prompt:
Chapter: For anything I know, I may have had some wild idea of running all the
way to Dover, when I gave up the pursuit of the young man with the
donkey-cart, and started for Greenwich. My scattered senses were soon
collected as to that point, if I had; for I came to a stop in the Kent
Road, at a terrace with a piece of water before it, and a great foolish
image in the middle, blowing a dry shell. Here I sat down on a doorstep,
quite spent and exhausted with the efforts I had already made, and with
hardly breath enough to cry for the loss of my box and half-guinea.

It was by this time dark; I heard the clocks strike ten, as I sat
resting. But it was a summer night, fortunately, and fine weather. When
I had recovered my breath, and had got rid of a stifling sensation in
my throat, I rose up and went on. In the midst of my distress, I had no
notion of going back. I doubt if I should have had any, though there had
been a Swiss snow-drift in the Kent Road.

But my standing possessed of only three-halfpence in the world (and I
am sure I wonder how they came to be left in my pocket on a Saturday
night!) troubled me none the less because I went on. I began to picture
to myself, as a scrap of newspaper intelligence, my being found dead in
a day or two, under some hedge; and I trudged on miserably, though as
fast as I could, until I happened to pass a little shop, where it was
written up that ladies' and gentlemen's wardrobes were bought, and that
the best price was given for rags, bones, and kitchen-stuff. The master
of this shop was sitting at the door in his shirt-sleeves, smoking; and
as there were a great many coats and pairs of trousers dangling from
the low ceiling, and only two feeble candles burning inside to show
what they were, I fancied that he looked like a man of a revengeful
disposition, who had hung all his enemies, and was enjoying himself.

My late experiences with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber suggested to me that here
might be a means of keeping off the wolf for a little while. I went up
the next by-street, took off my waistcoat, rolled it neatly under my
arm, and came back to the shop door.

'If you please, sir,' I said, 'I am to sell this for a fair price.'

Mr. Dolloby--Dolloby was the name over the shop door, at least--took the
waistcoat, stood his pipe on its head, against the door-post, went into
the shop, followed by me, snuffed the two candles with his fingers,
spread the waistcoat on the counter, and looked at it there, held it up
against the light, and looked at it there, and ultimately said:

'What do you call a price, now, for this here little weskit?'

'Oh! you know best, sir,' I returned modestly.

'I can't be buyer and seller too,' said Mr. Dolloby. 'Put a price on
this here little weskit.'

'Would eighteenpence be?'--I hinted, after some hesitation.

Mr. Dolloby rolled it up again, and gave it me back. 'I should rob my
family,' he said, 'if I was to offer ninepence for it.'

This was a disagreeable way of putting the business; because it imposed
upon me, a perfect stranger, the unpleasantness of asking Mr. Dolloby to
rob his family on my account. My circumstances being so very pressing,
however, I said I would take ninepence for it, if he pleased. Mr.
Dolloby, not without some grumbling, gave ninepence. I wished him good
night, and walked out of the shop the richer by that sum, and the
poorer by a waistcoat. But when I buttoned my jacket, that was not much.
Indeed, I foresaw pretty clearly that my jacket would go next, and that
I should have to make the best of my way to Dover in a shirt and a pair
of trousers, and might deem myself lucky if I got there even in that
trim. But my mind did not run so much on this as might be supposed.
Beyond a general impression of the distance before me, and of the young
man with the donkey-cart having used me cruelly, I think I had no
very urgent sense of my difficulties when I once again set off with my
ninepence in my pocket.

A plan had occurred to me for passing the night, which I was going to
carry into execution. This was, to lie behind the wall at the back of my
old school, in a corner where there used to be a haystack. I imagined
it would be a kind of company to have the boys, and the bedroom where
I used to tell the stories, so near me: although the boys would know
nothing of my being there, and the bedroom would yield me no shelter.

I had had a hard day's work, and was pretty well jaded when I came
climbing out, at last, upon the level of Blackheath. It cost me some
trouble to find out Salem House; but I found it, and I found a haystack
in the corner, and I lay down by it; having first walked round the wall,
and looked up at the windows, and seen that all was dark and silent
within. Never shall I forget the lonely sensation of first lying down,
without a roof above my head!

Sleep came upon me as it came on many other outcasts, against whom
house-doors were locked, and house-dogs barked, that night--and I
dreamed of lying on my old school-bed, talking to the boys in my room;
and found myself sitting upright, with Steerforth's name upon my lips,
looking wildly at the stars that were glistening and glimmering above
me. When I remembered where I was at that untimely hour, a feeling
stole upon me that made me get up, afraid of I don't know what, and walk
about. But the fainter glimmering of the stars, and the pale light in
the sky where the day was coming, reassured me: and my eyes being very
heavy, I lay down again and slept--though with a knowledge in my sleep
that it was cold--until the warm beams of the sun, and the ringing of
the getting-up bell at Salem House, awoke me. If I could have hoped that
Steerforth was there, I would have lurked about until he came out
alone; but I knew he must have left long since. Traddles still remained,
perhaps, but it was very doubtful; and I had not sufficient confidence
in his discretion or good luck, however strong my reliance was on his
good nature, to wish to trust him with my situation. So I crept away
from the wall as Mr. Creakle's boys were getting up, and struck into the
long dusty track which I had first known to be the Dover Road when I was
one of them, and when I little expected that any eyes would ever see me
the wayfarer I was now, upon it.

What a different Sunday morning from the old Sunday morning at Yarmouth!
In due time I heard the church-bells ringing, as I plodded on; and I met
people who were going to church; and I passed a church or two where the
congregation were inside, and the sound of singing came out into the
sunshine, while the beadle sat and cooled himself in the shade of the
porch, or stood beneath the yew-tree, with his hand to his forehead,
glowering at me going by. But the peace and rest of the old Sunday
morning were on everything, except me. That was the difference. I felt
quite wicked in my dirt and dust, with my tangled hair. But for the
quiet picture I had conjured up, of my mother in her youth and beauty,
weeping by the fire, and my aunt relenting to her, I hardly think I
should have had the courage to go on until next day. But it always went
before me, and I followed.

I got, that Sunday, through three-and-twenty miles on the straight
road, though not very easily, for I was new to that kind of toil. I
see myself, as evening closes in, coming over the bridge at Rochester,
footsore and tired, and eating bread that I had bought for supper.
One or two little houses, with the notice, 'Lodgings for Travellers',
hanging out, had tempted me; but I was afraid of spending the few pence
I had, and was even more afraid of the vicious looks of the trampers I
had met or overtaken. I sought no shelter, therefore, but the sky; and
toiling into Chatham,--which, in that night's aspect, is a mere dream of
chalk, and drawbridges, and mastless ships in a muddy river, roofed
like Noah's arks,--crept, at last, upon a sort of grass-grown battery
overhanging a lane, where a sentry was walking to and fro. Here I
lay down, near a cannon; and, happy in the society of the sentry's
footsteps, though he knew no more of my being above him than the boys
at Salem House had known of my lying by the wall, slept soundly until
morning.

Very stiff and sore of foot I was in the morning, and quite dazed by the
beating of drums and marching of troops, which seemed to hem me in on
every side when I went down towards the long narrow street. Feeling
that I could go but a very little way that day, if I were to reserve any
strength for getting to my journey's end, I resolved to make the sale
of my jacket its principal business. Accordingly, I took the jacket off,
that I might learn to do without it; and carrying it under my arm, began
a tour of inspection of the various slop-shops.

It was a likely place to sell a jacket in; for the dealers in
second-hand clothes were numerous, and were, generally speaking, on the
look-out for customers at their shop doors. But as most of them had,
hanging up among their stock, an officer's coat or two, epaulettes and
all, I was rendered timid by the costly nature of their dealings, and
walked about for a long time without offering my merchandise to anyone.

This modesty of mine directed my attention to the marine-store shops,
and such shops as Mr. Dolloby's, in preference to the regular dealers.
At last I found one that I thought looked promising, at the corner of a
dirty lane, ending in an enclosure full of stinging-nettles, against the
palings of which some second-hand sailors' clothes, that seemed to have
overflowed the shop, were fluttering among some cots, and rusty guns,
and oilskin hats, and certain trays full of so many old rusty keys of so
many sizes that they seemed various enough to open all the doors in the
world.

Into this shop, which was low and small, and which was darkened
rather than lighted by a little window, overhung with clothes, and was
descended into by some steps, I went with a palpitating heart; which was
not relieved when an ugly old man, with the lower part of his face all
covered with a stubbly grey beard, rushed out of a dirty den behind it,
and seized me by the hair of my head. He was a dreadful old man to look
at, in a filthy flannel waistcoat, and smelling terribly of rum. His
bedstead, covered with a tumbled and ragged piece of patchwork, was in
the den he had come from, where another little window showed a prospect
of more stinging-nettles, and a lame donkey.

'Oh, what do you want?' grinned this old man, in a fierce, monotonous
whine. 'Oh, my eyes and limbs, what do you want? Oh, my lungs and liver,
what do you want? Oh, goroo, goroo!'

I was so much dismayed by these words, and particularly by the
repetition of the last unknown one, which was a kind of rattle in his
throat, that I could make no answer; hereupon the old man, still holding
me by the hair, repeated:

'Oh, what do you want? Oh, my eyes and limbs, what do you want? Oh, my
lungs and liver, what do you want? Oh, goroo!'--which he screwed out of
himself, with an energy that made his eyes start in his head.

'I wanted to know,' I said, trembling, 'if you would buy a jacket.'

'Oh, let's see the jacket!' cried the old man. 'Oh, my heart on fire,
show the jacket to us! Oh, my eyes and limbs, bring the jacket out!'

With that he took his trembling hands, which were like the claws of a
great bird, out of my hair; and put on a pair of spectacles, not at all
ornamental to his inflamed eyes.

'Oh, how much for the jacket?' cried the old man, after examining it.
'Oh--goroo!--how much for the jacket?'

'Half-a-crown,' I answered, recovering myself.

'Oh, my lungs and liver,' cried the old man, 'no! Oh, my eyes, no! Oh,
my limbs, no! Eighteenpence. Goroo!'

Every time he uttered this ejaculation, his eyes seemed to be in danger
of starting out; and every sentence he spoke, he delivered in a sort
of tune, always exactly the same, and more like a gust of wind, which
begins low, mounts up high, and falls again, than any other comparison I
can find for it.

'Well,' said I, glad to have closed the bargain, 'I'll take
eighteenpence.'

'Oh, my liver!' cried the old man, throwing the jacket on a shelf. 'Get
out of the shop! Oh, my lungs, get out of the shop! Oh, my eyes and
limbs--goroo!--don't ask for money; make it an exchange.' I never was
so frightened in my life, before or since; but I told him humbly that
I wanted money, and that nothing else was of any use to me, but that I
would wait for it, as he desired, outside, and had no wish to hurry
him. So I went outside, and sat down in the shade in a corner. And I sat
there so many hours, that the shade became sunlight, and the sunlight
became shade again, and still I sat there waiting for the money.

There never was such another drunken madman in that line of business,
I hope. That he was well known in the neighbourhood, and enjoyed the
reputation of having sold himself to the devil, I soon understood from
the visits he received from the boys, who continually came skirmishing
about the shop, shouting that legend, and calling to him to bring out
his gold. 'You ain't poor, you know, Charley, as you pretend. Bring out
your gold. Bring out some of the gold you sold yourself to the devil
for. Come! It's in the lining of the mattress, Charley. Rip it open
and let's have some!' This, and many offers to lend him a knife for
the purpose, exasperated him to such a degree, that the whole day was a
succession of rushes on his part, and flights on the part of the boys.
Sometimes in his rage he would take me for one of them, and come at me,
mouthing as if he were going to tear me in pieces; then, remembering
me, just in time, would dive into the shop, and lie upon his bed, as I
thought from the sound of his voice, yelling in a frantic way, to his
own windy tune, the 'Death of Nelson'; with an Oh! before every line,
and innumerable Goroos interspersed. As if this were not bad enough for
me, the boys, connecting me with the establishment, on account of the
patience and perseverance with which I sat outside, half-dressed, pelted
me, and used me very ill all day.

He made many attempts to induce me to consent to an exchange; at one
time coming out with a fishing-rod, at another with a fiddle, at another
with a cocked hat, at another with a flute. But I resisted all these
overtures, and sat there in desperation; each time asking him, with
tears in my eyes, for my money or my jacket. At last he began to pay me
in halfpence at a time; and was full two hours getting by easy stages to
a shilling.

'Oh, my eyes and limbs!' he then cried, peeping hideously out of the
shop, after a long pause, 'will you go for twopence more?'

'I can't,' I said; 'I shall be starved.'

'Oh, my lungs and liver, will you go for threepence?'

'I would go for nothing, if I could,' I said, 'but I want the money
badly.'

'Oh, go-roo!' (it is really impossible to express how he twisted this
ejaculation out of himself, as he peeped round the door-post at me,
showing nothing but his crafty old head); 'will you go for fourpence?'

I was so faint and weary that I closed with this offer; and taking the
money out of his claw, not without trembling, went away more hungry and
thirsty than I had ever been, a little before sunset. But at an expense
of threepence I soon refreshed myself completely; and, being in better
spirits then, limped seven miles upon my road.

My bed at night was under another haystack, where I rested comfortably,
after having washed my blistered feet in a stream, and dressed them as
well as I was able, with some cool leaves. When I took the road again
next morning, I found that it lay through a succession of hop-grounds
and orchards. It was sufficiently late in the year for the orchards
to be ruddy with ripe apples; and in a few places the hop-pickers were
already at work. I thought it all extremely beautiful, and made up
my mind to sleep among the hops that night: imagining some cheerful
companionship in the long perspectives of poles, with the graceful
leaves twining round them.

The trampers were worse than ever that day, and inspired me with a
dread that is yet quite fresh in my mind. Some of them were most
ferocious-looking ruffians, who stared at me as I went by; and stopped,
perhaps, and called after me to come back and speak to them, and when I
took to my heels, stoned me. I recollect one young fellow--a tinker, I
suppose, from his wallet and brazier--who had a woman with him, and
who faced about and stared at me thus; and then roared to me in such a
tremendous voice to come back, that I halted and looked round.

'Come here, when you're called,' said the tinker, 'or I'll rip your
young body open.'

I thought it best to go back. As I drew nearer to them, trying to
propitiate the tinker by my looks, I observed that the woman had a black
eye.

'Where are you going?' said the tinker, gripping the bosom of my shirt
with his blackened hand.

'I am going to Dover,' I said.

'Where do you come from?' asked the tinker, giving his hand another turn
in my shirt, to hold me more securely.

'I come from London,' I said.

'What lay are you upon?' asked the tinker. 'Are you a prig?'

'N-no,' I said.

'Ain't you, by G--? If you make a brag of your honesty to me,' said the
tinker, 'I'll knock your brains out.'

With his disengaged hand he made a menace of striking me, and then
looked at me from head to foot.

'Have you got the price of a pint of beer about you?' said the tinker.
'If you have, out with it, afore I take it away!'

I should certainly have produced it, but that I met the woman's look,
and saw her very slightly shake her head, and form 'No!' with her lips.

'I am very poor,' I said, attempting to smile, 'and have got no money.'

'Why, what do you mean?' said the tinker, looking so sternly at me, that
I almost feared he saw the money in my pocket.

'Sir!' I stammered.

'What do you mean,' said the tinker, 'by wearing my brother's silk
handkerchief! Give it over here!' And he had mine off my neck in a
moment, and tossed it to the woman.

The woman burst into a fit of laughter, as if she thought this a joke,
and tossed it back to me, nodded once, as slightly as before, and made
the word 'Go!' with her lips. Before I could obey, however, the tinker
seized the handkerchief out of my hand with a roughness that threw me
away like a feather, and putting it loosely round his own neck, turned
upon the woman with an oath, and knocked her down. I never shall forget
seeing her fall backward on the hard road, and lie there with her bonnet
tumbled off, and her hair all whitened in the dust; nor, when I looked
back from a distance, seeing her sitting on the pathway, which was a
bank by the roadside, wiping the blood from her face with a corner of
her shawl, while he went on ahead.

This adventure frightened me so, that, afterwards, when I saw any of
these people coming, I turned back until I could find a hiding-place,
where I remained until they had gone out of sight; which happened so
often, that I was very seriously delayed. But under this difficulty, as
under all the other difficulties of my journey, I seemed to be sustained
and led on by my fanciful picture of my mother in her youth, before I
came into the world. It always kept me company. It was there, among
the hops, when I lay down to sleep; it was with me on my waking in the
morning; it went before me all day. I have associated it, ever since,
with the sunny street of Canterbury, dozing as it were in the hot light;
and with the sight of its old houses and gateways, and the stately,
grey Cathedral, with the rooks sailing round the towers. When I came,
at last, upon the bare, wide downs near Dover, it relieved the solitary
aspect of the scene with hope; and not until I reached that first great
aim of my journey, and actually set foot in the town itself, on the
sixth day of my flight, did it desert me. But then, strange to say,
when I stood with my ragged shoes, and my dusty, sunburnt, half-clothed
figure, in the place so long desired, it seemed to vanish like a dream,
and to leave me helpless and dispirited.

I inquired about my aunt among the boatmen first, and received various
answers. One said she lived in the South Foreland Light, and had singed
her whiskers by doing so; another, that she was made fast to the great
buoy outside the harbour, and could only be visited at half-tide; a
third, that she was locked up in Maidstone jail for child-stealing; a
fourth, that she was seen to mount a broom in the last high wind, and
make direct for Calais. The fly-drivers, among whom I inquired next,
were equally jocose and equally disrespectful; and the shopkeepers, not
liking my appearance, generally replied, without hearing what I had
to say, that they had got nothing for me. I felt more miserable and
destitute than I had done at any period of my running away. My money was
all gone, I had nothing left to dispose of; I was hungry, thirsty, and
worn out; and seemed as distant from my end as if I had remained in
London.

The morning had worn away in these inquiries, and I was sitting on
the step of an empty shop at a street corner, near the market-place,
deliberating upon wandering towards those other places which had been
mentioned, when a fly-driver, coming by with his carriage, dropped a
horsecloth. Something good-natured in the man's face, as I handed it up,
encouraged me to ask him if he could tell me where Miss Trotwood lived;
though I had asked the question so often, that it almost died upon my
lips.

'Trotwood,' said he. 'Let me see. I know the name, too. Old lady?'

'Yes,' I said, 'rather.'

'Pretty stiff in the back?' said he, making himself upright.

'Yes,' I said. 'I should think it very likely.'

'Carries a bag?' said he--'bag with a good deal of room in it--is
gruffish, and comes down upon you, sharp?'

My heart sank within me as I acknowledged the undoubted accuracy of this
description.

'Why then, I tell you what,' said he. 'If you go up there,' pointing
with his whip towards the heights, 'and keep right on till you come to
some houses facing the sea, I think you'll hear of her. My opinion is
she won't stand anything, so here's a penny for you.'

I accepted the gift thankfully, and bought a loaf with it. Dispatching
this refreshment by the way, I went in the direction my friend had
indicated, and walked on a good distance without coming to the houses
he had mentioned. At length I saw some before me; and approaching them,
went into a little shop (it was what we used to call a general shop,
at home), and inquired if they could have the goodness to tell me where
Miss Trotwood lived. I addressed myself to a man behind the counter,
who was weighing some rice for a young woman; but the latter, taking the
inquiry to herself, turned round quickly.

'My mistress?' she said. 'What do you want with her, boy?'

'I want,' I replied, 'to speak to her, if you please.'

'To beg of her, you mean,' retorted the damsel.

'No,' I said, 'indeed.' But suddenly remembering that in truth I came
for no other purpose, I held my peace in confusion, and felt my face
burn.

My aunt's handmaid, as I supposed she was from what she had said, put
her rice in a little basket and walked out of the shop; telling me that
I could follow her, if I wanted to know where Miss Trotwood lived. I
needed no second permission; though I was by this time in such a state
of consternation and agitation, that my legs shook under me. I followed
the young woman, and we soon came to a very neat little cottage with
cheerful bow-windows: in front of it, a small square gravelled court or
garden full of flowers, carefully tended, and smelling deliciously.

'This is Miss Trotwood's,' said the young woman. 'Now you know; and
that's all I have got to say.' With which words she hurried into the
house, as if to shake off the responsibility of my appearance; and left
me standing at the garden-gate, looking disconsolately over the top of
it towards the parlour window, where a muslin curtain partly undrawn
in the middle, a large round green screen or fan fastened on to the
windowsill, a small table, and a great chair, suggested to me that my
aunt might be at that moment seated in awful state.

My shoes were by this time in a woeful condition. The soles had shed
themselves bit by bit, and the upper leathers had broken and burst until
the very shape and form of shoes had departed from them. My hat (which
had served me for a night-cap, too) was so crushed and bent, that no old
battered handleless saucepan on a dunghill need have been ashamed to vie
with it. My shirt and trousers, stained with heat, dew, grass, and
the Kentish soil on which I had slept--and torn besides--might have
frightened the birds from my aunt's garden, as I stood at the gate. My
hair had known no comb or brush since I left London. My face, neck, and
hands, from unaccustomed exposure to the air and sun, were burnt to a
berry-brown. From head to foot I was powdered almost as white with chalk
and dust, as if I had come out of a lime-kiln. In this plight, and with
a strong consciousness of it, I waited to introduce myself to, and make
my first impression on, my formidable aunt.

The unbroken stillness of the parlour window leading me to infer, after
a while, that she was not there, I lifted up my eyes to the window above
it, where I saw a florid, pleasant-looking gentleman, with a grey head,
who shut up one eye in a grotesque manner, nodded his head at me several
times, shook it at me as often, laughed, and went away.

I had been discomposed enough before; but I was so much the more
discomposed by this unexpected behaviour, that I was on the point of
slinking off, to think how I had best proceed, when there came out of
the house a lady with her handkerchief tied over her cap, and a pair
of gardening gloves on her hands, wearing a gardening pocket like a
toll-man's apron, and carrying a great knife. I knew her immediately
to be Miss Betsey, for she came stalking out of the house exactly as
my poor mother had so often described her stalking up our garden at
Blunderstone Rookery.

'Go away!' said Miss Betsey, shaking her head, and making a distant chop
in the air with her knife. 'Go along! No boys here!'

I watched her, with my heart at my lips, as she marched to a corner of
her garden, and stooped to dig up some little root there. Then, without
a scrap of courage, but with a great deal of desperation, I went softly
in and stood beside her, touching her with my finger.

'If you please, ma'am,' I began.

She started and looked up.

'If you please, aunt.'

'EH?' exclaimed Miss Betsey, in a tone of amazement I have never heard
approached.

'If you please, aunt, I am your nephew.'

'Oh, Lord!' said my aunt. And sat flat down in the garden-path.

'I am David Copperfield, of Blunderstone, in Suffolk--where you came,
on the night when I was born, and saw my dear mama. I have been very
unhappy since she died. I have been slighted, and taught nothing, and
thrown upon myself, and put to work not fit for me. It made me run away
to you. I was robbed at first setting out, and have walked all the
way, and have never slept in a bed since I began the journey.' Here
my self-support gave way all at once; and with a movement of my hands,
intended to show her my ragged state, and call it to witness that I had
suffered something, I broke into a passion of crying, which I suppose
had been pent up within me all the week.

My aunt, with every sort of expression but wonder discharged from her
countenance, sat on the gravel, staring at me, until I began to cry;
when she got up in a great hurry, collared me, and took me into the
parlour. Her first proceeding there was to unlock a tall press, bring
out several bottles, and pour some of the contents of each into my
mouth. I think they must have been taken out at random, for I am sure
I tasted aniseed water, anchovy sauce, and salad dressing. When she had
administered these restoratives, as I was still quite hysterical, and
unable to control my sobs, she put me on the sofa, with a shawl under
my head, and the handkerchief from her own head under my feet, lest I
should sully the cover; and then, sitting herself down behind the green
fan or screen I have already mentioned, so that I could not see her
face, ejaculated at intervals, 'Mercy on us!' letting those exclamations
off like minute guns.

After a time she rang the bell. 'Janet,' said my aunt, when her servant
came in. 'Go upstairs, give my compliments to Mr. Dick, and say I wish
to speak to him.'

Janet looked a little surprised to see me lying stiffly on the sofa (I
was afraid to move lest it should be displeasing to my aunt), but went
on her errand. My aunt, with her hands behind her, walked up and down
the room, until the gentleman who had squinted at me from the upper
window came in laughing.

'Mr. Dick,' said my aunt, 'don't be a fool, because nobody can be more
discreet than you can, when you choose. We all know that. So don't be a
fool, whatever you are.'

The gentleman was serious immediately, and looked at me, I thought, as
if he would entreat me to say nothing about the window.

'Mr. Dick,' said my aunt, 'you have heard me mention David Copperfield?
Now don't pretend not to have a memory, because you and I know better.'

'David Copperfield?' said Mr. Dick, who did not appear to me to
remember much about it. 'David Copperfield? Oh yes, to be sure. David,
certainly.'

'Well,' said my aunt, 'this is his boy--his son. He would be as like his
father as it's possible to be, if he was not so like his mother, too.'

'His son?' said Mr. Dick. 'David's son? Indeed!'

'Yes,' pursued my aunt, 'and he has done a pretty piece of business.
He has run away. Ah! His sister, Betsey Trotwood, never would have run
away.' My aunt shook her head firmly, confident in the character and
behaviour of the girl who never was born.

'Oh! you think she wouldn't have run away?' said Mr. Dick.

'Bless and save the man,' exclaimed my aunt, sharply, 'how he talks!
Don't I know she wouldn't? She would have lived with her god-mother,
and we should have been devoted to one another. Where, in the name of
wonder, should his sister, Betsey Trotwood, have run from, or to?'

'Nowhere,' said Mr. Dick.

'Well then,' returned my aunt, softened by the reply, 'how can you
pretend to be wool-gathering, Dick, when you are as sharp as a surgeon's
lancet? Now, here you see young David Copperfield, and the question I
put to you is, what shall I do with him?'

'What shall you do with him?' said Mr. Dick, feebly, scratching his
head. 'Oh! do with him?'

'Yes,' said my aunt, with a grave look, and her forefinger held up.
'Come! I want some very sound advice.'

'Why, if I was you,' said Mr. Dick, considering, and looking vacantly
at me, 'I should--' The contemplation of me seemed to inspire him with a
sudden idea, and he added, briskly, 'I should wash him!'

'Janet,' said my aunt, turning round with a quiet triumph, which I did
not then understand, 'Mr. Dick sets us all right. Heat the bath!'

Although I was deeply interested in this dialogue, I could not help
observing my aunt, Mr. Dick, and Janet, while it was in progress, and
completing a survey I had already been engaged in making of the room.

My aunt was a tall, hard-featured lady, but by no means ill-looking.
There was an inflexibility in her face, in her voice, in her gait and
carriage, amply sufficient to account for the effect she had made upon
a gentle creature like my mother; but her features were rather handsome
than otherwise, though unbending and austere. I particularly noticed
that she had a very quick, bright eye. Her hair, which was grey, was
arranged in two plain divisions, under what I believe would be called a
mob-cap; I mean a cap, much more common then than now, with side-pieces
fastening under the chin. Her dress was of a lavender colour, and
perfectly neat; but scantily made, as if she desired to be as little
encumbered as possible. I remember that I thought it, in form, more like
a riding-habit with the superfluous skirt cut off, than anything else.
She wore at her side a gentleman's gold watch, if I might judge from its
size and make, with an appropriate chain and seals; she had some linen
at her throat not unlike a shirt-collar, and things at her wrists like
little shirt-wristbands.

Mr. Dick, as I have already said, was grey-headed, and florid: I should
have said all about him, in saying so, had not his head been curiously
bowed--not by age; it reminded me of one of Mr. Creakle's boys' heads
after a beating--and his grey eyes prominent and large, with a strange
kind of watery brightness in them that made me, in combination with his
vacant manner, his submission to my aunt, and his childish delight when
she praised him, suspect him of being a little mad; though, if he were
mad, how he came to be there puzzled me extremely. He was dressed
like any other ordinary gentleman, in a loose grey morning coat and
waistcoat, and white trousers; and had his watch in his fob, and his
money in his pockets: which he rattled as if he were very proud of it.

Janet was a pretty blooming girl, of about nineteen or twenty, and a
perfect picture of neatness. Though I made no further observation of
her at the moment, I may mention here what I did not discover until
afterwards, namely, that she was one of a series of protegees whom my
aunt had taken into her service expressly to educate in a renouncement
of mankind, and who had generally completed their abjuration by marrying
the baker.

The room was as neat as Janet or my aunt. As I laid down my pen, a
moment since, to think of it, the air from the sea came blowing
in again, mixed with the perfume of the flowers; and I saw the
old-fashioned furniture brightly rubbed and polished, my aunt's
inviolable chair and table by the round green fan in the bow-window, the
drugget-covered carpet, the cat, the kettle-holder, the two canaries,
the old china, the punchbowl full of dried rose-leaves, the tall press
guarding all sorts of bottles and pots, and, wonderfully out of keeping
with the rest, my dusty self upon the sofa, taking note of everything.

Janet had gone away to get the bath ready, when my aunt, to my great
alarm, became in one moment rigid with indignation, and had hardly voice
to cry out, 'Janet! Donkeys!'

Upon which, Janet came running up the stairs as if the house were in
flames, darted out on a little piece of green in front, and warned off
two saddle-donkeys, lady-ridden, that had presumed to set hoof upon it;
while my aunt, rushing out of the house, seized the bridle of a third
animal laden with a bestriding child, turned him, led him forth from
those sacred precincts, and boxed the ears of the unlucky urchin in
attendance who had dared to profane that hallowed ground.

To this hour I don't know whether my aunt had any lawful right of way
over that patch of green; but she had settled it in her own mind that
she had, and it was all the same to her. The one great outrage of her
life, demanding to be constantly avenged, was the passage of a donkey
over that immaculate spot. In whatever occupation she was engaged,
however interesting to her the conversation in which she was taking
part, a donkey turned the current of her ideas in a moment, and she was
upon him straight. Jugs of water, and watering-pots, were kept in secret
places ready to be discharged on the offending boys; sticks were laid
in ambush behind the door; sallies were made at all hours; and
incessant war prevailed. Perhaps this was an agreeable excitement to the
donkey-boys; or perhaps the more sagacious of the donkeys, understanding
how the case stood, delighted with constitutional obstinacy in coming
that way. I only know that there were three alarms before the bath was
ready; and that on the occasion of the last and most desperate of all,
I saw my aunt engage, single-handed, with a sandy-headed lad of fifteen,
and bump his sandy head against her own gate, before he seemed to
comprehend what was the matter. These interruptions were of the more
ridiculous to me, because she was giving me broth out of a table-spoon
at the time (having firmly persuaded herself that I was actually
starving, and must receive nourishment at first in very small
quantities), and, while my mouth was yet open to receive the spoon, she
would put it back into the basin, cry 'Janet! Donkeys!' and go out to
the assault.

The bath was a great comfort. For I began to be sensible of acute pains
in my limbs from lying out in the fields, and was now so tired and low
that I could hardly keep myself awake for five minutes together. When I
had bathed, they (I mean my aunt and Janet) enrobed me in a shirt and a
pair of trousers belonging to Mr. Dick, and tied me up in two or three
great shawls. What sort of bundle I looked like, I don't know, but I
felt a very hot one. Feeling also very faint and drowsy, I soon lay down
on the sofa again and fell asleep.

It might have been a dream, originating in the fancy which had occupied
my mind so long, but I awoke with the impression that my aunt had come
and bent over me, and had put my hair away from my face, and laid my
head more comfortably, and had then stood looking at me. The words,
'Pretty fellow,' or 'Poor fellow,' seemed to be in my ears, too; but
certainly there was nothing else, when I awoke, to lead me to believe
that they had been uttered by my aunt, who sat in the bow-window gazing
at the sea from behind the green fan, which was mounted on a kind of
swivel, and turned any way.

We dined soon after I awoke, off a roast fowl and a pudding; I sitting
at table, not unlike a trussed bird myself, and moving my arms with
considerable difficulty. But as my aunt had swathed me up, I made no
complaint of being inconvenienced. All this time I was deeply anxious
to know what she was going to do with me; but she took her dinner in
profound silence, except when she occasionally fixed her eyes on me
sitting opposite, and said, 'Mercy upon us!' which did not by any means
relieve my anxiety.

The cloth being drawn, and some sherry put upon the table (of which I
had a glass), my aunt sent up for Mr. Dick again, who joined us, and
looked as wise as he could when she requested him to attend to my story,
which she elicited from me, gradually, by a course of questions. During
my recital, she kept her eyes on Mr. Dick, who I thought would have gone
to sleep but for that, and who, whensoever he lapsed into a smile, was
checked by a frown from my aunt.

'Whatever possessed that poor unfortunate Baby, that she must go and be
married again,' said my aunt, when I had finished, 'I can't conceive.'

'Perhaps she fell in love with her second husband,' Mr. Dick suggested.

'Fell in love!' repeated my aunt. 'What do you mean? What business had
she to do it?'

'Perhaps,' Mr. Dick simpered, after thinking a little, 'she did it for
pleasure.'

'Pleasure, indeed!' replied my aunt. 'A mighty pleasure for the poor
Baby to fix her simple faith upon any dog of a fellow, certain to
ill-use her in some way or other. What did she propose to herself,
I should like to know! She had had one husband. She had seen David
Copperfield out of the world, who was always running after wax dolls
from his cradle. She had got a baby--oh, there were a pair of babies
when she gave birth to this child sitting here, that Friday night!--and
what more did she want?'

Mr. Dick secretly shook his head at me, as if he thought there was no
getting over this.

'She couldn't even have a baby like anybody else,' said my aunt. 'Where
was this child's sister, Betsey Trotwood? Not forthcoming. Don't tell
me!'

Mr. Dick seemed quite frightened.

'That little man of a doctor, with his head on one side,' said my aunt,
'Jellips, or whatever his name was, what was he about? All he could do,
was to say to me, like a robin redbreast--as he is--"It's a boy." A boy!
Yah, the imbecility of the whole set of 'em!'

The heartiness of the ejaculation startled Mr. Dick exceedingly; and me,
too, if I am to tell the truth.

'And then, as if this was not enough, and she had not stood sufficiently
in the light of this child's sister, Betsey Trotwood,' said my aunt,
'she marries a second time--goes and marries a Murderer--or a man with
a name like it--and stands in THIS child's light! And the natural
consequence is, as anybody but a baby might have foreseen, that he
prowls and wanders. He's as like Cain before he was grown up, as he can
be.'

Mr. Dick looked hard at me, as if to identify me in this character.

'And then there's that woman with the Pagan name,' said my aunt, 'that
Peggotty, she goes and gets married next. Because she has not seen
enough of the evil attending such things, she goes and gets married
next, as the child relates. I only hope,' said my aunt, shaking her
head, 'that her husband is one of those Poker husbands who abound in the
newspapers, and will beat her well with one.'

I could not bear to hear my old nurse so decried, and made the subject
of such a wish. I told my aunt that indeed she was mistaken. That
Peggotty was the best, the truest, the most faithful, most devoted, and
most self-denying friend and servant in the world; who had ever loved
me dearly, who had ever loved my mother dearly; who had held my mother's
dying head upon her arm, on whose face my mother had imprinted her last
grateful kiss. And my remembrance of them both, choking me, I broke down
as I was trying to say that her home was my home, and that all she had
was mine, and that I would have gone to her for shelter, but for her
humble station, which made me fear that I might bring some trouble on
her--I broke down, I say, as I was trying to say so, and laid my face in
my hands upon the table.

'Well, well!' said my aunt, 'the child is right to stand by those who
have stood by him--Janet! Donkeys!'

I thoroughly believe that but for those unfortunate donkeys, we should
have come to a good understanding; for my aunt had laid her hand on my
shoulder, and the impulse was upon me, thus emboldened, to embrace her
and beseech her protection. But the interruption, and the disorder she
was thrown into by the struggle outside, put an end to all softer ideas
for the present, and kept my aunt indignantly declaiming to Mr. Dick
about her determination to appeal for redress to the laws of her
country, and to bring actions for trespass against the whole donkey
proprietorship of Dover, until tea-time.

After tea, we sat at the window--on the look-out, as I imagined, from
my aunt's sharp expression of face, for more invaders--until dusk, when
Janet set candles, and a backgammon-board, on the table, and pulled down
the blinds.

'Now, Mr. Dick,' said my aunt, with her grave look, and her forefinger
up as before, 'I am going to ask you another question. Look at this
child.'

'David's son?' said Mr. Dick, with an attentive, puzzled face.

'Exactly so,' returned my aunt. 'What would you do with him, now?'

'Do with David's son?' said Mr. Dick.

'Ay,' replied my aunt, 'with David's son.'

'Oh!' said Mr. Dick. 'Yes. Do with--I should put him to bed.'

'Janet!' cried my aunt, with the same complacent triumph that I had
remarked before. 'Mr. Dick sets us all right. If the bed is ready, we'll
take him up to it.'

Janet reporting it to be quite ready, I was taken up to it; kindly, but
in some sort like a prisoner; my aunt going in front and Janet bringing
up the rear. The only circumstance which gave me any new hope, was my
aunt's stopping on the stairs to inquire about a smell of fire that was
prevalent there; and janet's replying that she had been making tinder
down in the kitchen, of my old shirt. But there were no other clothes in
my room than the odd heap of things I wore; and when I was left there,
with a little taper which my aunt forewarned me would burn exactly five
minutes, I heard them lock my door on the outside. Turning these things
over in my mind I deemed it possible that my aunt, who could know
nothing of me, might suspect I had a habit of running away, and took
precautions, on that account, to have me in safe keeping.

The room was a pleasant one, at the top of the house, overlooking the
sea, on which the moon was shining brilliantly. After I had said my
prayers, and the candle had burnt out, I remember how I still sat
looking at the moonlight on the water, as if I could hope to read my
fortune in it, as in a bright book; or to see my mother with her child,
coming from Heaven, along that shining path, to look upon me as she had
looked when I last saw her sweet face. I remember how the solemn feeling
with which at length I turned my eyes away, yielded to the sensation of
gratitude and rest which the sight of the white-curtained bed--and how
much more the lying softly down upon it, nestling in the snow-white
sheets!--inspired. I remember how I thought of all the solitary places
under the night sky where I had slept, and how I prayed that I never
might be houseless any more, and never might forget the houseless. I
remember how I seemed to float, then, down the melancholy glory of that
track upon the sea, away into the world of dreams.

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

completion: David sits down for a time on a stoop to collect his thoughts. Luckily, it's a warm summer night. Unluckily, he has very little money and no real plan beyond walking all the way to Dover . He happens to walk past a shop that advertises buying used clothes, with the best price given for rags. David rolls up his waistcoat and brings it to the shopkeeper, Mr. Dolloby. Mr. Dolloby offers David ninepence - about U.S. $5.00 in today's money . David decides to spend the night in a haystack he knows is located behind his old school, Salem House . David has some trouble finding Salem House, but at last he does, and the haystack as well - and that's where David passes his first night outside. David dreams of talking to his school friends, and jerks awake with Steerforth's name on his lips. It's just about dawn, and David falls asleep again. When he wakes up again, he creeps off without ever announcing himself to the boys at Salem House. David hears church bells ringing: it's Sunday morning. David walks about 23 miles on that first day. He is too afraid to spend the night at an inn, so he sleeps outside again, in a field near a troop outpost where a guard is patrolling. This makes David feel safe. David realizes he needs more money for food the next day, so he takes off his jacket to sell. Most of the second-hand clothing stores he finds are too grand for his poor little jacket. Finally, he finds a small place that caters to sailors. An old man in the shop keeps asking David what he wants, and punctuating every sentence with "goroo" . David asks eighteen pence - about $10 - for his jacket, and the man says he won't give it to David - he offers David an exchange instead of cash. David says that he will wait outside while the old man thinks over his offer. David sits and waits for many hours. The man - Charley - is an old drunk, frequently teased by boys in the neighborhood. This is why he behaves so badly with David. Charley comes out of his shop throughout the day with other things he offers David instead of money: a fishing rod, a fiddle, a hat, and a flute. David asks, with tears in his eyes, for either his money or his jacket. Finally, Charley starts doling out David's money a little bit at a time. David is exhausted by all of this, but he continues on his way. What frightens David the most as he travels on the road to Dover are the other "trampers" , men like David who are walking the roads. One of them is a young tinker traveling with a woman. This man grabs David by the shirt and demands to know where David is going. He threatens to knock David's brains out if David says he's better than the tinker. The tinker demands "the price of a pint of beer" from David, but the woman with the tinker shakes her head no. David takes his cue from the woman and says he's very poor and has nothing. The tinker then asks how David dares to wear his brother's silk handkerchief? The tinker grabs the handkerchief from around David's neck and throws it to the woman. She laughs as though this is a joke, throws the handkerchief back to David, and whispers to David to get away. The tinker grabs the handkerchief back and punches the woman to the ground. David is so frightened by this exchange that he hides from all people passing him from then on out, which slows his travel a lot. The only thing that keeps David going is his memory of his mother's face in her youth, which gives him hope for the future. Finally, David makes it to Dover. David asks around everywhere for Miss Betsey Trotwood, but the people he asks either laugh at him or else they won't tell him because they don't like the looks of him. At last, he meets a good-natured fellow driving a carriage, who knows where Miss Betsey lives. What's more, he gives David a penny, which David uses to buy bread before he goes to meet his aunt. Following the driver's directions, David winds up near a cluster of houses. He stops in at a general store to ask which house is Miss Betsey's. A customer, a young woman standing at the counter, turns around and asks David what he wants of her employer. The young woman thinks David is a beggar, but she agrees to lead David to the house anyway. The young woman takes David to the house and then hurries in. David stands at the garden gate and looks inside. He is not looking too great: his shoes have practically lost their soles, his clothes are stained and torn, and his hair hasn't been brushed in days. David doesn't know how he can meet his aunt in this condition. He sees a gray-haired man with a red face looking at him through the parlor window. The man winks at David, laughs, and then goes away. David is so surprised by this man that he is about to turn away and reconsider his plan when he sees a lady come out of the house. The lady is carrying gardening gloves and a knife. David is sure she is Miss Betsey. Miss Betsey tells David to go away, because boys aren't wanted here. His aunt goes to a corner of the garden to work. David is so desperate that he approaches Miss Betsey, touches her softly with his arm, and tells her that she is his aunt. Miss Betsey sits down suddenly on the ground, she's so shocked. David explains that his mother has died and that he has been miserable since then, and that he walked all the way here to find Miss Betsey. David is so exhausted and strung out that he bursts into tears. Miss Betsey takes him straight into the parlor and starts feeding him random things to try and get him to calm down . David is still hysterical, so Miss Betsey makes him lie down on the couch. Miss Betsey rings a bell, and her servant comes in. Miss Betsey asks Janet to bring Mr. Dick downstairs. Mr. Dick comes into the room laughing: it's the gray haired man who winked at David through the parlor window and frightened him. Miss Betsey tells Mr. Dick that this boy is David Copperfield, who has run away. David's aunt exclaims that his sister, Betsey Trotwood would never have run away! Miss Betsey tells Mr. Dick that, since he is so sharp, she wants his advice on what to do with David. Mr. Dick says that, if it was him, he would wash David. Miss Betsey turns to Janet and instructs her to heat the bath. During all this, David takes a look at the three people around him: his aunt is attractive, but very stern looking. Mr. Dick seems childish and strange: David thinks he may be a bit crazy. Janet, the servant, is around 19 or 20; she's very neat and pretty. As Janet is heating David's bath, Miss Betsey suddenly cries out, "Janet! Donkeys!" . Miss Betsey feels very possessive of the patch of green in front of her house, and her main horror in life is the sight of donkeys trying to get into it. So, she spends much of her time driving away kids who happen to ride their donkeys into her green patch. But even as Miss Betsey is driving away the donkeys, she is feeding David spoonfuls of broth. His bath is also very helpful: it soothes his aching limbs and makes him warm. After his bath, Miss Betsey and Janet put him into a set of Mr. Dick's clothes, wrap him in several shawls, and let him sleep on the sofa. As he dozes, Miss Betsey pushes David's hair from his face and seems generally to feel pity for him. When he wakes up, they all have dinner. Throughout this meal, David is very nervous: what is Miss Betsey going to decide to do to him? David explains everything that has happened to him in his life up to this point. Miss Betsey wonders why "the Baby" - a.k.a. Mrs. Copperfield - bothered to get married again. Mr. Dick wonders if it was because she wanted to. Miss Betsey dismisses this out of hand - her husband would be certain to abuse her somehow, so why did Mrs. Copperfield want another one? Also, Miss Betsey wants to know, why David's mother couldn't have given birth to a girl like she was supposed to? As though it wasn't enough that Mrs. Copperfield insisted on giving birth to a son, then she had to go off and marry someone named Murderer! No wonder David has become a wanderer, Miss Betsey decides. And then that Peggotty! Miss Betsey continues. She had to go and get married next! David protests that Peggotty is the best and most devoted friend he could have, and that he would have gone to Peggotty instead of Miss Betsey except that he wasn't sure she could support him. Miss Betsey approves of David's loyalty. After a long day of suspense for David about his fate, Miss Betsey turns to Mr. Dick and asks what she should do with David. Mr. Dick answers that she should put David to bed. And so she does: David gets sent to a pleasant bedroom overlooking the sea. Miss Betsey locks his door from the outside, probably, David guesses, to keep him from running away. David is so grateful that he prays never to be homeless himself, nor to forget what it is to be homeless.


prompt:
Chapter: On going down in the morning, I found my aunt musing so profoundly over
the breakfast table, with her elbow on the tray, that the contents of
the urn had overflowed the teapot and were laying the whole table-cloth
under water, when my entrance put her meditations to flight. I felt sure
that I had been the subject of her reflections, and was more than ever
anxious to know her intentions towards me. Yet I dared not express my
anxiety, lest it should give her offence.

My eyes, however, not being so much under control as my tongue, were
attracted towards my aunt very often during breakfast. I never could
look at her for a few moments together but I found her looking at me--in
an odd thoughtful manner, as if I were an immense way off, instead of
being on the other side of the small round table. When she had finished
her breakfast, my aunt very deliberately leaned back in her chair,
knitted her brows, folded her arms, and contemplated me at her leisure,
with such a fixedness of attention that I was quite overpowered by
embarrassment. Not having as yet finished my own breakfast, I attempted
to hide my confusion by proceeding with it; but my knife tumbled over my
fork, my fork tripped up my knife, I chipped bits of bacon a surprising
height into the air instead of cutting them for my own eating, and
choked myself with my tea, which persisted in going the wrong way
instead of the right one, until I gave in altogether, and sat blushing
under my aunt's close scrutiny.

'Hallo!' said my aunt, after a long time.

I looked up, and met her sharp bright glance respectfully.

'I have written to him,' said my aunt.

'To--?'

'To your father-in-law,' said my aunt. 'I have sent him a letter that
I'll trouble him to attend to, or he and I will fall out, I can tell
him!'

'Does he know where I am, aunt?' I inquired, alarmed.

'I have told him,' said my aunt, with a nod.

'Shall I--be--given up to him?' I faltered.

'I don't know,' said my aunt. 'We shall see.'

'Oh! I can't think what I shall do,' I exclaimed, 'if I have to go back
to Mr. Murdstone!'

'I don't know anything about it,' said my aunt, shaking her head. 'I
can't say, I am sure. We shall see.'

My spirits sank under these words, and I became very downcast and heavy
of heart. My aunt, without appearing to take much heed of me, put on a
coarse apron with a bib, which she took out of the press; washed up the
teacups with her own hands; and, when everything was washed and set in
the tray again, and the cloth folded and put on the top of the whole,
rang for Janet to remove it. She next swept up the crumbs with a little
broom (putting on a pair of gloves first), until there did not appear
to be one microscopic speck left on the carpet; next dusted and arranged
the room, which was dusted and arranged to a hair's breadth already.
When all these tasks were performed to her satisfaction, she took off
the gloves and apron, folded them up, put them in the particular corner
of the press from which they had been taken, brought out her work-box
to her own table in the open window, and sat down, with the green fan
between her and the light, to work.

'I wish you'd go upstairs,' said my aunt, as she threaded her needle,
'and give my compliments to Mr. Dick, and I'll be glad to know how he
gets on with his Memorial.'

I rose with all alacrity, to acquit myself of this commission.

'I suppose,' said my aunt, eyeing me as narrowly as she had eyed the
needle in threading it, 'you think Mr. Dick a short name, eh?'

'I thought it was rather a short name, yesterday,' I confessed.

'You are not to suppose that he hasn't got a longer name, if he chose
to use it,' said my aunt, with a loftier air. 'Babley--Mr. Richard
Babley--that's the gentleman's true name.'

I was going to suggest, with a modest sense of my youth and the
familiarity I had been already guilty of, that I had better give him the
full benefit of that name, when my aunt went on to say:

'But don't you call him by it, whatever you do. He can't bear his name.
That's a peculiarity of his. Though I don't know that it's much of a
peculiarity, either; for he has been ill-used enough, by some that bear
it, to have a mortal antipathy for it, Heaven knows. Mr. Dick is his
name here, and everywhere else, now--if he ever went anywhere else,
which he don't. So take care, child, you don't call him anything BUT Mr.
Dick.'

I promised to obey, and went upstairs with my message; thinking, as I
went, that if Mr. Dick had been working at his Memorial long, at the
same rate as I had seen him working at it, through the open door, when
I came down, he was probably getting on very well indeed. I found him
still driving at it with a long pen, and his head almost laid upon the
paper. He was so intent upon it, that I had ample leisure to observe the
large paper kite in a corner, the confusion of bundles of manuscript,
the number of pens, and, above all, the quantity of ink (which he seemed
to have in, in half-gallon jars by the dozen), before he observed my
being present.

'Ha! Phoebus!' said Mr. Dick, laying down his pen. 'How does the world
go? I'll tell you what,' he added, in a lower tone, 'I shouldn't wish it
to be mentioned, but it's a--' here he beckoned to me, and put his lips
close to my ear--'it's a mad world. Mad as Bedlam, boy!' said Mr. Dick,
taking snuff from a round box on the table, and laughing heartily.

Without presuming to give my opinion on this question, I delivered my
message.

'Well,' said Mr. Dick, in answer, 'my compliments to her, and I--I
believe I have made a start. I think I have made a start,' said Mr.
Dick, passing his hand among his grey hair, and casting anything but a
confident look at his manuscript. 'You have been to school?'

'Yes, sir,' I answered; 'for a short time.'

'Do you recollect the date,' said Mr. Dick, looking earnestly at me, and
taking up his pen to note it down, 'when King Charles the First had his
head cut off?' I said I believed it happened in the year sixteen hundred
and forty-nine.

'Well,' returned Mr. Dick, scratching his ear with his pen, and looking
dubiously at me. 'So the books say; but I don't see how that can be.
Because, if it was so long ago, how could the people about him have made
that mistake of putting some of the trouble out of his head, after it
was taken off, into mine?'

I was very much surprised by the inquiry; but could give no information
on this point.

'It's very strange,' said Mr. Dick, with a despondent look upon his
papers, and with his hand among his hair again, 'that I never can get
that quite right. I never can make that perfectly clear. But no matter,
no matter!' he said cheerfully, and rousing himself, 'there's time
enough! My compliments to Miss Trotwood, I am getting on very well
indeed.'

I was going away, when he directed my attention to the kite.

'What do you think of that for a kite?' he said.

I answered that it was a beautiful one. I should think it must have been
as much as seven feet high.

'I made it. We'll go and fly it, you and I,' said Mr. Dick. 'Do you see
this?'

He showed me that it was covered with manuscript, very closely and
laboriously written; but so plainly, that as I looked along the lines,
I thought I saw some allusion to King Charles the First's head again, in
one or two places.

'There's plenty of string,' said Mr. Dick, 'and when it flies high, it
takes the facts a long way. That's my manner of diffusing 'em. I don't
know where they may come down. It's according to circumstances, and the
wind, and so forth; but I take my chance of that.'

His face was so very mild and pleasant, and had something so reverend in
it, though it was hale and hearty, that I was not sure but that he was
having a good-humoured jest with me. So I laughed, and he laughed, and
we parted the best friends possible.

'Well, child,' said my aunt, when I went downstairs. 'And what of Mr.
Dick, this morning?'

I informed her that he sent his compliments, and was getting on very
well indeed.

'What do you think of him?' said my aunt.

I had some shadowy idea of endeavouring to evade the question, by
replying that I thought him a very nice gentleman; but my aunt was
not to be so put off, for she laid her work down in her lap, and said,
folding her hands upon it:

'Come! Your sister Betsey Trotwood would have told me what she thought
of anyone, directly. Be as like your sister as you can, and speak out!'

'Is he--is Mr. Dick--I ask because I don't know, aunt--is he at all out
of his mind, then?' I stammered; for I felt I was on dangerous ground.

'Not a morsel,' said my aunt.

'Oh, indeed!' I observed faintly.

'If there is anything in the world,' said my aunt, with great decision
and force of manner, 'that Mr. Dick is not, it's that.'

I had nothing better to offer, than another timid, 'Oh, indeed!'

'He has been CALLED mad,' said my aunt. 'I have a selfish pleasure in
saying he has been called mad, or I should not have had the benefit of
his society and advice for these last ten years and upwards--in fact,
ever since your sister, Betsey Trotwood, disappointed me.'

'So long as that?' I said.

'And nice people they were, who had the audacity to call him mad,'
pursued my aunt. 'Mr. Dick is a sort of distant connexion of mine--it
doesn't matter how; I needn't enter into that. If it hadn't been for me,
his own brother would have shut him up for life. That's all.'

I am afraid it was hypocritical in me, but seeing that my aunt felt
strongly on the subject, I tried to look as if I felt strongly too.

'A proud fool!' said my aunt. 'Because his brother was a little
eccentric--though he is not half so eccentric as a good many people--he
didn't like to have him visible about his house, and sent him away to
some private asylum-place: though he had been left to his particular
care by their deceased father, who thought him almost a natural. And a
wise man he must have been to think so! Mad himself, no doubt.'

Again, as my aunt looked quite convinced, I endeavoured to look quite
convinced also.

'So I stepped in,' said my aunt, 'and made him an offer. I said, "Your
brother's sane--a great deal more sane than you are, or ever will be, it
is to be hoped. Let him have his little income, and come and live with
me. I am not afraid of him, I am not proud, I am ready to take care
of him, and shall not ill-treat him as some people (besides the
asylum-folks) have done." After a good deal of squabbling,' said my
aunt, 'I got him; and he has been here ever since. He is the most
friendly and amenable creature in existence; and as for advice!--But
nobody knows what that man's mind is, except myself.'

My aunt smoothed her dress and shook her head, as if she smoothed
defiance of the whole world out of the one, and shook it out of the
other.

'He had a favourite sister,' said my aunt, 'a good creature, and very
kind to him. But she did what they all do--took a husband. And HE did
what they all do--made her wretched. It had such an effect upon the mind
of Mr. Dick (that's not madness, I hope!) that, combined with his fear
of his brother, and his sense of his unkindness, it threw him into a
fever. That was before he came to me, but the recollection of it is
oppressive to him even now. Did he say anything to you about King
Charles the First, child?'

'Yes, aunt.'

'Ah!' said my aunt, rubbing her nose as if she were a little vexed.
'That's his allegorical way of expressing it. He connects his illness
with great disturbance and agitation, naturally, and that's the figure,
or the simile, or whatever it's called, which he chooses to use. And why
shouldn't he, if he thinks proper!'

I said: 'Certainly, aunt.'

'It's not a business-like way of speaking,' said my aunt, 'nor a worldly
way. I am aware of that; and that's the reason why I insist upon it,
that there shan't be a word about it in his Memorial.'

'Is it a Memorial about his own history that he is writing, aunt?'

'Yes, child,' said my aunt, rubbing her nose again. 'He is memorializing
the Lord Chancellor, or the Lord Somebody or other--one of those people,
at all events, who are paid to be memorialized--about his affairs. I
suppose it will go in, one of these days. He hasn't been able to draw
it up yet, without introducing that mode of expressing himself; but it
don't signify; it keeps him employed.'

In fact, I found out afterwards that Mr. Dick had been for upwards
of ten years endeavouring to keep King Charles the First out of the
Memorial; but he had been constantly getting into it, and was there now.

'I say again,' said my aunt, 'nobody knows what that man's mind is
except myself; and he's the most amenable and friendly creature in
existence. If he likes to fly a kite sometimes, what of that! Franklin
used to fly a kite. He was a Quaker, or something of that sort, if I
am not mistaken. And a Quaker flying a kite is a much more ridiculous
object than anybody else.'

If I could have supposed that my aunt had recounted these particulars
for my especial behoof, and as a piece of confidence in me, I should
have felt very much distinguished, and should have augured favourably
from such a mark of her good opinion. But I could hardly help observing
that she had launched into them, chiefly because the question was raised
in her own mind, and with very little reference to me, though she had
addressed herself to me in the absence of anybody else.

At the same time, I must say that the generosity of her championship
of poor harmless Mr. Dick, not only inspired my young breast with
some selfish hope for myself, but warmed it unselfishly towards her.
I believe that I began to know that there was something about my aunt,
notwithstanding her many eccentricities and odd humours, to be honoured
and trusted in. Though she was just as sharp that day as on the day
before, and was in and out about the donkeys just as often, and was
thrown into a tremendous state of indignation, when a young man, going
by, ogled Janet at a window (which was one of the gravest misdemeanours
that could be committed against my aunt's dignity), she seemed to me to
command more of my respect, if not less of my fear.

The anxiety I underwent, in the interval which necessarily elapsed
before a reply could be received to her letter to Mr. Murdstone, was
extreme; but I made an endeavour to suppress it, and to be as agreeable
as I could in a quiet way, both to my aunt and Mr. Dick. The latter and
I would have gone out to fly the great kite; but that I had still no
other clothes than the anything but ornamental garments with which I
had been decorated on the first day, and which confined me to the house,
except for an hour after dark, when my aunt, for my health's sake,
paraded me up and down on the cliff outside, before going to bed. At
length the reply from Mr. Murdstone came, and my aunt informed me, to my
infinite terror, that he was coming to speak to her herself on the next
day. On the next day, still bundled up in my curious habiliments, I sat
counting the time, flushed and heated by the conflict of sinking hopes
and rising fears within me; and waiting to be startled by the sight of
the gloomy face, whose non-arrival startled me every minute.

My aunt was a little more imperious and stern than usual, but I observed
no other token of her preparing herself to receive the visitor so much
dreaded by me. She sat at work in the window, and I sat by, with my
thoughts running astray on all possible and impossible results of Mr.
Murdstone's visit, until pretty late in the afternoon. Our dinner had
been indefinitely postponed; but it was growing so late, that my aunt
had ordered it to be got ready, when she gave a sudden alarm of donkeys,
and to my consternation and amazement, I beheld Miss Murdstone, on a
side-saddle, ride deliberately over the sacred piece of green, and stop
in front of the house, looking about her.

'Go along with you!' cried my aunt, shaking her head and her fist at the
window. 'You have no business there. How dare you trespass? Go along!
Oh! you bold-faced thing!'

My aunt was so exasperated by the coolness with which Miss Murdstone
looked about her, that I really believe she was motionless, and unable
for the moment to dart out according to custom. I seized the opportunity
to inform her who it was; and that the gentleman now coming near the
offender (for the way up was very steep, and he had dropped behind), was
Mr. Murdstone himself.

'I don't care who it is!' cried my aunt, still shaking her head and
gesticulating anything but welcome from the bow-window. 'I won't be
trespassed upon. I won't allow it. Go away! Janet, turn him round.
Lead him off!' and I saw, from behind my aunt, a sort of hurried
battle-piece, in which the donkey stood resisting everybody, with all
his four legs planted different ways, while Janet tried to pull him
round by the bridle, Mr. Murdstone tried to lead him on, Miss Murdstone
struck at Janet with a parasol, and several boys, who had come to see
the engagement, shouted vigorously. But my aunt, suddenly descrying
among them the young malefactor who was the donkey's guardian, and who
was one of the most inveterate offenders against her, though hardly in
his teens, rushed out to the scene of action, pounced upon him, captured
him, dragged him, with his jacket over his head, and his heels grinding
the ground, into the garden, and, calling upon Janet to fetch the
constables and justices, that he might be taken, tried, and executed on
the spot, held him at bay there. This part of the business, however, did
not last long; for the young rascal, being expert at a variety of feints
and dodges, of which my aunt had no conception, soon went whooping away,
leaving some deep impressions of his nailed boots in the flower-beds,
and taking his donkey in triumph with him.

Miss Murdstone, during the latter portion of the contest, had
dismounted, and was now waiting with her brother at the bottom of the
steps, until my aunt should be at leisure to receive them. My aunt, a
little ruffled by the combat, marched past them into the house, with
great dignity, and took no notice of their presence, until they were
announced by Janet.

'Shall I go away, aunt?' I asked, trembling.

'No, sir,' said my aunt. 'Certainly not!' With which she pushed me into
a corner near her, and fenced Me in with a chair, as if it were a prison
or a bar of justice. This position I continued to occupy during the
whole interview, and from it I now saw Mr. and Miss Murdstone enter the
room.

'Oh!' said my aunt, 'I was not aware at first to whom I had the pleasure
of objecting. But I don't allow anybody to ride over that turf. I make
no exceptions. I don't allow anybody to do it.'

'Your regulation is rather awkward to strangers,' said Miss Murdstone.

'Is it!' said my aunt.

Mr. Murdstone seemed afraid of a renewal of hostilities, and interposing
began:

'Miss Trotwood!'

'I beg your pardon,' observed my aunt with a keen look. 'You are the Mr.
Murdstone who married the widow of my late nephew, David Copperfield, of
Blunderstone Rookery!--Though why Rookery, I don't know!'

'I am,' said Mr. Murdstone.

'You'll excuse my saying, sir,' returned my aunt, 'that I think it would
have been a much better and happier thing if you had left that poor
child alone.'

'I so far agree with what Miss Trotwood has remarked,' observed Miss
Murdstone, bridling, 'that I consider our lamented Clara to have been,
in all essential respects, a mere child.'

'It is a comfort to you and me, ma'am,' said my aunt, 'who are getting
on in life, and are not likely to be made unhappy by our personal
attractions, that nobody can say the same of us.'

'No doubt!' returned Miss Murdstone, though, I thought, not with a very
ready or gracious assent. 'And it certainly might have been, as you say,
a better and happier thing for my brother if he had never entered into
such a marriage. I have always been of that opinion.'

'I have no doubt you have,' said my aunt. 'Janet,' ringing the bell, 'my
compliments to Mr. Dick, and beg him to come down.'

Until he came, my aunt sat perfectly upright and stiff, frowning at the
wall. When he came, my aunt performed the ceremony of introduction.

'Mr. Dick. An old and intimate friend. On whose judgement,' said my
aunt, with emphasis, as an admonition to Mr. Dick, who was biting his
forefinger and looking rather foolish, 'I rely.'

Mr. Dick took his finger out of his mouth, on this hint, and stood among
the group, with a grave and attentive expression of face.

My aunt inclined her head to Mr. Murdstone, who went on:

'Miss Trotwood: on the receipt of your letter, I considered it an act of
greater justice to myself, and perhaps of more respect to you--'

'Thank you,' said my aunt, still eyeing him keenly. 'You needn't mind
me.'

'To answer it in person, however inconvenient the journey,' pursued Mr.
Murdstone, 'rather than by letter. This unhappy boy who has run away
from his friends and his occupation--'

'And whose appearance,' interposed his sister, directing general
attention to me in my indefinable costume, 'is perfectly scandalous and
disgraceful.'

'Jane Murdstone,' said her brother, 'have the goodness not to interrupt
me. This unhappy boy, Miss Trotwood, has been the occasion of much
domestic trouble and uneasiness; both during the lifetime of my late
dear wife, and since. He has a sullen, rebellious spirit; a violent
temper; and an untoward, intractable disposition. Both my sister and
myself have endeavoured to correct his vices, but ineffectually. And
I have felt--we both have felt, I may say; my sister being fully in
my confidence--that it is right you should receive this grave and
dispassionate assurance from our lips.'

'It can hardly be necessary for me to confirm anything stated by my
brother,' said Miss Murdstone; 'but I beg to observe, that, of all the
boys in the world, I believe this is the worst boy.'

'Strong!' said my aunt, shortly.

'But not at all too strong for the facts,' returned Miss Murdstone.

'Ha!' said my aunt. 'Well, sir?'

'I have my own opinions,' resumed Mr. Murdstone, whose face darkened
more and more, the more he and my aunt observed each other, which they
did very narrowly, 'as to the best mode of bringing him up; they are
founded, in part, on my knowledge of him, and in part on my knowledge of
my own means and resources. I am responsible for them to myself, I act
upon them, and I say no more about them. It is enough that I place this
boy under the eye of a friend of my own, in a respectable business;
that it does not please him; that he runs away from it; makes himself a
common vagabond about the country; and comes here, in rags, to appeal
to you, Miss Trotwood. I wish to set before you, honourably, the exact
consequences--so far as they are within my knowledge--of your abetting
him in this appeal.'

'But about the respectable business first,' said my aunt. 'If he had
been your own boy, you would have put him to it, just the same, I
suppose?'

'If he had been my brother's own boy,' returned Miss Murdstone, striking
in, 'his character, I trust, would have been altogether different.'

'Or if the poor child, his mother, had been alive, he would still have
gone into the respectable business, would he?' said my aunt.

'I believe,' said Mr. Murdstone, with an inclination of his head,
'that Clara would have disputed nothing which myself and my sister Jane
Murdstone were agreed was for the best.'

Miss Murdstone confirmed this with an audible murmur.

'Humph!' said my aunt. 'Unfortunate baby!'

Mr. Dick, who had been rattling his money all this time, was rattling it
so loudly now, that my aunt felt it necessary to check him with a look,
before saying:

'The poor child's annuity died with her?'

'Died with her,' replied Mr. Murdstone.

'And there was no settlement of the little property--the house and
garden--the what's-its-name Rookery without any rooks in it--upon her
boy?'

'It had been left to her, unconditionally, by her first husband,'
Mr. Murdstone began, when my aunt caught him up with the greatest
irascibility and impatience.

'Good Lord, man, there's no occasion to say that. Left to her
unconditionally! I think I see David Copperfield looking forward to any
condition of any sort or kind, though it stared him point-blank in the
face! Of course it was left to her unconditionally. But when she married
again--when she took that most disastrous step of marrying you, in
short,' said my aunt, 'to be plain--did no one put in a word for the boy
at that time?'

'My late wife loved her second husband, ma'am,' said Mr. Murdstone, 'and
trusted implicitly in him.'

'Your late wife, sir, was a most unworldly, most unhappy, most
unfortunate baby,' returned my aunt, shaking her head at him. 'That's
what she was. And now, what have you got to say next?'

'Merely this, Miss Trotwood,' he returned. 'I am here to take David
back--to take him back unconditionally, to dispose of him as I think
proper, and to deal with him as I think right. I am not here to make any
promise, or give any pledge to anybody. You may possibly have some
idea, Miss Trotwood, of abetting him in his running away, and in his
complaints to you. Your manner, which I must say does not seem intended
to propitiate, induces me to think it possible. Now I must caution you
that if you abet him once, you abet him for good and all; if you step
in between him and me, now, you must step in, Miss Trotwood, for ever.
I cannot trifle, or be trifled with. I am here, for the first and last
time, to take him away. Is he ready to go? If he is not--and you tell me
he is not; on any pretence; it is indifferent to me what--my doors are
shut against him henceforth, and yours, I take it for granted, are open
to him.'

To this address, my aunt had listened with the closest attention,
sitting perfectly upright, with her hands folded on one knee, and
looking grimly on the speaker. When he had finished, she turned her
eyes so as to command Miss Murdstone, without otherwise disturbing her
attitude, and said:

'Well, ma'am, have YOU got anything to remark?'

'Indeed, Miss Trotwood,' said Miss Murdstone, 'all that I could say has
been so well said by my brother, and all that I know to be the fact
has been so plainly stated by him, that I have nothing to add except my
thanks for your politeness. For your very great politeness, I am sure,'
said Miss Murdstone; with an irony which no more affected my aunt, than
it discomposed the cannon I had slept by at Chatham.

'And what does the boy say?' said my aunt. 'Are you ready to go, David?'

I answered no, and entreated her not to let me go. I said that neither
Mr. nor Miss Murdstone had ever liked me, or had ever been kind to me.
That they had made my mama, who always loved me dearly, unhappy about
me, and that I knew it well, and that Peggotty knew it. I said that I
had been more miserable than I thought anybody could believe, who only
knew how young I was. And I begged and prayed my aunt--I forget in
what terms now, but I remember that they affected me very much then--to
befriend and protect me, for my father's sake.

'Mr. Dick,' said my aunt, 'what shall I do with this child?'

Mr. Dick considered, hesitated, brightened, and rejoined, 'Have him
measured for a suit of clothes directly.'

'Mr. Dick,' said my aunt triumphantly, 'give me your hand, for your
common sense is invaluable.' Having shaken it with great cordiality, she
pulled me towards her and said to Mr. Murdstone:

'You can go when you like; I'll take my chance with the boy. If he's all
you say he is, at least I can do as much for him then, as you have done.
But I don't believe a word of it.'

'Miss Trotwood,' rejoined Mr. Murdstone, shrugging his shoulders, as he
rose, 'if you were a gentleman--'

'Bah! Stuff and nonsense!' said my aunt. 'Don't talk to me!'

'How exquisitely polite!' exclaimed Miss Murdstone, rising.
'Overpowering, really!'

'Do you think I don't know,' said my aunt, turning a deaf ear to the
sister, and continuing to address the brother, and to shake her head at
him with infinite expression, 'what kind of life you must have led that
poor, unhappy, misdirected baby? Do you think I don't know what a woeful
day it was for the soft little creature when you first came in her
way--smirking and making great eyes at her, I'll be bound, as if you
couldn't say boh! to a goose!'

'I never heard anything so elegant!' said Miss Murdstone.

'Do you think I can't understand you as well as if I had seen you,'
pursued my aunt, 'now that I DO see and hear you--which, I tell you
candidly, is anything but a pleasure to me? Oh yes, bless us! who so
smooth and silky as Mr. Murdstone at first! The poor, benighted innocent
had never seen such a man. He was made of sweetness. He worshipped her.
He doted on her boy--tenderly doted on him! He was to be another father
to him, and they were all to live together in a garden of roses, weren't
they? Ugh! Get along with you, do!' said my aunt.

'I never heard anything like this person in my life!' exclaimed Miss
Murdstone.

'And when you had made sure of the poor little fool,' said my aunt--'God
forgive me that I should call her so, and she gone where YOU won't go in
a hurry--because you had not done wrong enough to her and hers, you
must begin to train her, must you? begin to break her, like a poor
caged bird, and wear her deluded life away, in teaching her to sing YOUR
notes?'

'This is either insanity or intoxication,' said Miss Murdstone, in a
perfect agony at not being able to turn the current of my aunt's address
towards herself; 'and my suspicion is that it's intoxication.'

Miss Betsey, without taking the least notice of the interruption,
continued to address herself to Mr. Murdstone as if there had been no
such thing.

'Mr. Murdstone,' she said, shaking her finger at him, 'you were a tyrant
to the simple baby, and you broke her heart. She was a loving baby--I
know that; I knew it, years before you ever saw her--and through the
best part of her weakness you gave her the wounds she died of. There
is the truth for your comfort, however you like it. And you and your
instruments may make the most of it.'

'Allow me to inquire, Miss Trotwood,' interposed Miss Murdstone,
'whom you are pleased to call, in a choice of words in which I am not
experienced, my brother's instruments?'

'It was clear enough, as I have told you, years before YOU ever saw
her--and why, in the mysterious dispensations of Providence, you ever
did see her, is more than humanity can comprehend--it was clear enough
that the poor soft little thing would marry somebody, at some time or
other; but I did hope it wouldn't have been as bad as it has turned out.
That was the time, Mr. Murdstone, when she gave birth to her boy here,'
said my aunt; 'to the poor child you sometimes tormented her through
afterwards, which is a disagreeable remembrance and makes the sight of
him odious now. Aye, aye! you needn't wince!' said my aunt. 'I know it's
true without that.'

He had stood by the door, all this while, observant of her with a smile
upon his face, though his black eyebrows were heavily contracted. I
remarked now, that, though the smile was on his face still, his colour
had gone in a moment, and he seemed to breathe as if he had been
running.

'Good day, sir,' said my aunt, 'and good-bye! Good day to you, too,
ma'am,' said my aunt, turning suddenly upon his sister. 'Let me see you
ride a donkey over my green again, and as sure as you have a head upon
your shoulders, I'll knock your bonnet off, and tread upon it!'

It would require a painter, and no common painter too, to depict my
aunt's face as she delivered herself of this very unexpected sentiment,
and Miss Murdstone's face as she heard it. But the manner of the speech,
no less than the matter, was so fiery, that Miss Murdstone, without a
word in answer, discreetly put her arm through her brother's, and walked
haughtily out of the cottage; my aunt remaining in the window looking
after them; prepared, I have no doubt, in case of the donkey's
reappearance, to carry her threat into instant execution.

No attempt at defiance being made, however, her face gradually relaxed,
and became so pleasant, that I was emboldened to kiss and thank her;
which I did with great heartiness, and with both my arms clasped round
her neck. I then shook hands with Mr. Dick, who shook hands with me a
great many times, and hailed this happy close of the proceedings with
repeated bursts of laughter.

'You'll consider yourself guardian, jointly with me, of this child, Mr.
Dick,' said my aunt.

'I shall be delighted,' said Mr. Dick, 'to be the guardian of David's
son.'

'Very good,' returned my aunt, 'that's settled. I have been thinking, do
you know, Mr. Dick, that I might call him Trotwood?'

'Certainly, certainly. Call him Trotwood, certainly,' said Mr. Dick.
'David's son's Trotwood.'

'Trotwood Copperfield, you mean,' returned my aunt.

'Yes, to be sure. Yes. Trotwood Copperfield,' said Mr. Dick, a little
abashed.

My aunt took so kindly to the notion, that some ready-made clothes,
which were purchased for me that afternoon, were marked 'Trotwood
Copperfield', in her own handwriting, and in indelible marking-ink,
before I put them on; and it was settled that all the other clothes
which were ordered to be made for me (a complete outfit was bespoke that
afternoon) should be marked in the same way.

Thus I began my new life, in a new name, and with everything new about
me. Now that the state of doubt was over, I felt, for many days,
like one in a dream. I never thought that I had a curious couple of
guardians, in my aunt and Mr. Dick. I never thought of anything about
myself, distinctly. The two things clearest in my mind were, that a
remoteness had come upon the old Blunderstone life--which seemed to lie
in the haze of an immeasurable distance; and that a curtain had for ever
fallen on my life at Murdstone and Grinby's. No one has ever raised that
curtain since. I have lifted it for a moment, even in this narrative,
with a reluctant hand, and dropped it gladly. The remembrance of that
life is fraught with so much pain to me, with so much mental suffering
and want of hope, that I have never had the courage even to examine how
long I was doomed to lead it. Whether it lasted for a year, or more, or
less, I do not know. I only know that it was, and ceased to be; and that
I have written, and there I leave it.

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

completion: David comes downstairs the next morning to find his aunt deep, both in thought and in breakfast. David's really nervous because he still doesn't know what her long-term plans are for him. Miss Betsey informs David that she has written to Mr. Murdstone, and that they'll see what would happen next. David becomes deeply sad at this news. Miss Betsey instructs David to go upstairs and ask Mr. Dick about his Memorial. She wonders if David thinks "Mr. Dick" is a short name. In fact, his real name is Mr. Richard Babley, but he hates it. Miss Betsey tells David that he has been so cruelly treated by people who share his name that he can't stand it, which is why he is only known as Mr. Dick in the Trotwood household. David promises that he will only call him Mr. Dick, and goes upstairs to find him. Mr. Dick comments to David that it's a crazy world, and that he has just made a start on his Memorial. Mr. Dick asks David if he knows the year when King Charles the First was beheaded? David answers that it was 1649 . Mr. Dick can't figure out why, if his execution happened so long ago, people have bothered to try and make Mr. Dick memorize this fact. The man is glad Miss Betsey has asked after his progress, and wonders what David thinks of the giant kite sitting in the corner of his room. It's about seven feet tall. Mr. Dick shows David that the kite is covered with handwritten pages of facts. Mr. Dick uses this kite to send these facts off into the air and away from his mind. David laughs at this, and Mr. Dick joins him. They both become friends. The boy goes downstairs and tells Miss Betsey that Mr. Dick seems to be doing well. Miss Betsey wants to know what David thinks of him. David asks if Mr. Dick might possibly be a tiny bit crazy? Miss Betsey says that he is not mad at all - Mr. Dick has been called crazy, which is why Miss Betsey has been able to enjoy the pleasure of his company for the past ten years. But he's a lot saner than many people, she says. Mr. Dick is distantly related to Miss Betsey. The man's own brother wanted to lock him up in a mental institution because he is a little eccentric - even though their father asked Mr. Dick's brother to take particular care of him in his will. Mr. Dick also had a sister who was very kind to Mr. Dick, but she was abused by her husband, which upset him very much. Between the brother who wanted to put him away and the sister whom he saw mistreated, Mr. Dick was very ill when he came to live with Miss Betsey. Miss Betsey says that Mr. Dick uses "King Charles the First" as a way of expressing his memory of his own agitation and illness - and why shouldn't he express it that way! she adds. The Memorial is Mr. Dick's history of himself , but King Charles the First keeps creeping in no matter how hard Mr. Dick tries to keep him out - his history of himself keeps getting interrupted by his memory of his illness. Miss Betsey says that Mr. Dick is the nicest guy in the world, and if he likes to fly a kite now and then, who cares? Hearing David's strong defense of Mr. Dick, he starts to hope that she will take him in, and begins to respect her merits. As David waits for Mr. Murdstone's answer to his aunt's letter, he is really nervous, but he does his best to be nice to Miss Betsey and Mr. Dick. At last, the day arrives when Mr. Murdstone himself is supposed to come to see Miss Betsey. Just as they are about to eat lunch, Miss Betsey sees someone sitting sidesaddle on a donkey come riding across her beautiful lawn: it's Miss Murdstone. And Mr. Murdstone comes up soon after. Miss Betsey exclaims that it doesn't matter who it is, she won't have trespassers on her grass! Finally, they all assemble inside. Miss Betsey makes David sit down and then turns to receive the Murdstones. She's obviously still furious that they trespassed on her grass . Miss Betsey tells Mr. Murdstone it would have been better if he had left Mrs. Copperfield ) alone. Miss Murdstone agrees, and adds that it would have been better if Mr. Murdstone had never made such a marriage. Miss Betsey rings for Janet and asks her to bring down Mr. Dick. Mr. Murdstone tells Miss Betsey that David is a bad tempered, ungrateful boy whom he and his sister have tried to discipline. Miss Murdstone adds that David is the worst boy in the world. Mr. Murdstone continues: he has done what he thinks is best with a boy of David's type: to give him an occupation under a respectable man. But David has run away from that job Mr. Murdstone so kindly arranged for him. Miss Betsey wonders if Mr. Murdstone would have set his own son to such a job, or if he would have sent David to London if Mrs. Copperfield were still alive. Mr. Murdstone answers that Mrs. Copperfield would have known the Murdstones were acting in David's best interests. As this conversation is going on, Mr. Dick keeps rattling his money more and more loudly, until Miss Betsey glances at him to stop him. David's aunt finds out the deal with Mrs. Copperfield's property. The house and garden were left to David's mother after her husband died. However, everything went straight to Mr. Murdstone when David's mother died, leaving David with diddly squat. Mr. Murdstone plans to take David back with him, and to do with David what he likes. He refuses to make Miss Betsey any promises. David's stepfather warns Miss Betsey that if she steps in on David's behalf, she has to take full control of him: Mr. Murdstone will never deal with David again. Miss Murdstone then thanks Miss Betsey sarcastically for her politeness. Miss Betsey asks David what he wants. David begs Miss Betsey not to let him go, because the Murdstones have never liked him, and because they turned his own mother against him. Miss Betsey turns to Mr. Dick for his opinion. Mr. Dick says that they should have him measured for a suit of clothes. Miss Betsey applauds Mr. Dick's common sense, and tells the Murdstones that she will keep David because she's sure they're lying about him. Miss Betsey accuses Mr. Murdstone of misleading Mrs. Copperfield with pretty words and promises, marrying her, and then bullying her into behaving as he wanted her to. As Miss Betsey makes these totally true accusations, Miss Murdstone keeps trying to get a word in edgewise, but her sarcasm doesn't make a bit of difference to Miss Betsey. Miss Betsey exclaims that Mr. Murdstone is a tyrant, that he broke Mrs. Copperfield's heart, and that his domination is what killed her. Miss Betsey concludes that the reason Mr. Murdstone can't stand to look at David now is because he remembers how he used Mrs. Copperfield's own son against her, to torment her and to break her spirit. As David watches Mr. Murdstone's face, he notices that Mr. Murdstone's expression doesn't change, but he goes completely pale at this. Miss Betsey tells them both good day, and the Murdstones leave her cottage. David's aunt turns to Mr. Dick and instructs him that he and Miss Betsey will share David's guardianship. Mr. Dick says he will do so gladly. Miss Betsey decides to change David's name: she wants to call him Trotwood Copperfield. David is in a daze: his old life in Suffolk seems incredibly distant, and it's as though a veil has fallen over his awful experiences after his mother's death.