. Heep, Uriah's mother, insists on coming along. Mrs. Heep wants to spend all of her time talking and worrying over Uriah Heep. Uriah's mother absolutely never lets David and Agnes sit alone together. David finally goes out for a walk by himself. Soon, he sees Uriah Heep walking out behind him. Uriah Heep catches up and asks to walk with David a while. David confesses that he had wanted some time by himself. Uriah Heep clarifies that David wants time away from Uriah Heep's mother. David answers yes. Uriah Heep tells David that all's fair in love, and he finds David a difficult rival. Angrily, David replies that he thinks of Agnes as nothing more than a sister. He tells Uriah that he is engaged to another woman, if that's any comfort to Uriah. Uriah grabs his hand, thanks him, and promises to call his mother off from her guard duty. Heep informs David that it's a pity that he has never liked Uriah the way Uriah likes him, or they could've cleared up this misunderstanding sooner. David reminds Uriah that Agnes is worth a whole lot more than Uriah. Uriah explains: humbleness has been drilled into his family by generations of schools and charities, because they have been so poor. The Heeps have learned that the only thing that gets people like them ahead in life is to be as humble as it is possible to be. Suddenly, David understands. He had known that Uriah was malicious and cruel, but he now sees how much of Uriah's behavior is motivated by revenge for all of this humble pie he's been eating. They walk back to Mr. Wickfield's house without saying much more. After dinner, Uriah really acts out: while David is sitting with Mr. Wickfield, Uriah keeps offering Mr. Wickfield more drink. Mr. Wickfield is aware of how weak he is being at drinking more and more but he cannot stop himself. It makes David sick to see Uriah Heep playing on Mr. Wickfield's drinking problem like this. Finally, Uriah Heep makes Mr. Wickfield drink to Agnes. Heep tells Mr. Wickfield that he adores her. Uriah Heep says the h-word: husband. At this, Mr. Wickfield cries out and jumps out of his chair. Uriah Heep wonders if Mr. Wickfield has gone mad. David tries to calm Mr. Wickfield down. Finally, Mr. Wickfield points to Uriah and calls him a torturer, who has forced Mr. Wickfield to abandon his reputation and his happiness at home. Uriah Heep reminds Mr. Wickfield that it's thanks to Uriah that he still has any kind of reputation. Uriah warns David to shut Mr. Wickfield up: if he keeps talking, he'll say something he'll regret. Mr. Wickfield begins to weep that he has ruined everything he touches with his weakness. Agnes comes in, wraps her arm around Mr. Wickfield, and tells him to come with her. David realizes that Agnes knows everything that has happened inside the room that evening. Uriah tells David that Mr. Wickfield will think better of his words the next morning. David asks Agnes if there is anything at all he can do for her? He loves her so much - as a sister! Agnes's face has a strange look, but she tells David not to worry about her. David has to leave Canterbury before dawn, but Uriah Heep is there to say a last word. Uriah's already smoothed things over with Mr. Wickfield. What's more, he may have been premature in trying to get permission to marry Agnes the night before, but the time will come.


prompt:
Chapter: We had a very serious conversation in Buckingham Street that night,
about the domestic occurrences I have detailed in the last chapter. My
aunt was deeply interested in them, and walked up and down the room with
her arms folded, for more than two hours afterwards. Whenever she was
particularly discomposed, she always performed one of these pedestrian
feats; and the amount of her discomposure might always be estimated by
the duration of her walk. On this occasion she was so much disturbed in
mind as to find it necessary to open the bedroom door, and make a course
for herself, comprising the full extent of the bedrooms from wall to
wall; and while Mr. Dick and I sat quietly by the fire, she kept passing
in and out, along this measured track, at an unchanging pace, with the
regularity of a clock-pendulum.

When my aunt and I were left to ourselves by Mr. Dick's going out to
bed, I sat down to write my letter to the two old ladies. By that time
she was tired of walking, and sat by the fire with her dress tucked up
as usual. But instead of sitting in her usual manner, holding her glass
upon her knee, she suffered it to stand neglected on the chimney-piece;
and, resting her left elbow on her right arm, and her chin on her left
hand, looked thoughtfully at me. As often as I raised my eyes from what
I was about, I met hers. 'I am in the lovingest of tempers, my dear,'
she would assure me with a nod, 'but I am fidgeted and sorry!'

I had been too busy to observe, until after she was gone to bed, that
she had left her night-mixture, as she always called it, untasted on
the chimney-piece. She came to her door, with even more than her usual
affection of manner, when I knocked to acquaint her with this discovery;
but only said, 'I have not the heart to take it, Trot, tonight,' and
shook her head, and went in again.

She read my letter to the two old ladies, in the morning, and approved
of it. I posted it, and had nothing to do then, but wait, as patiently
as I could, for the reply. I was still in this state of expectation, and
had been, for nearly a week; when I left the Doctor's one snowy night,
to walk home.

It had been a bitter day, and a cutting north-east wind had blown for
some time. The wind had gone down with the light, and so the snow had
come on. It was a heavy, settled fall, I recollect, in great flakes; and
it lay thick. The noise of wheels and tread of people were as hushed, as
if the streets had been strewn that depth with feathers.

My shortest way home,--and I naturally took the shortest way on such a
night--was through St. Martin's Lane. Now, the church which gives its
name to the lane, stood in a less free situation at that time; there
being no open space before it, and the lane winding down to the Strand.
As I passed the steps of the portico, I encountered, at the corner,
a woman's face. It looked in mine, passed across the narrow lane,
and disappeared. I knew it. I had seen it somewhere. But I could not
remember where. I had some association with it, that struck upon my
heart directly; but I was thinking of anything else when it came upon
me, and was confused.

On the steps of the church, there was the stooping figure of a man, who
had put down some burden on the smooth snow, to adjust it; my seeing the
face, and my seeing him, were simultaneous. I don't think I had stopped
in my surprise; but, in any case, as I went on, he rose, turned, and
came down towards me. I stood face to face with Mr. Peggotty!

Then I remembered the woman. It was Martha, to whom Emily had given the
money that night in the kitchen. Martha Endell--side by side with whom,
he would not have seen his dear niece, Ham had told me, for all the
treasures wrecked in the sea.

We shook hands heartily. At first, neither of us could speak a word.

'Mas'r Davy!' he said, gripping me tight, 'it do my art good to see you,
sir. Well met, well met!'

'Well met, my dear old friend!' said I.

'I had my thowts o' coming to make inquiration for you, sir, tonight,'
he said, 'but knowing as your aunt was living along wi' you--fur I've
been down yonder--Yarmouth way--I was afeerd it was too late. I should
have come early in the morning, sir, afore going away.'

'Again?' said I.

'Yes, sir,' he replied, patiently shaking his head, 'I'm away tomorrow.'

'Where were you going now?' I asked.

'Well!' he replied, shaking the snow out of his long hair, 'I was
a-going to turn in somewheers.'

In those days there was a side-entrance to the stable-yard of the Golden
Cross, the inn so memorable to me in connexion with his misfortune,
nearly opposite to where we stood. I pointed out the gateway, put my arm
through his, and we went across. Two or three public-rooms opened out of
the stable-yard; and looking into one of them, and finding it empty, and
a good fire burning, I took him in there.

When I saw him in the light, I observed, not only that his hair was long
and ragged, but that his face was burnt dark by the sun. He was greyer,
the lines in his face and forehead were deeper, and he had every
appearance of having toiled and wandered through all varieties
of weather; but he looked very strong, and like a man upheld by
steadfastness of purpose, whom nothing could tire out. He shook the snow
from his hat and clothes, and brushed it away from his face, while I was
inwardly making these remarks. As he sat down opposite to me at a table,
with his back to the door by which we had entered, he put out his rough
hand again, and grasped mine warmly.

'I'll tell you, Mas'r Davy,' he said,--'wheer all I've been, and
what-all we've heerd. I've been fur, and we've heerd little; but I'll
tell you!'

I rang the bell for something hot to drink. He would have nothing
stronger than ale; and while it was being brought, and being warmed
at the fire, he sat thinking. There was a fine, massive gravity in his
face, I did not venture to disturb.

'When she was a child,' he said, lifting up his head soon after we were
left alone, 'she used to talk to me a deal about the sea, and about
them coasts where the sea got to be dark blue, and to lay a-shining and
a-shining in the sun. I thowt, odd times, as her father being drownded
made her think on it so much. I doen't know, you see, but maybe she
believed--or hoped--he had drifted out to them parts, where the flowers
is always a-blowing, and the country bright.'

'It is likely to have been a childish fancy,' I replied.

'When she was--lost,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'I know'd in my mind, as he
would take her to them countries. I know'd in my mind, as he'd have told
her wonders of 'em, and how she was to be a lady theer, and how he got
her to listen to him fust, along o' sech like. When we see his mother,
I know'd quite well as I was right. I went across-channel to France, and
landed theer, as if I'd fell down from the sky.'

I saw the door move, and the snow drift in. I saw it move a little more,
and a hand softly interpose to keep it open.

'I found out an English gen'leman as was in authority,' said Mr.
Peggotty, 'and told him I was a-going to seek my niece. He got me them
papers as I wanted fur to carry me through--I doen't rightly know how
they're called--and he would have give me money, but that I was thankful
to have no need on. I thank him kind, for all he done, I'm sure! "I've
wrote afore you," he says to me, "and I shall speak to many as will come
that way, and many will know you, fur distant from here, when you're
a-travelling alone." I told him, best as I was able, what my gratitoode
was, and went away through France.'

'Alone, and on foot?' said I.

'Mostly a-foot,' he rejoined; 'sometimes in carts along with people
going to market; sometimes in empty coaches. Many mile a day a-foot, and
often with some poor soldier or another, travelling to see his friends.
I couldn't talk to him,' said Mr. Peggotty, 'nor he to me; but we was
company for one another, too, along the dusty roads.'

I should have known that by his friendly tone.

'When I come to any town,' he pursued, 'I found the inn, and waited
about the yard till someone turned up (someone mostly did) as know'd
English. Then I told how that I was on my way to seek my niece, and they
told me what manner of gentlefolks was in the house, and I waited to see
any as seemed like her, going in or out. When it warn't Em'ly, I went on
agen. By little and little, when I come to a new village or that, among
the poor people, I found they know'd about me. They would set me down at
their cottage doors, and give me what-not fur to eat and drink, and show
me where to sleep; and many a woman, Mas'r Davy, as has had a daughter
of about Em'ly's age, I've found a-waiting fur me, at Our Saviour's
Cross outside the village, fur to do me sim'lar kindnesses. Some has had
daughters as was dead. And God only knows how good them mothers was to
me!'

It was Martha at the door. I saw her haggard, listening face distinctly.
My dread was lest he should turn his head, and see her too.

'They would often put their children--particular their little girls,'
said Mr. Peggotty, 'upon my knee; and many a time you might have seen
me sitting at their doors, when night was coming in, a'most as if they'd
been my Darling's children. Oh, my Darling!'

Overpowered by sudden grief, he sobbed aloud. I laid my trembling hand
upon the hand he put before his face. 'Thankee, sir,' he said, 'doen't
take no notice.'

In a very little while he took his hand away and put it on his breast,
and went on with his story. 'They often walked with me,' he said, 'in
the morning, maybe a mile or two upon my road; and when we parted, and
I said, "I'm very thankful to you! God bless you!" they always seemed to
understand, and answered pleasant. At last I come to the sea. It warn't
hard, you may suppose, for a seafaring man like me to work his way
over to Italy. When I got theer, I wandered on as I had done afore. The
people was just as good to me, and I should have gone from town to town,
maybe the country through, but that I got news of her being seen among
them Swiss mountains yonder. One as know'd his servant see 'em there,
all three, and told me how they travelled, and where they was. I made
fur them mountains, Mas'r Davy, day and night. Ever so fur as I went,
ever so fur the mountains seemed to shift away from me. But I come up
with 'em, and I crossed 'em. When I got nigh the place as I had been
told of, I began to think within my own self, "What shall I do when I
see her?"'

The listening face, insensible to the inclement night, still drooped at
the door, and the hands begged me--prayed me--not to cast it forth.

'I never doubted her,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'No! Not a bit! On'y let her
see my face--on'y let her heer my voice--on'y let my stanning still
afore her bring to her thoughts the home she had fled away from, and the
child she had been--and if she had growed to be a royal lady, she'd have
fell down at my feet! I know'd it well! Many a time in my sleep had I
heerd her cry out, "Uncle!" and seen her fall like death afore me. Many
a time in my sleep had I raised her up, and whispered to her, "Em'ly, my
dear, I am come fur to bring forgiveness, and to take you home!"'

He stopped and shook his head, and went on with a sigh.

'He was nowt to me now. Em'ly was all. I bought a country dress to put
upon her; and I know'd that, once found, she would walk beside me over
them stony roads, go where I would, and never, never, leave me more. To
put that dress upon her, and to cast off what she wore--to take her on
my arm again, and wander towards home--to stop sometimes upon the road,
and heal her bruised feet and her worse-bruised heart--was all that I
thowt of now. I doen't believe I should have done so much as look at
him. But, Mas'r Davy, it warn't to be--not yet! I was too late, and they
was gone. Wheer, I couldn't learn. Some said heer, some said theer.
I travelled heer, and I travelled theer, but I found no Em'ly, and I
travelled home.'

'How long ago?' I asked.

'A matter o' fower days,' said Mr. Peggotty. 'I sighted the old boat
arter dark, and the light a-shining in the winder. When I come nigh and
looked in through the glass, I see the faithful creetur Missis Gummidge
sittin' by the fire, as we had fixed upon, alone. I called out, "Doen't
be afeerd! It's Dan'l!" and I went in. I never could have thowt the old
boat would have been so strange!' From some pocket in his breast, he
took out, with a very careful hand a small paper bundle containing two
or three letters or little packets, which he laid upon the table.

'This fust one come,' he said, selecting it from the rest, 'afore I had
been gone a week. A fifty pound Bank note, in a sheet of paper, directed
to me, and put underneath the door in the night. She tried to hide her
writing, but she couldn't hide it from Me!'

He folded up the note again, with great patience and care, in exactly
the same form, and laid it on one side.

'This come to Missis Gummidge,' he said, opening another, 'two or three
months ago.' After looking at it for some moments, he gave it to me, and
added in a low voice, 'Be so good as read it, sir.'

I read as follows:

'Oh what will you feel when you see this writing, and know it comes from
my wicked hand! But try, try--not for my sake, but for uncle's goodness,
try to let your heart soften to me, only for a little little time! Try,
pray do, to relent towards a miserable girl, and write down on a bit of
paper whether he is well, and what he said about me before you left off
ever naming me among yourselves--and whether, of a night, when it is my
old time of coming home, you ever see him look as if he thought of one
he used to love so dear. Oh, my heart is breaking when I think about
it! I am kneeling down to you, begging and praying you not to be as
hard with me as I deserve--as I well, well, know I deserve--but to be so
gentle and so good, as to write down something of him, and to send it to
me. You need not call me Little, you need not call me by the name I have
disgraced; but oh, listen to my agony, and have mercy on me so far as to
write me some word of uncle, never, never to be seen in this world by my
eyes again!

'Dear, if your heart is hard towards me--justly hard, I know--but,
listen, if it is hard, dear, ask him I have wronged the most--him whose
wife I was to have been--before you quite decide against my poor poor
prayer! If he should be so compassionate as to say that you might write
something for me to read--I think he would, oh, I think he would, if you
would only ask him, for he always was so brave and so forgiving--tell
him then (but not else), that when I hear the wind blowing at night,
I feel as if it was passing angrily from seeing him and uncle, and was
going up to God against me. Tell him that if I was to die tomorrow (and
oh, if I was fit, I would be so glad to die!) I would bless him and
uncle with my last words, and pray for his happy home with my last
breath!'

Some money was enclosed in this letter also. Five pounds. It was
untouched like the previous sum, and he refolded it in the same way.
Detailed instructions were added relative to the address of a reply,
which, although they betrayed the intervention of several hands, and
made it difficult to arrive at any very probable conclusion in reference
to her place of concealment, made it at least not unlikely that she had
written from that spot where she was stated to have been seen.

'What answer was sent?' I inquired of Mr. Peggotty.

'Missis Gummidge,' he returned, 'not being a good scholar, sir, Ham
kindly drawed it out, and she made a copy on it. They told her I was
gone to seek her, and what my parting words was.'

'Is that another letter in your hand?' said I.

'It's money, sir,' said Mr. Peggotty, unfolding it a little way. 'Ten
pound, you see. And wrote inside, "From a true friend," like the fust.
But the fust was put underneath the door, and this come by the post, day
afore yesterday. I'm a-going to seek her at the post-mark.'

He showed it to me. It was a town on the Upper Rhine. He had found out,
at Yarmouth, some foreign dealers who knew that country, and they had
drawn him a rude map on paper, which he could very well understand. He
laid it between us on the table; and, with his chin resting on one hand,
tracked his course upon it with the other.

I asked him how Ham was? He shook his head.

'He works,' he said, 'as bold as a man can. His name's as good, in all
that part, as any man's is, anywheres in the wureld. Anyone's hand is
ready to help him, you understand, and his is ready to help them. He's
never been heerd fur to complain. But my sister's belief is ('twixt
ourselves) as it has cut him deep.'

'Poor fellow, I can believe it!'

'He ain't no care, Mas'r Davy,' said Mr. Peggotty in a solemn
whisper--'kinder no care no-how for his life. When a man's wanted for
rough sarvice in rough weather, he's theer. When there's hard duty to
be done with danger in it, he steps for'ard afore all his mates. And yet
he's as gentle as any child. There ain't a child in Yarmouth that doen't
know him.'

He gathered up the letters thoughtfully, smoothing them with his hand;
put them into their little bundle; and placed it tenderly in his breast
again. The face was gone from the door. I still saw the snow drifting
in; but nothing else was there.

'Well!' he said, looking to his bag, 'having seen you tonight, Mas'r
Davy (and that doos me good!), I shall away betimes tomorrow morning.
You have seen what I've got heer'; putting his hand on where the little
packet lay; 'all that troubles me is, to think that any harm might come
to me, afore that money was give back. If I was to die, and it was lost,
or stole, or elseways made away with, and it was never know'd by him
but what I'd took it, I believe the t'other wureld wouldn't hold me! I
believe I must come back!'

He rose, and I rose too; we grasped each other by the hand again, before
going out.

'I'd go ten thousand mile,' he said, 'I'd go till I dropped dead, to lay
that money down afore him. If I do that, and find my Em'ly, I'm content.
If I doen't find her, maybe she'll come to hear, sometime, as her loving
uncle only ended his search for her when he ended his life; and if I
know her, even that will turn her home at last!'

As he went out into the rigorous night, I saw the lonely figure flit
away before us. I turned him hastily on some pretence, and held him in
conversation until it was gone.

He spoke of a traveller's house on the Dover Road, where he knew he
could find a clean, plain lodging for the night. I went with him over
Westminster Bridge, and parted from him on the Surrey shore. Everything
seemed, to my imagination, to be hushed in reverence for him, as he
resumed his solitary journey through the snow.

I returned to the inn yard, and, impressed by my remembrance of the
face, looked awfully around for it. It was not there. The snow had
covered our late footprints; my new track was the only one to be seen;
and even that began to die away (it snowed so fast) as I looked back
over my shoulder.

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

completion: David tells Miss Betsey all about his visit with the Wickfields. Miss Betsey paces up and down, a sign that she is worried. She reads David's note to Dora's aunts and approves of it. David mails it and waits for a response. One snowy afternoon, as David is walking home from Doctor Strong's house, he sees a woman walking past him whom he recognizes. He doesn't place who it is until he sees someone else standing on the steps of a church: Mr. Peggotty. That's when he gets that the woman he just passed was Martha Endell, the fallen woman whom Emily tried to help. Mr. Peggotty is only in London for the night before he goes away again. David and Mr. Peggotty head over to a nearby pub. Mr. Peggotty tells David about his travels: first, he headed over to France, where he wandered mostly alone and on foot. He would walk from town to town, sometimes in the company of other travelers or old soldiers. In each town, he would wait for someone to turn up who spoke English. He was well treated by local families with daughters Emily's age, and especially by families with daughters who had died. David sees that Martha is standing at the door listening carefully. Mr. Peggotty starts to sob, thinking about the children he met and how he misses Emily. He collects himself and returns to his story. Eventually, he made his way to the east coast of France, where he makes his way over to Italy. Mr. Peggotty makes his way through Italy the same way he did in France, until he hears news of Emily, Littimer, and Steerforth. They are in Switzerland. Mr. Peggotty travels north to the Swiss Alps, still on foot. He has stopped thinking of revenge on Steerforth. All he dreams of is finding Emily and bringing her home. But Mr. Peggotty is too late, and they had already left by the time he arrives in Switzerland. So, Mr. Peggotty comes home again. He goes to the boat house and finds Mrs. Gummidge keeping house. While Mr. Peggotty was away, two letters came, written in Emily's handwriting. One contained a fifty pound bank note. The second is a full-on letter addressed to Mrs. Gummidge. In it, Emily begs for news of Mr. Peggotty's health, and for news of Ham. She is praying for both of them. Mrs. Gummidge and Ham have replied to these letters, saying that Mr. Peggotty has gone to look for Emily. Then, the day before yesterday, another sum of money arrived - addressed to Mr. Peggotty and "From a true friend" - which has a German postmark. So, Mr. Peggotty is setting off again to Germany. David asks how Ham is doing. Ham is still working hard and never complains, but he seems heartbroken. Mr. Peggotty worries that Ham is not being careful of his life, that he goes out in all kinds of weather. David observes that Martha Endell has disappeared from the doorway. Mr. Peggotty never noticed her there. Mr. Peggotty is glad that he was able to see David before going off again. He assures David that his only wish is to be able to find Emily and to return that money to Steerforth - he won't accept it. They walk out of the pub, and David sees a glimpse of a lady who might be Martha. David asks Mr. Peggotty where he is staying to distract Mr. Peggotty from the figure until it is gone. When David looks again, there is no trace of Martha Endell to be seen.