Chapter: I began the next day with another dive into the Roman bath, and then
started for Highgate. I was not dispirited now. I was not afraid of the
shabby coat, and had no yearnings after gallant greys. My whole manner
of thinking of our late misfortune was changed. What I had to do, was,
to show my aunt that her past goodness to me had not been thrown away
on an insensible, ungrateful object. What I had to do, was, to turn the
painful discipline of my younger days to account, by going to work with
a resolute and steady heart. What I had to do, was, to take my woodman's
axe in my hand, and clear my own way through the forest of difficulty,
by cutting down the trees until I came to Dora. And I went on at a
mighty rate, as if it could be done by walking.

When I found myself on the familiar Highgate road, pursuing such a
different errand from that old one of pleasure, with which it was
associated, it seemed as if a complete change had come on my whole life.
But that did not discourage me. With the new life, came new purpose,
new intention. Great was the labour; priceless the reward. Dora was the
reward, and Dora must be won.

I got into such a transport, that I felt quite sorry my coat was not
a little shabby already. I wanted to be cutting at those trees in the
forest of difficulty, under circumstances that should prove my strength.
I had a good mind to ask an old man, in wire spectacles, who was
breaking stones upon the road, to lend me his hammer for a little while,
and let me begin to beat a path to Dora out of granite. I stimulated
myself into such a heat, and got so out of breath, that I felt as if I
had been earning I don't know how much.

In this state, I went into a cottage that I saw was to let, and examined
it narrowly,--for I felt it necessary to be practical. It would do for
me and Dora admirably: with a little front garden for Jip to run about
in, and bark at the tradespeople through the railings, and a capital
room upstairs for my aunt. I came out again, hotter and faster than
ever, and dashed up to Highgate, at such a rate that I was there an
hour too early; and, though I had not been, should have been obliged to
stroll about to cool myself, before I was at all presentable.

My first care, after putting myself under this necessary course of
preparation, was to find the Doctor's house. It was not in that part of
Highgate where Mrs. Steerforth lived, but quite on the opposite side
of the little town. When I had made this discovery, I went back, in
an attraction I could not resist, to a lane by Mrs. Steerforth's, and
looked over the corner of the garden wall. His room was shut up close.
The conservatory doors were standing open, and Rosa Dartle was walking,
bareheaded, with a quick, impetuous step, up and down a gravel walk on
one side of the lawn. She gave me the idea of some fierce thing, that
was dragging the length of its chain to and fro upon a beaten track, and
wearing its heart out.

I came softly away from my place of observation, and avoiding that part
of the neighbourhood, and wishing I had not gone near it, strolled about
until it was ten o'clock. The church with the slender spire, that stands
on the top of the hill now, was not there then to tell me the time. An
old red-brick mansion, used as a school, was in its place; and a fine
old house it must have been to go to school at, as I recollect it.

When I approached the Doctor's cottage--a pretty old place, on which
he seemed to have expended some money, if I might judge from the
embellishments and repairs that had the look of being just completed--I
saw him walking in the garden at the side, gaiters and all, as if he
had never left off walking since the days of my pupilage. He had his old
companions about him, too; for there were plenty of high trees in the
neighbourhood, and two or three rooks were on the grass, looking after
him, as if they had been written to about him by the Canterbury rooks,
and were observing him closely in consequence.

Knowing the utter hopelessness of attracting his attention from that
distance, I made bold to open the gate, and walk after him, so as to
meet him when he should turn round. When he did, and came towards me, he
looked at me thoughtfully for a few moments, evidently without thinking
about me at all; and then his benevolent face expressed extraordinary
pleasure, and he took me by both hands.

'Why, my dear Copperfield,' said the Doctor, 'you are a man! How do you
do? I am delighted to see you. My dear Copperfield, how very much you
have improved! You are quite--yes--dear me!'

I hoped he was well, and Mrs. Strong too.

'Oh dear, yes!' said the Doctor; 'Annie's quite well, and she'll be
delighted to see you. You were always her favourite. She said so,
last night, when I showed her your letter. And--yes, to be sure--you
recollect Mr. Jack Maldon, Copperfield?'

'Perfectly, sir.'

'Of course,' said the Doctor. 'To be sure. He's pretty well, too.'

'Has he come home, sir?' I inquired.

'From India?' said the Doctor. 'Yes. Mr. Jack Maldon couldn't bear
the climate, my dear. Mrs. Markleham--you have not forgotten Mrs.
Markleham?'

Forgotten the Old Soldier! And in that short time!

'Mrs. Markleham,' said the Doctor, 'was quite vexed about him, poor
thing; so we have got him at home again; and we have bought him a little
Patent place, which agrees with him much better.' I knew enough of Mr.
Jack Maldon to suspect from this account that it was a place where there
was not much to do, and which was pretty well paid. The Doctor, walking
up and down with his hand on my shoulder, and his kind face turned
encouragingly to mine, went on:

'Now, my dear Copperfield, in reference to this proposal of yours. It's
very gratifying and agreeable to me, I am sure; but don't you think you
could do better? You achieved distinction, you know, when you were with
us. You are qualified for many good things. You have laid a foundation
that any edifice may be raised upon; and is it not a pity that you
should devote the spring-time of your life to such a poor pursuit as I
can offer?'

I became very glowing again, and, expressing myself in a rhapsodical
style, I am afraid, urged my request strongly; reminding the Doctor that
I had already a profession.

'Well, well,' said the Doctor, 'that's true. Certainly, your having
a profession, and being actually engaged in studying it, makes a
difference. But, my good young friend, what's seventy pounds a year?'

'It doubles our income, Doctor Strong,' said I.

'Dear me!' replied the Doctor. 'To think of that! Not that I mean to
say it's rigidly limited to seventy pounds a-year, because I have always
contemplated making any young friend I might thus employ, a present too.
Undoubtedly,' said the Doctor, still walking me up and down with
his hand on my shoulder. 'I have always taken an annual present into
account.'

'My dear tutor,' said I (now, really, without any nonsense), 'to whom I
owe more obligations already than I ever can acknowledge--'

'No, no,' interposed the Doctor. 'Pardon me!'

'If you will take such time as I have, and that is my mornings and
evenings, and can think it worth seventy pounds a year, you will do me
such a service as I cannot express.'

'Dear me!' said the Doctor, innocently. 'To think that so little should
go for so much! Dear, dear! And when you can do better, you will? On
your word, now?' said the Doctor,--which he had always made a very grave
appeal to the honour of us boys.

'On my word, sir!' I returned, answering in our old school manner.

'Then be it so,' said the Doctor, clapping me on the shoulder, and still
keeping his hand there, as we still walked up and down.

'And I shall be twenty times happier, sir,' said I, with a little--I
hope innocent--flattery, 'if my employment is to be on the Dictionary.'

The Doctor stopped, smilingly clapped me on the shoulder again, and
exclaimed, with a triumph most delightful to behold, as if I had
penetrated to the profoundest depths of mortal sagacity, 'My dear young
friend, you have hit it. It IS the Dictionary!'

How could it be anything else! His pockets were as full of it as his
head. It was sticking out of him in all directions. He told me that
since his retirement from scholastic life, he had been advancing with
it wonderfully; and that nothing could suit him better than the proposed
arrangements for morning and evening work, as it was his custom to walk
about in the daytime with his considering cap on. His papers were in
a little confusion, in consequence of Mr. Jack Maldon having lately
proffered his occasional services as an amanuensis, and not being
accustomed to that occupation; but we should soon put right what was
amiss, and go on swimmingly. Afterwards, when we were fairly at our
work, I found Mr. Jack Maldon's efforts more troublesome to me than
I had expected, as he had not confined himself to making numerous
mistakes, but had sketched so many soldiers, and ladies' heads, over
the Doctor's manuscript, that I often became involved in labyrinths of
obscurity.

The Doctor was quite happy in the prospect of our going to work together
on that wonderful performance, and we settled to begin next morning at
seven o'clock. We were to work two hours every morning, and two or three
hours every night, except on Saturdays, when I was to rest. On Sundays,
of course, I was to rest also, and I considered these very easy terms.

Our plans being thus arranged to our mutual satisfaction, the Doctor
took me into the house to present me to Mrs. Strong, whom we found in
the Doctor's new study, dusting his books,--a freedom which he never
permitted anybody else to take with those sacred favourites.

They had postponed their breakfast on my account, and we sat down to
table together. We had not been seated long, when I saw an approaching
arrival in Mrs. Strong's face, before I heard any sound of it. A
gentleman on horseback came to the gate, and leading his horse into the
little court, with the bridle over his arm, as if he were quite at home,
tied him to a ring in the empty coach-house wall, and came into the
breakfast parlour, whip in hand. It was Mr. Jack Maldon; and Mr. Jack
Maldon was not at all improved by India, I thought. I was in a state
of ferocious virtue, however, as to young men who were not cutting down
trees in the forest of difficulty; and my impression must be received
with due allowance.

'Mr. Jack!' said the Doctor. 'Copperfield!'

Mr. Jack Maldon shook hands with me; but not very warmly, I believed;
and with an air of languid patronage, at which I secretly took great
umbrage. But his languor altogether was quite a wonderful sight; except
when he addressed himself to his cousin Annie. 'Have you breakfasted
this morning, Mr. Jack?' said the Doctor.

'I hardly ever take breakfast, sir,' he replied, with his head thrown
back in an easy-chair. 'I find it bores me.'

'Is there any news today?' inquired the Doctor.

'Nothing at all, sir,' replied Mr. Maldon. 'There's an account about
the people being hungry and discontented down in the North, but they are
always being hungry and discontented somewhere.'

The Doctor looked grave, and said, as though he wished to change the
subject, 'Then there's no news at all; and no news, they say, is good
news.'

'There's a long statement in the papers, sir, about a murder,' observed
Mr. Maldon. 'But somebody is always being murdered, and I didn't read
it.'

A display of indifference to all the actions and passions of mankind was
not supposed to be such a distinguished quality at that time, I think,
as I have observed it to be considered since. I have known it very
fashionable indeed. I have seen it displayed with such success, that I
have encountered some fine ladies and gentlemen who might as well have
been born caterpillars. Perhaps it impressed me the more then, because
it was new to me, but it certainly did not tend to exalt my opinion of,
or to strengthen my confidence in, Mr. Jack Maldon.

'I came out to inquire whether Annie would like to go to the opera
tonight,' said Mr. Maldon, turning to her. 'It's the last good night
there will be, this season; and there's a singer there, whom she really
ought to hear. She is perfectly exquisite. Besides which, she is so
charmingly ugly,' relapsing into languor.

The Doctor, ever pleased with what was likely to please his young wife,
turned to her and said:

'You must go, Annie. You must go.'

'I would rather not,' she said to the Doctor. 'I prefer to remain at
home. I would much rather remain at home.'

Without looking at her cousin, she then addressed me, and asked me about
Agnes, and whether she should see her, and whether she was not likely to
come that day; and was so much disturbed, that I wondered how even the
Doctor, buttering his toast, could be blind to what was so obvious.

But he saw nothing. He told her, good-naturedly, that she was young and
ought to be amused and entertained, and must not allow herself to be
made dull by a dull old fellow. Moreover, he said, he wanted to hear her
sing all the new singer's songs to him; and how could she do that well,
unless she went? So the Doctor persisted in making the engagement for
her, and Mr. Jack Maldon was to come back to dinner. This concluded, he
went to his Patent place, I suppose; but at all events went away on his
horse, looking very idle.

I was curious to find out next morning, whether she had been. She had
not, but had sent into London to put her cousin off; and had gone out in
the afternoon to see Agnes, and had prevailed upon the Doctor to go with
her; and they had walked home by the fields, the Doctor told me, the
evening being delightful. I wondered then, whether she would have gone
if Agnes had not been in town, and whether Agnes had some good influence
over her too!

She did not look very happy, I thought; but it was a good face, or a
very false one. I often glanced at it, for she sat in the window all the
time we were at work; and made our breakfast, which we took by snatches
as we were employed. When I left, at nine o'clock, she was kneeling on
the ground at the Doctor's feet, putting on his shoes and gaiters for
him. There was a softened shade upon her face, thrown from some green
leaves overhanging the open window of the low room; and I thought all
the way to Doctors' Commons, of the night when I had seen it looking at
him as he read.

I was pretty busy now; up at five in the morning, and home at nine
or ten at night. But I had infinite satisfaction in being so
closely engaged, and never walked slowly on any account, and felt
enthusiastically that the more I tired myself, the more I was doing to
deserve Dora. I had not revealed myself in my altered character to
Dora yet, because she was coming to see Miss Mills in a few days, and
I deferred all I had to tell her until then; merely informing her in
my letters (all our communications were secretly forwarded through Miss
Mills), that I had much to tell her. In the meantime, I put myself on
a short allowance of bear's grease, wholly abandoned scented soap and
lavender water, and sold off three waistcoats at a prodigious sacrifice,
as being too luxurious for my stern career.

Not satisfied with all these proceedings, but burning with impatience
to do something more, I went to see Traddles, now lodging up behind the
parapet of a house in Castle Street, Holborn. Mr. Dick, who had been
with me to Highgate twice already, and had resumed his companionship
with the Doctor, I took with me.

I took Mr. Dick with me, because, acutely sensitive to my aunt's
reverses, and sincerely believing that no galley-slave or convict worked
as I did, he had begun to fret and worry himself out of spirits and
appetite, as having nothing useful to do. In this condition, he felt
more incapable of finishing the Memorial than ever; and the harder he
worked at it, the oftener that unlucky head of King Charles the First
got into it. Seriously apprehending that his malady would increase,
unless we put some innocent deception upon him and caused him to believe
that he was useful, or unless we could put him in the way of being
really useful (which would be better), I made up my mind to try
if Traddles could help us. Before we went, I wrote Traddles a full
statement of all that had happened, and Traddles wrote me back a capital
answer, expressive of his sympathy and friendship.

We found him hard at work with his inkstand and papers, refreshed by the
sight of the flower-pot stand and the little round table in a corner of
the small apartment. He received us cordially, and made friends with
Mr. Dick in a moment. Mr. Dick professed an absolute certainty of having
seen him before, and we both said, 'Very likely.'

The first subject on which I had to consult Traddles was this,--I had
heard that many men distinguished in various pursuits had begun life
by reporting the debates in Parliament. Traddles having mentioned
newspapers to me, as one of his hopes, I had put the two things
together, and told Traddles in my letter that I wished to know how I
could qualify myself for this pursuit. Traddles now informed me, as the
result of his inquiries, that the mere mechanical acquisition necessary,
except in rare cases, for thorough excellence in it, that is to say,
a perfect and entire command of the mystery of short-hand writing and
reading, was about equal in difficulty to the mastery of six languages;
and that it might perhaps be attained, by dint of perseverance, in the
course of a few years. Traddles reasonably supposed that this would
settle the business; but I, only feeling that here indeed were a few
tall trees to be hewn down, immediately resolved to work my way on to
Dora through this thicket, axe in hand.

'I am very much obliged to you, my dear Traddles!' said I. 'I'll begin
tomorrow.'

Traddles looked astonished, as he well might; but he had no notion as
yet of my rapturous condition.

'I'll buy a book,' said I, 'with a good scheme of this art in it; I'll
work at it at the Commons, where I haven't half enough to do; I'll take
down the speeches in our court for practice--Traddles, my dear fellow,
I'll master it!'

'Dear me,' said Traddles, opening his eyes, 'I had no idea you were such
a determined character, Copperfield!'

I don't know how he should have had, for it was new enough to me. I
passed that off, and brought Mr. Dick on the carpet.

'You see,' said Mr. Dick, wistfully, 'if I could exert myself, Mr.
Traddles--if I could beat a drum--or blow anything!'

Poor fellow! I have little doubt he would have preferred such an
employment in his heart to all others. Traddles, who would not have
smiled for the world, replied composedly:

'But you are a very good penman, sir. You told me so, Copperfield?'
'Excellent!' said I. And indeed he was. He wrote with extraordinary
neatness.

'Don't you think,' said Traddles, 'you could copy writings, sir, if I
got them for you?'

Mr. Dick looked doubtfully at me. 'Eh, Trotwood?'

I shook my head. Mr. Dick shook his, and sighed. 'Tell him about the
Memorial,' said Mr. Dick.

I explained to Traddles that there was a difficulty in keeping King
Charles the First out of Mr. Dick's manuscripts; Mr. Dick in the
meanwhile looking very deferentially and seriously at Traddles, and
sucking his thumb.

'But these writings, you know, that I speak of, are already drawn up
and finished,' said Traddles after a little consideration. 'Mr. Dick has
nothing to do with them. Wouldn't that make a difference, Copperfield?
At all events, wouldn't it be well to try?'

This gave us new hope. Traddles and I laying our heads together apart,
while Mr. Dick anxiously watched us from his chair, we concocted a
scheme in virtue of which we got him to work next day, with triumphant
success.

On a table by the window in Buckingham Street, we set out the work
Traddles procured for him--which was to make, I forget how many copies
of a legal document about some right of way--and on another table
we spread the last unfinished original of the great Memorial. Our
instructions to Mr. Dick were that he should copy exactly what he had
before him, without the least departure from the original; and that when
he felt it necessary to make the slightest allusion to King Charles the
First, he should fly to the Memorial. We exhorted him to be resolute
in this, and left my aunt to observe him. My aunt reported to us,
afterwards, that, at first, he was like a man playing the kettle-drums,
and constantly divided his attentions between the two; but that, finding
this confuse and fatigue him, and having his copy there, plainly before
his eyes, he soon sat at it in an orderly business-like manner, and
postponed the Memorial to a more convenient time. In a word, although we
took great care that he should have no more to do than was good for him,
and although he did not begin with the beginning of a week, he earned
by the following Saturday night ten shillings and nine-pence; and never,
while I live, shall I forget his going about to all the shops in the
neighbourhood to change this treasure into sixpences, or his bringing
them to my aunt arranged in the form of a heart upon a waiter, with
tears of joy and pride in his eyes. He was like one under the propitious
influence of a charm, from the moment of his being usefully employed;
and if there were a happy man in the world, that Saturday night, it was
the grateful creature who thought my aunt the most wonderful woman in
existence, and me the most wonderful young man.

'No starving now, Trotwood,' said Mr. Dick, shaking hands with me in a
corner. 'I'll provide for her, Sir!' and he flourished his ten fingers
in the air, as if they were ten banks.

I hardly know which was the better pleased, Traddles or I. 'It really,'
said Traddles, suddenly, taking a letter out of his pocket, and giving
it to me, 'put Mr. Micawber quite out of my head!'

The letter (Mr. Micawber never missed any possible opportunity of
writing a letter) was addressed to me, 'By the kindness of T. Traddles,
Esquire, of the Inner Temple.' It ran thus:--


'MY DEAR COPPERFIELD,

'You may possibly not be unprepared to receive the intimation that
something has turned up. I may have mentioned to you on a former
occasion that I was in expectation of such an event.

'I am about to establish myself in one of the provincial towns of our
favoured island (where the society may be described as a happy admixture
of the agricultural and the clerical), in immediate connexion with
one of the learned professions. Mrs. Micawber and our offspring will
accompany me. Our ashes, at a future period, will probably be found
commingled in the cemetery attached to a venerable pile, for which the
spot to which I refer has acquired a reputation, shall I say from China
to Peru?

'In bidding adieu to the modern Babylon, where we have undergone many
vicissitudes, I trust not ignobly, Mrs. Micawber and myself cannot
disguise from our minds that we part, it may be for years and it may be
for ever, with an individual linked by strong associations to the altar
of our domestic life. If, on the eve of such a departure, you will
accompany our mutual friend, Mr. Thomas Traddles, to our present abode,
and there reciprocate the wishes natural to the occasion, you will
confer a Boon

               'On
                    'One
                         'Who
                              'Is
                                   'Ever yours,
                                        'WILKINS MICAWBER.'


I was glad to find that Mr. Micawber had got rid of his dust and ashes,
and that something really had turned up at last. Learning from Traddles
that the invitation referred to the evening then wearing away, I
expressed my readiness to do honour to it; and we went off together to
the lodging which Mr. Micawber occupied as Mr. Mortimer, and which was
situated near the top of the Gray's Inn Road.

The resources of this lodging were so limited, that we found the twins,
now some eight or nine years old, reposing in a turn-up bedstead in
the family sitting-room, where Mr. Micawber had prepared, in a
wash-hand-stand jug, what he called 'a Brew' of the agreeable beverage
for which he was famous. I had the pleasure, on this occasion, of
renewing the acquaintance of Master Micawber, whom I found a promising
boy of about twelve or thirteen, very subject to that restlessness of
limb which is not an unfrequent phenomenon in youths of his age. I also
became once more known to his sister, Miss Micawber, in whom, as Mr.
Micawber told us, 'her mother renewed her youth, like the Phoenix'.

'My dear Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber, 'yourself and Mr. Traddles
find us on the brink of migration, and will excuse any little
discomforts incidental to that position.'

Glancing round as I made a suitable reply, I observed that the family
effects were already packed, and that the amount of luggage was by no
means overwhelming. I congratulated Mrs. Micawber on the approaching
change.

'My dear Mr. Copperfield,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'of your friendly
interest in all our affairs, I am well assured. My family may consider
it banishment, if they please; but I am a wife and mother, and I never
will desert Mr. Micawber.'

Traddles, appealed to by Mrs. Micawber's eye, feelingly acquiesced.

'That,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'that, at least, is my view, my dear Mr.
Copperfield and Mr. Traddles, of the obligation which I took upon myself
when I repeated the irrevocable words, "I, Emma, take thee, Wilkins." I
read the service over with a flat-candle on the previous night, and
the conclusion I derived from it was, that I never could desert Mr.
Micawber. And,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'though it is possible I may be
mistaken in my view of the ceremony, I never will!'

'My dear,' said Mr. Micawber, a little impatiently, 'I am not conscious
that you are expected to do anything of the sort.'

'I am aware, my dear Mr. Copperfield,' pursued Mrs. Micawber, 'that I am
now about to cast my lot among strangers; and I am also aware that the
various members of my family, to whom Mr. Micawber has written in the
most gentlemanly terms, announcing that fact, have not taken the least
notice of Mr. Micawber's communication. Indeed I may be superstitious,'
said Mrs. Micawber, 'but it appears to me that Mr. Micawber is destined
never to receive any answers whatever to the great majority of the
communications he writes. I may augur, from the silence of my family,
that they object to the resolution I have taken; but I should not allow
myself to be swerved from the path of duty, Mr. Copperfield, even by my
papa and mama, were they still living.'

I expressed my opinion that this was going in the right direction. 'It
may be a sacrifice,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'to immure one's-self in a
Cathedral town; but surely, Mr. Copperfield, if it is a sacrifice in me,
it is much more a sacrifice in a man of Mr. Micawber's abilities.'

'Oh! You are going to a Cathedral town?' said I.

Mr. Micawber, who had been helping us all, out of the wash-hand-stand
jug, replied:

'To Canterbury. In fact, my dear Copperfield, I have entered into
arrangements, by virtue of which I stand pledged and contracted to our
friend Heep, to assist and serve him in the capacity of--and to be--his
confidential clerk.'

I stared at Mr. Micawber, who greatly enjoyed my surprise.

'I am bound to state to you,' he said, with an official air, 'that the
business habits, and the prudent suggestions, of Mrs. Micawber, have
in a great measure conduced to this result. The gauntlet, to which Mrs.
Micawber referred upon a former occasion, being thrown down in the form
of an advertisement, was taken up by my friend Heep, and led to a mutual
recognition. Of my friend Heep,' said Mr. Micawber, 'who is a man of
remarkable shrewdness, I desire to speak with all possible respect.
My friend Heep has not fixed the positive remuneration at too high a
figure, but he has made a great deal, in the way of extrication from
the pressure of pecuniary difficulties, contingent on the value of
my services; and on the value of those services I pin my faith. Such
address and intelligence as I chance to possess,' said Mr. Micawber,
boastfully disparaging himself, with the old genteel air, 'will be
devoted to my friend Heep's service. I have already some acquaintance
with the law--as a defendant on civil process--and I shall immediately
apply myself to the Commentaries of one of the most eminent and
remarkable of our English jurists. I believe it is unnecessary to add
that I allude to Mr. justice Blackstone.'

These observations, and indeed the greater part of the observations
made that evening, were interrupted by Mrs. Micawber's discovering that
Master Micawber was sitting on his boots, or holding his head on with
both arms as if he felt it loose, or accidentally kicking Traddles under
the table, or shuffling his feet over one another, or producing them
at distances from himself apparently outrageous to nature, or lying
sideways with his hair among the wine-glasses, or developing his
restlessness of limb in some other form incompatible with the general
interests of society; and by Master Micawber's receiving those
discoveries in a resentful spirit. I sat all the while, amazed by Mr.
Micawber's disclosure, and wondering what it meant; until Mrs. Micawber
resumed the thread of the discourse, and claimed my attention.

'What I particularly request Mr. Micawber to be careful of, is,' said
Mrs. Micawber, 'that he does not, my dear Mr. Copperfield, in applying
himself to this subordinate branch of the law, place it out of his power
to rise, ultimately, to the top of the tree. I am convinced that Mr.
Micawber, giving his mind to a profession so adapted to his fertile
resources, and his flow of language, must distinguish himself. Now, for
example, Mr. Traddles,' said Mrs. Micawber, assuming a profound air, 'a
judge, or even say a Chancellor. Does an individual place himself beyond
the pale of those preferments by entering on such an office as Mr.
Micawber has accepted?'

'My dear,' observed Mr. Micawber--but glancing inquisitively at
Traddles, too; 'we have time enough before us, for the consideration of
those questions.'

'Micawber,' she returned, 'no! Your mistake in life is, that you do not
look forward far enough. You are bound, in justice to your family, if
not to yourself, to take in at a comprehensive glance the extremest
point in the horizon to which your abilities may lead you.'

Mr. Micawber coughed, and drank his punch with an air of exceeding
satisfaction--still glancing at Traddles, as if he desired to have his
opinion.

'Why, the plain state of the case, Mrs. Micawber,' said Traddles, mildly
breaking the truth to her. 'I mean the real prosaic fact, you know--'

'Just so,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'my dear Mr. Traddles, I wish to be as
prosaic and literal as possible on a subject of so much importance.'

'--Is,' said Traddles, 'that this branch of the law, even if Mr.
Micawber were a regular solicitor--'

'Exactly so,' returned Mrs. Micawber. ('Wilkins, you are squinting, and
will not be able to get your eyes back.')

'--Has nothing,' pursued Traddles, 'to do with that. Only a barrister
is eligible for such preferments; and Mr. Micawber could not be a
barrister, without being entered at an inn of court as a student, for
five years.'

'Do I follow you?' said Mrs. Micawber, with her most affable air
of business. 'Do I understand, my dear Mr. Traddles, that, at the
expiration of that period, Mr. Micawber would be eligible as a Judge or
Chancellor?'

'He would be ELIGIBLE,' returned Traddles, with a strong emphasis on
that word.

'Thank you,' said Mrs. Micawber. 'That is quite sufficient. If such is
the case, and Mr. Micawber forfeits no privilege by entering on these
duties, my anxiety is set at rest. I speak,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'as a
female, necessarily; but I have always been of opinion that Mr. Micawber
possesses what I have heard my papa call, when I lived at home, the
judicial mind; and I hope Mr. Micawber is now entering on a field where
that mind will develop itself, and take a commanding station.'

I quite believe that Mr. Micawber saw himself, in his judicial mind's
eye, on the woolsack. He passed his hand complacently over his bald
head, and said with ostentatious resignation:

'My dear, we will not anticipate the decrees of fortune. If I am
reserved to wear a wig, I am at least prepared, externally,' in allusion
to his baldness, 'for that distinction. I do not,' said Mr. Micawber,
'regret my hair, and I may have been deprived of it for a specific
purpose. I cannot say. It is my intention, my dear Copperfield, to
educate my son for the Church; I will not deny that I should be happy,
on his account, to attain to eminence.'

'For the Church?' said I, still pondering, between whiles, on Uriah
Heep.

'Yes,' said Mr. Micawber. 'He has a remarkable head-voice, and will
commence as a chorister. Our residence at Canterbury, and our local
connexion, will, no doubt, enable him to take advantage of any vacancy
that may arise in the Cathedral corps.'

On looking at Master Micawber again, I saw that he had a certain
expression of face, as if his voice were behind his eyebrows; where it
presently appeared to be, on his singing us (as an alternative between
that and bed) 'The Wood-Pecker tapping'. After many compliments on this
performance, we fell into some general conversation; and as I was too
full of my desperate intentions to keep my altered circumstances to
myself, I made them known to Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. I cannot express how
extremely delighted they both were, by the idea of my aunt's being in
difficulties; and how comfortable and friendly it made them.

When we were nearly come to the last round of the punch, I addressed
myself to Traddles, and reminded him that we must not separate, without
wishing our friends health, happiness, and success in their new career.
I begged Mr. Micawber to fill us bumpers, and proposed the toast in
due form: shaking hands with him across the table, and kissing Mrs.
Micawber, to commemorate that eventful occasion. Traddles imitated me
in the first particular, but did not consider himself a sufficiently old
friend to venture on the second.

'My dear Copperfield,' said Mr. Micawber, rising with one of his thumbs
in each of his waistcoat pockets, 'the companion of my youth: if I may
be allowed the expression--and my esteemed friend Traddles: if I may be
permitted to call him so--will allow me, on the part of Mrs. Micawber,
myself, and our offspring, to thank them in the warmest and most
uncompromising terms for their good wishes. It may be expected that
on the eve of a migration which will consign us to a perfectly new
existence,' Mr. Micawber spoke as if they were going five hundred
thousand miles, 'I should offer a few valedictory remarks to two such
friends as I see before me. But all that I have to say in this way, I
have said. Whatever station in society I may attain, through the medium
of the learned profession of which I am about to become an unworthy
member, I shall endeavour not to disgrace, and Mrs. Micawber will be
safe to adorn. Under the temporary pressure of pecuniary liabilities,
contracted with a view to their immediate liquidation, but remaining
unliquidated through a combination of circumstances, I have been
under the necessity of assuming a garb from which my natural instincts
recoil--I allude to spectacles--and possessing myself of a cognomen, to
which I can establish no legitimate pretensions. All I have to say on
that score is, that the cloud has passed from the dreary scene, and the
God of Day is once more high upon the mountain tops. On Monday next, on
the arrival of the four o'clock afternoon coach at Canterbury, my foot
will be on my native heath--my name, Micawber!'

Mr. Micawber resumed his seat on the close of these remarks, and
drank two glasses of punch in grave succession. He then said with much
solemnity:

'One thing more I have to do, before this separation is complete, and
that is to perform an act of justice. My friend Mr. Thomas Traddles
has, on two several occasions, "put his name", if I may use a common
expression, to bills of exchange for my accommodation. On the first
occasion Mr. Thomas Traddles was left--let me say, in short, in the
lurch. The fulfilment of the second has not yet arrived. The amount of
the first obligation,' here Mr. Micawber carefully referred to papers,
'was, I believe, twenty-three, four, nine and a half, of the second,
according to my entry of that transaction, eighteen, six, two. These
sums, united, make a total, if my calculation is correct, amounting to
forty-one, ten, eleven and a half. My friend Copperfield will perhaps do
me the favour to check that total?'

I did so and found it correct.

'To leave this metropolis,' said Mr. Micawber, 'and my friend Mr.
Thomas Traddles, without acquitting myself of the pecuniary part of this
obligation, would weigh upon my mind to an insupportable extent. I have,
therefore, prepared for my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles, and I now hold
in my hand, a document, which accomplishes the desired object. I beg
to hand to my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles my I.O.U. for forty-one, ten,
eleven and a half, and I am happy to recover my moral dignity, and to
know that I can once more walk erect before my fellow man!'

With this introduction (which greatly affected him), Mr. Micawber placed
his I.O.U. in the hands of Traddles, and said he wished him well in
every relation of life. I am persuaded, not only that this was quite
the same to Mr. Micawber as paying the money, but that Traddles himself
hardly knew the difference until he had had time to think about it. Mr.
Micawber walked so erect before his fellow man, on the strength of
this virtuous action, that his chest looked half as broad again when he
lighted us downstairs. We parted with great heartiness on both sides;
and when I had seen Traddles to his own door, and was going home alone,
I thought, among the other odd and contradictory things I mused upon,
that, slippery as Mr. Micawber was, I was probably indebted to some
compassionate recollection he retained of me as his boy-lodger, for
never having been asked by him for money. I certainly should not have
had the moral courage to refuse it; and I have no doubt he knew that (to
his credit be it written), quite as well as I did.




My new life had lasted for more than a week, and I was stronger than
ever in those tremendous practical resolutions that I felt the crisis
required. I continued to walk extremely fast, and to have a general idea
that I was getting on. I made it a rule to take as much out of myself
as I possibly could, in my way of doing everything to which I applied
my energies. I made a perfect victim of myself. I even entertained some
idea of putting myself on a vegetable diet, vaguely conceiving that, in
becoming a graminivorous animal, I should sacrifice to Dora.

As yet, little Dora was quite unconscious of my desperate firmness,
otherwise than as my letters darkly shadowed it forth. But another
Saturday came, and on that Saturday evening she was to be at Miss
Mills's; and when Mr. Mills had gone to his whist-club (telegraphed to
me in the street, by a bird-cage in the drawing-room middle window), I
was to go there to tea.

By this time, we were quite settled down in Buckingham Street, where Mr.
Dick continued his copying in a state of absolute felicity. My aunt had
obtained a signal victory over Mrs. Crupp, by paying her off, throwing
the first pitcher she planted on the stairs out of window, and
protecting in person, up and down the staircase, a supernumerary whom
she engaged from the outer world. These vigorous measures struck such
terror to the breast of Mrs. Crupp, that she subsided into her own
kitchen, under the impression that my aunt was mad. My aunt being
supremely indifferent to Mrs. Crupp's opinion and everybody else's, and
rather favouring than discouraging the idea, Mrs. Crupp, of late the
bold, became within a few days so faint-hearted, that rather than
encounter my aunt upon the staircase, she would endeavour to hide her
portly form behind doors--leaving visible, however, a wide margin of
flannel petticoat--or would shrink into dark corners. This gave my aunt
such unspeakable satisfaction, that I believe she took a delight in
prowling up and down, with her bonnet insanely perched on the top of her
head, at times when Mrs. Crupp was likely to be in the way.

My aunt, being uncommonly neat and ingenious, made so many little
improvements in our domestic arrangements, that I seemed to be richer
instead of poorer. Among the rest, she converted the pantry into a
dressing-room for me; and purchased and embellished a bedstead for my
occupation, which looked as like a bookcase in the daytime as a bedstead
could. I was the object of her constant solicitude; and my poor mother
herself could not have loved me better, or studied more how to make me
happy.

Peggotty had considered herself highly privileged in being allowed to
participate in these labours; and, although she still retained something
of her old sentiment of awe in reference to my aunt, had received so
many marks of encouragement and confidence, that they were the best
friends possible. But the time had now come (I am speaking of the
Saturday when I was to take tea at Miss Mills's) when it was necessary
for her to return home, and enter on the discharge of the duties she had
undertaken in behalf of Ham. 'So good-bye, Barkis,' said my aunt, 'and
take care of yourself! I am sure I never thought I could be sorry to
lose you!'

I took Peggotty to the coach office and saw her off. She cried at
parting, and confided her brother to my friendship as Ham had done. We
had heard nothing of him since he went away, that sunny afternoon.

'And now, my own dear Davy,' said Peggotty, 'if, while you're a
prentice, you should want any money to spend; or if, when you're out of
your time, my dear, you should want any to set you up (and you must do
one or other, or both, my darling); who has such a good right to ask
leave to lend it you, as my sweet girl's own old stupid me!'

I was not so savagely independent as to say anything in reply, but that
if ever I borrowed money of anyone, I would borrow it of her. Next to
accepting a large sum on the spot, I believe this gave Peggotty more
comfort than anything I could have done.

'And, my dear!' whispered Peggotty, 'tell the pretty little angel that
I should so have liked to see her, only for a minute! And tell her that
before she marries my boy, I'll come and make your house so beautiful
for you, if you'll let me!'

I declared that nobody else should touch it; and this gave Peggotty such
delight that she went away in good spirits.

I fatigued myself as much as I possibly could in the Commons all day, by
a variety of devices, and at the appointed time in the evening repaired
to Mr. Mills's street. Mr. Mills, who was a terrible fellow to fall
asleep after dinner, had not yet gone out, and there was no bird-cage in
the middle window.

He kept me waiting so long, that I fervently hoped the Club would fine
him for being late. At last he came out; and then I saw my own Dora hang
up the bird-cage, and peep into the balcony to look for me, and run
in again when she saw I was there, while Jip remained behind, to bark
injuriously at an immense butcher's dog in the street, who could have
taken him like a pill.

Dora came to the drawing-room door to meet me; and Jip came scrambling
out, tumbling over his own growls, under the impression that I was a
Bandit; and we all three went in, as happy and loving as could be. I
soon carried desolation into the bosom of our joys--not that I meant to
do it, but that I was so full of the subject--by asking Dora, without
the smallest preparation, if she could love a beggar?

My pretty, little, startled Dora! Her only association with the word was
a yellow face and a nightcap, or a pair of crutches, or a wooden leg, or
a dog with a decanter-stand in his mouth, or something of that kind; and
she stared at me with the most delightful wonder.

'How can you ask me anything so foolish?' pouted Dora. 'Love a beggar!'

'Dora, my own dearest!' said I. 'I am a beggar!'

'How can you be such a silly thing,' replied Dora, slapping my hand, 'as
to sit there, telling such stories? I'll make Jip bite you!'

Her childish way was the most delicious way in the world to me, but it
was necessary to be explicit, and I solemnly repeated:

'Dora, my own life, I am your ruined David!'

'I declare I'll make Jip bite you!' said Dora, shaking her curls, 'if
you are so ridiculous.'

But I looked so serious, that Dora left off shaking her curls, and laid
her trembling little hand upon my shoulder, and first looked scared
and anxious, then began to cry. That was dreadful. I fell upon my knees
before the sofa, caressing her, and imploring her not to rend my heart;
but, for some time, poor little Dora did nothing but exclaim Oh dear! Oh
dear! And oh, she was so frightened! And where was Julia Mills! And oh,
take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please! until I was almost beside
myself.

At last, after an agony of supplication and protestation, I got Dora
to look at me, with a horrified expression of face, which I gradually
soothed until it was only loving, and her soft, pretty cheek was lying
against mine. Then I told her, with my arms clasped round her, how I
loved her, so dearly, and so dearly; how I felt it right to offer to
release her from her engagement, because now I was poor; how I never
could bear it, or recover it, if I lost her; how I had no fears of
poverty, if she had none, my arm being nerved and my heart inspired by
her; how I was already working with a courage such as none but lovers
knew; how I had begun to be practical, and look into the future; how a
crust well earned was sweeter far than a feast inherited; and much
more to the same purpose, which I delivered in a burst of passionate
eloquence quite surprising to myself, though I had been thinking about
it, day and night, ever since my aunt had astonished me.

'Is your heart mine still, dear Dora?' said I, rapturously, for I knew
by her clinging to me that it was.

'Oh, yes!' cried Dora. 'Oh, yes, it's all yours. Oh, don't be dreadful!'

I dreadful! To Dora!

'Don't talk about being poor, and working hard!' said Dora, nestling
closer to me. 'Oh, don't, don't!'

'My dearest love,' said I, 'the crust well-earned--'

'Oh, yes; but I don't want to hear any more about crusts!' said Dora.
'And Jip must have a mutton-chop every day at twelve, or he'll die.'

I was charmed with her childish, winning way. I fondly explained to Dora
that Jip should have his mutton-chop with his accustomed regularity.
I drew a picture of our frugal home, made independent by my
labour--sketching in the little house I had seen at Highgate, and my
aunt in her room upstairs.

'I am not dreadful now, Dora?' said I, tenderly.

'Oh, no, no!' cried Dora. 'But I hope your aunt will keep in her own
room a good deal. And I hope she's not a scolding old thing!'

If it were possible for me to love Dora more than ever, I am sure I did.
But I felt she was a little impracticable. It damped my new-born ardour,
to find that ardour so difficult of communication to her. I made another
trial. When she was quite herself again, and was curling Jip's ears, as
he lay upon her lap, I became grave, and said:

'My own! May I mention something?'

'Oh, please don't be practical!' said Dora, coaxingly. 'Because it
frightens me so!'

'Sweetheart!' I returned; 'there is nothing to alarm you in all this. I
want you to think of it quite differently. I want to make it nerve you,
and inspire you, Dora!'

'Oh, but that's so shocking!' cried Dora.

'My love, no. Perseverance and strength of character will enable us to
bear much worse things.' 'But I haven't got any strength at all,'
said Dora, shaking her curls. 'Have I, Jip? Oh, do kiss Jip, and be
agreeable!'

It was impossible to resist kissing Jip, when she held him up to me for
that purpose, putting her own bright, rosy little mouth into kissing
form, as she directed the operation, which she insisted should be
performed symmetrically, on the centre of his nose. I did as she bade
me--rewarding myself afterwards for my obedience--and she charmed me out
of my graver character for I don't know how long.

'But, Dora, my beloved!' said I, at last resuming it; 'I was going to
mention something.'

The judge of the Prerogative Court might have fallen in love with her,
to see her fold her little hands and hold them up, begging and praying
me not to be dreadful any more.

'Indeed I am not going to be, my darling!' I assured her. 'But, Dora, my
love, if you will sometimes think,--not despondingly, you know; far from
that!--but if you will sometimes think--just to encourage yourself--that
you are engaged to a poor man--'

'Don't, don't! Pray don't!' cried Dora. 'It's so very dreadful!'

'My soul, not at all!' said I, cheerfully. 'If you will sometimes think
of that, and look about now and then at your papa's housekeeping, and
endeavour to acquire a little habit--of accounts, for instance--'

Poor little Dora received this suggestion with something that was half a
sob and half a scream.

'--It would be so useful to us afterwards,' I went on. 'And if you would
promise me to read a little--a little Cookery Book that I would send
you, it would be so excellent for both of us. For our path in life, my
Dora,' said I, warming with the subject, 'is stony and rugged now, and
it rests with us to smooth it. We must fight our way onward. We must be
brave. There are obstacles to be met, and we must meet, and crush them!'

I was going on at a great rate, with a clenched hand, and a most
enthusiastic countenance; but it was quite unnecessary to proceed. I had
said enough. I had done it again. Oh, she was so frightened! Oh, where
was Julia Mills! Oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please!
So that, in short, I was quite distracted, and raved about the
drawing-room.

I thought I had killed her, this time. I sprinkled water on her face.
I went down on my knees. I plucked at my hair. I denounced myself as a
remorseless brute and a ruthless beast. I implored her forgiveness.
I besought her to look up. I ravaged Miss Mills's work-box for a
smelling-bottle, and in my agony of mind applied an ivory needle-case
instead, and dropped all the needles over Dora. I shook my fists at Jip,
who was as frantic as myself. I did every wild extravagance that could
be done, and was a long way beyond the end of my wits when Miss Mills
came into the room.

'Who has done this?' exclaimed Miss Mills, succouring her friend.

I replied, 'I, Miss Mills! I have done it! Behold the destroyer!'--or
words to that effect--and hid my face from the light, in the sofa
cushion.

At first Miss Mills thought it was a quarrel, and that we were verging
on the Desert of Sahara; but she soon found out how matters stood, for
my dear affectionate little Dora, embracing her, began exclaiming that I
was 'a poor labourer'; and then cried for me, and embraced me, and asked
me would I let her give me all her money to keep, and then fell on Miss
Mills's neck, sobbing as if her tender heart were broken.

Miss Mills must have been born to be a blessing to us. She ascertained
from me in a few words what it was all about, comforted Dora, and
gradually convinced her that I was not a labourer--from my manner of
stating the case I believe Dora concluded that I was a navigator,
and went balancing myself up and down a plank all day with a
wheelbarrow--and so brought us together in peace. When we were quite
composed, and Dora had gone up-stairs to put some rose-water to her
eyes, Miss Mills rang for tea. In the ensuing interval, I told Miss
Mills that she was evermore my friend, and that my heart must cease to
vibrate ere I could forget her sympathy.

I then expounded to Miss Mills what I had endeavoured, so very
unsuccessfully, to expound to Dora. Miss Mills replied, on general
principles, that the Cottage of content was better than the Palace of
cold splendour, and that where love was, all was.

I said to Miss Mills that this was very true, and who should know
it better than I, who loved Dora with a love that never mortal had
experienced yet? But on Miss Mills observing, with despondency, that
it were well indeed for some hearts if this were so, I explained that
I begged leave to restrict the observation to mortals of the masculine
gender.

I then put it to Miss Mills, to say whether she considered that there
was or was not any practical merit in the suggestion I had been anxious
to make, concerning the accounts, the housekeeping, and the Cookery
Book?

Miss Mills, after some consideration, thus replied:

'Mr. Copperfield, I will be plain with you. Mental suffering and trial
supply, in some natures, the place of years, and I will be as plain with
you as if I were a Lady Abbess. No. The suggestion is not appropriate
to our Dora. Our dearest Dora is a favourite child of nature. She is a
thing of light, and airiness, and joy. I am free to confess that if it
could be done, it might be well, but--' And Miss Mills shook her head.

I was encouraged by this closing admission on the part of Miss Mills to
ask her, whether, for Dora's sake, if she had any opportunity of luring
her attention to such preparations for an earnest life, she would avail
herself of it? Miss Mills replied in the affirmative so readily, that I
further asked her if she would take charge of the Cookery Book; and, if
she ever could insinuate it upon Dora's acceptance, without frightening
her, undertake to do me that crowning service. Miss Mills accepted this
trust, too; but was not sanguine.

And Dora returned, looking such a lovely little creature, that I really
doubted whether she ought to be troubled with anything so ordinary. And
she loved me so much, and was so captivating (particularly when she made
Jip stand on his hind legs for toast, and when she pretended to hold
that nose of his against the hot teapot for punishment because he
wouldn't), that I felt like a sort of Monster who had got into a Fairy's
bower, when I thought of having frightened her, and made her cry.

After tea we had the guitar; and Dora sang those same dear old French
songs about the impossibility of ever on any account leaving off
dancing, La ra la, La ra la, until I felt a much greater Monster than
before.

We had only one check to our pleasure, and that happened a little while
before I took my leave, when, Miss Mills chancing to make some allusion
to tomorrow morning, I unluckily let out that, being obliged to exert
myself now, I got up at five o'clock. Whether Dora had any idea that
I was a Private Watchman, I am unable to say; but it made a great
impression on her, and she neither played nor sang any more.

It was still on her mind when I bade her adieu; and she said to me, in
her pretty coaxing way--as if I were a doll, I used to think:

'Now don't get up at five o'clock, you naughty boy. It's so
nonsensical!'

'My love,' said I, 'I have work to do.'

'But don't do it!' returned Dora. 'Why should you?'

It was impossible to say to that sweet little surprised face, otherwise
than lightly and playfully, that we must work to live.

'Oh! How ridiculous!' cried Dora.

'How shall we live without, Dora?' said I.

'How? Any how!' said Dora.

She seemed to think she had quite settled the question, and gave me such
a triumphant little kiss, direct from her innocent heart, that I would
hardly have put her out of conceit with her answer, for a fortune.

Well! I loved her, and I went on loving her, most absorbingly, entirely,
and completely. But going on, too, working pretty hard, and busily
keeping red-hot all the irons I now had in the fire, I would sit
sometimes of a night, opposite my aunt, thinking how I had frightened
Dora that time, and how I could best make my way with a guitar-case
through the forest of difficulty, until I used to fancy that my head was
turning quite grey.




I did not allow my resolution, with respect to the Parliamentary
Debates, to cool. It was one of the irons I began to heat immediately,
and one of the irons I kept hot, and hammered at, with a perseverance
I may honestly admire. I bought an approved scheme of the noble art and
mystery of stenography (which cost me ten and sixpence); and plunged
into a sea of perplexity that brought me, in a few weeks, to the
confines of distraction. The changes that were rung upon dots, which
in such a position meant such a thing, and in such another position
something else, entirely different; the wonderful vagaries that were
played by circles; the unaccountable consequences that resulted from
marks like flies' legs; the tremendous effects of a curve in a wrong
place; not only troubled my waking hours, but reappeared before me in
my sleep. When I had groped my way, blindly, through these difficulties,
and had mastered the alphabet, which was an Egyptian Temple in itself,
there then appeared a procession of new horrors, called arbitrary
characters; the most despotic characters I have ever known; who
insisted, for instance, that a thing like the beginning of a cobweb,
meant expectation, and that a pen-and-ink sky-rocket, stood for
disadvantageous. When I had fixed these wretches in my mind, I found
that they had driven everything else out of it; then, beginning again, I
forgot them; while I was picking them up, I dropped the other fragments
of the system; in short, it was almost heart-breaking.

It might have been quite heart-breaking, but for Dora, who was the stay
and anchor of my tempest-driven bark. Every scratch in the scheme was
a gnarled oak in the forest of difficulty, and I went on cutting them
down, one after another, with such vigour, that in three or four months
I was in a condition to make an experiment on one of our crack speakers
in the Commons. Shall I ever forget how the crack speaker walked off
from me before I began, and left my imbecile pencil staggering about the
paper as if it were in a fit!

This would not do, it was quite clear. I was flying too high, and should
never get on, so. I resorted to Traddles for advice; who suggested
that he should dictate speeches to me, at a pace, and with occasional
stoppages, adapted to my weakness. Very grateful for this friendly aid,
I accepted the proposal; and night after night, almost every night, for
a long time, we had a sort of Private Parliament in Buckingham Street,
after I came home from the Doctor's.

I should like to see such a Parliament anywhere else! My aunt and Mr.
Dick represented the Government or the Opposition (as the case might
be), and Traddles, with the assistance of Enfield's Speakers, or a
volume of parliamentary orations, thundered astonishing invectives
against them. Standing by the table, with his finger in the page to keep
the place, and his right arm flourishing above his head, Traddles, as
Mr. Pitt, Mr. Fox, Mr. Sheridan, Mr. Burke, Lord Castlereagh, Viscount
Sidmouth, or Mr. Canning, would work himself into the most violent
heats, and deliver the most withering denunciations of the profligacy
and corruption of my aunt and Mr. Dick; while I used to sit, at a little
distance, with my notebook on my knee, fagging after him with all my
might and main. The inconsistency and recklessness of Traddles were not
to be exceeded by any real politician. He was for any description of
policy, in the compass of a week; and nailed all sorts of colours to
every denomination of mast. My aunt, looking very like an immovable
Chancellor of the Exchequer, would occasionally throw in an interruption
or two, as 'Hear!' or 'No!' or 'Oh!' when the text seemed to require it:
which was always a signal to Mr. Dick (a perfect country gentleman)
to follow lustily with the same cry. But Mr. Dick got taxed with
such things in the course of his Parliamentary career, and was made
responsible for such awful consequences, that he became uncomfortable in
his mind sometimes. I believe he actually began to be afraid he really
had been doing something, tending to the annihilation of the British
constitution, and the ruin of the country.

Often and often we pursued these debates until the clock pointed to
midnight, and the candles were burning down. The result of so much good
practice was, that by and by I began to keep pace with Traddles pretty
well, and should have been quite triumphant if I had had the least idea
what my notes were about. But, as to reading them after I had got them,
I might as well have copied the Chinese inscriptions of an immense
collection of tea-chests, or the golden characters on all the great red
and green bottles in the chemists' shops!

There was nothing for it, but to turn back and begin all over again. It
was very hard, but I turned back, though with a heavy heart, and began
laboriously and methodically to plod over the same tedious ground at a
snail's pace; stopping to examine minutely every speck in the way, on
all sides, and making the most desperate efforts to know these elusive
characters by sight wherever I met them. I was always punctual at
the office; at the Doctor's too: and I really did work, as the common
expression is, like a cart-horse. One day, when I went to the Commons as
usual, I found Mr. Spenlow in the doorway looking extremely grave, and
talking to himself. As he was in the habit of complaining of pains in
his head--he had naturally a short throat, and I do seriously believe
he over-starched himself--I was at first alarmed by the idea that he was
not quite right in that direction; but he soon relieved my uneasiness.

Instead of returning my 'Good morning' with his usual affability, he
looked at me in a distant, ceremonious manner, and coldly requested me
to accompany him to a certain coffee-house, which, in those days, had
a door opening into the Commons, just within the little archway in St.
Paul's Churchyard. I complied, in a very uncomfortable state, and with a
warm shooting all over me, as if my apprehensions were breaking out into
buds. When I allowed him to go on a little before, on account of the
narrowness of the way, I observed that he carried his head with a lofty
air that was particularly unpromising; and my mind misgave me that he
had found out about my darling Dora.

If I had not guessed this, on the way to the coffee-house, I could
hardly have failed to know what was the matter when I followed him
into an upstairs room, and found Miss Murdstone there, supported by
a background of sideboard, on which were several inverted tumblers
sustaining lemons, and two of those extraordinary boxes, all corners and
flutings, for sticking knives and forks in, which, happily for mankind,
are now obsolete.

Miss Murdstone gave me her chilly finger-nails, and sat severely rigid.
Mr. Spenlow shut the door, motioned me to a chair, and stood on the
hearth-rug in front of the fireplace.

'Have the goodness to show Mr. Copperfield,' said Mr. Spenlow, what you
have in your reticule, Miss Murdstone.'

I believe it was the old identical steel-clasped reticule of my
childhood, that shut up like a bite. Compressing her lips, in sympathy
with the snap, Miss Murdstone opened it--opening her mouth a little
at the same time--and produced my last letter to Dora, teeming with
expressions of devoted affection.

'I believe that is your writing, Mr. Copperfield?' said Mr. Spenlow.

I was very hot, and the voice I heard was very unlike mine, when I said,
'It is, sir!'

'If I am not mistaken,' said Mr. Spenlow, as Miss Murdstone brought a
parcel of letters out of her reticule, tied round with the dearest bit
of blue ribbon, 'those are also from your pen, Mr. Copperfield?'

I took them from her with a most desolate sensation; and, glancing at
such phrases at the top, as 'My ever dearest and own Dora,' 'My best
beloved angel,' 'My blessed one for ever,' and the like, blushed deeply,
and inclined my head.

'No, thank you!' said Mr. Spenlow, coldly, as I mechanically offered
them back to him. 'I will not deprive you of them. Miss Murdstone, be so
good as to proceed!'

That gentle creature, after a moment's thoughtful survey of the carpet,
delivered herself with much dry unction as follows.

'I must confess to having entertained my suspicions of Miss Spenlow, in
reference to David Copperfield, for some time. I observed Miss Spenlow
and David Copperfield, when they first met; and the impression made upon
me then was not agreeable. The depravity of the human heart is such--'

'You will oblige me, ma'am,' interrupted Mr. Spenlow, 'by confining
yourself to facts.'

Miss Murdstone cast down her eyes, shook her head as if protesting
against this unseemly interruption, and with frowning dignity resumed:

'Since I am to confine myself to facts, I will state them as dryly as I
can. Perhaps that will be considered an acceptable course of proceeding.
I have already said, sir, that I have had my suspicions of Miss Spenlow,
in reference to David Copperfield, for some time. I have frequently
endeavoured to find decisive corroboration of those suspicions, but
without effect. I have therefore forborne to mention them to Miss
Spenlow's father'; looking severely at him--'knowing how little
disposition there usually is in such cases, to acknowledge the
conscientious discharge of duty.'

Mr. Spenlow seemed quite cowed by the gentlemanly sternness of Miss
Murdstone's manner, and deprecated her severity with a conciliatory
little wave of his hand.

'On my return to Norwood, after the period of absence occasioned by my
brother's marriage,' pursued Miss Murdstone in a disdainful voice, 'and
on the return of Miss Spenlow from her visit to her friend Miss Mills,
I imagined that the manner of Miss Spenlow gave me greater occasion for
suspicion than before. Therefore I watched Miss Spenlow closely.'

Dear, tender little Dora, so unconscious of this Dragon's eye!

'Still,' resumed Miss Murdstone, 'I found no proof until last night.
It appeared to me that Miss Spenlow received too many letters from her
friend Miss Mills; but Miss Mills being her friend with her father's
full concurrence,' another telling blow at Mr. Spenlow, 'it was not
for me to interfere. If I may not be permitted to allude to the natural
depravity of the human heart, at least I may--I must--be permitted, so
far to refer to misplaced confidence.'

Mr. Spenlow apologetically murmured his assent.

'Last evening after tea,' pursued Miss Murdstone, 'I observed the little
dog starting, rolling, and growling about the drawing-room, worrying
something. I said to Miss Spenlow, "Dora, what is that the dog has in
his mouth? It's paper." Miss Spenlow immediately put her hand to her
frock, gave a sudden cry, and ran to the dog. I interposed, and said,
"Dora, my love, you must permit me."'

Oh Jip, miserable Spaniel, this wretchedness, then, was your work!

'Miss Spenlow endeavoured,' said Miss Murdstone, 'to bribe me with
kisses, work-boxes, and small articles of jewellery--that, of course,
I pass over. The little dog retreated under the sofa on my approaching
him, and was with great difficulty dislodged by the fire-irons. Even
when dislodged, he still kept the letter in his mouth; and on my
endeavouring to take it from him, at the imminent risk of being bitten,
he kept it between his teeth so pertinaciously as to suffer himself
to be held suspended in the air by means of the document. At length I
obtained possession of it. After perusing it, I taxed Miss Spenlow with
having many such letters in her possession; and ultimately obtained from
her the packet which is now in David Copperfield's hand.'

Here she ceased; and snapping her reticule again, and shutting her
mouth, looked as if she might be broken, but could never be bent.

'You have heard Miss Murdstone,' said Mr. Spenlow, turning to me. 'I beg
to ask, Mr. Copperfield, if you have anything to say in reply?'

The picture I had before me, of the beautiful little treasure of my
heart, sobbing and crying all night--of her being alone, frightened,
and wretched, then--of her having so piteously begged and prayed that
stony-hearted woman to forgive her--of her having vainly offered her
those kisses, work-boxes, and trinkets--of her being in such grievous
distress, and all for me--very much impaired the little dignity I had
been able to muster. I am afraid I was in a tremulous state for a minute
or so, though I did my best to disguise it.

'There is nothing I can say, sir,' I returned, 'except that all the
blame is mine. Dora--'

'Miss Spenlow, if you please,' said her father, majestically.

'--was induced and persuaded by me,' I went on, swallowing that colder
designation, 'to consent to this concealment, and I bitterly regret it.'

'You are very much to blame, sir,' said Mr. Spenlow, walking to and fro
upon the hearth-rug, and emphasizing what he said with his whole body
instead of his head, on account of the stiffness of his cravat and
spine. 'You have done a stealthy and unbecoming action, Mr. Copperfield.
When I take a gentleman to my house, no matter whether he is nineteen,
twenty-nine, or ninety, I take him there in a spirit of confidence.
If he abuses my confidence, he commits a dishonourable action, Mr.
Copperfield.'

'I feel it, sir, I assure you,' I returned. 'But I never thought so,
before. Sincerely, honestly, indeed, Mr. Spenlow, I never thought so,
before. I love Miss Spenlow to that extent--'

'Pooh! nonsense!' said Mr. Spenlow, reddening. 'Pray don't tell me to my
face that you love my daughter, Mr. Copperfield!'

'Could I defend my conduct if I did not, sir?' I returned, with all
humility.

'Can you defend your conduct if you do, sir?' said Mr. Spenlow, stopping
short upon the hearth-rug. 'Have you considered your years, and my
daughter's years, Mr. Copperfield? Have you considered what it is to
undermine the confidence that should subsist between my daughter and
myself? Have you considered my daughter's station in life, the projects
I may contemplate for her advancement, the testamentary intentions I
may have with reference to her? Have you considered anything, Mr.
Copperfield?'

'Very little, sir, I am afraid;' I answered, speaking to him as
respectfully and sorrowfully as I felt; 'but pray believe me, I have
considered my own worldly position. When I explained it to you, we were
already engaged--'

'I BEG,' said Mr. Spenlow, more like Punch than I had ever seen him,
as he energetically struck one hand upon the other--I could not help
noticing that even in my despair; 'that YOU Will NOT talk to me of
engagements, Mr. Copperfield!'

The otherwise immovable Miss Murdstone laughed contemptuously in one
short syllable.

'When I explained my altered position to you, sir,' I began again,
substituting a new form of expression for what was so unpalatable to
him, 'this concealment, into which I am so unhappy as to have led Miss
Spenlow, had begun. Since I have been in that altered position, I have
strained every nerve, I have exerted every energy, to improve it. I am
sure I shall improve it in time. Will you grant me time--any length of
time? We are both so young, sir,--'

'You are right,' interrupted Mr. Spenlow, nodding his head a great
many times, and frowning very much, 'you are both very young. It's all
nonsense. Let there be an end of the nonsense. Take away those letters,
and throw them in the fire. Give me Miss Spenlow's letters to throw in
the fire; and although our future intercourse must, you are aware, be
restricted to the Commons here, we will agree to make no further mention
of the past. Come, Mr. Copperfield, you don't want sense; and this is
the sensible course.'

No. I couldn't think of agreeing to it. I was very sorry, but there
was a higher consideration than sense. Love was above all earthly
considerations, and I loved Dora to idolatry, and Dora loved me. I
didn't exactly say so; I softened it down as much as I could; but I
implied it, and I was resolute upon it. I don't think I made myself very
ridiculous, but I know I was resolute.

'Very well, Mr. Copperfield,' said Mr. Spenlow, 'I must try my influence
with my daughter.'

Miss Murdstone, by an expressive sound, a long drawn respiration, which
was neither a sigh nor a moan, but was like both, gave it as her opinion
that he should have done this at first.

'I must try,' said Mr. Spenlow, confirmed by this support, 'my
influence with my daughter. Do you decline to take those letters, Mr.
Copperfield?' For I had laid them on the table.

Yes. I told him I hoped he would not think it wrong, but I couldn't
possibly take them from Miss Murdstone.

'Nor from me?' said Mr. Spenlow.

No, I replied with the profoundest respect; nor from him.

'Very well!' said Mr. Spenlow.

A silence succeeding, I was undecided whether to go or stay. At length
I was moving quietly towards the door, with the intention of saying that
perhaps I should consult his feelings best by withdrawing: when he said,
with his hands in his coat pockets, into which it was as much as he
could do to get them; and with what I should call, upon the whole, a
decidedly pious air:

'You are probably aware, Mr. Copperfield, that I am not altogether
destitute of worldly possessions, and that my daughter is my nearest and
dearest relative?'

I hurriedly made him a reply to the effect, that I hoped the error into
which I had been betrayed by the desperate nature of my love, did not
induce him to think me mercenary too?

'I don't allude to the matter in that light,' said Mr. Spenlow. 'It
would be better for yourself, and all of us, if you WERE mercenary, Mr.
Copperfield--I mean, if you were more discreet and less influenced by
all this youthful nonsense. No. I merely say, with quite another view,
you are probably aware I have some property to bequeath to my child?'

I certainly supposed so.

'And you can hardly think,' said Mr. Spenlow, 'having experience of what
we see, in the Commons here, every day, of the various unaccountable
and negligent proceedings of men, in respect of their testamentary
arrangements--of all subjects, the one on which perhaps the strangest
revelations of human inconsistency are to be met with--but that mine are
made?'

I inclined my head in acquiescence.

'I should not allow,' said Mr. Spenlow, with an evident increase of
pious sentiment, and slowly shaking his head as he poised himself upon
his toes and heels alternately, 'my suitable provision for my child to
be influenced by a piece of youthful folly like the present. It is mere
folly. Mere nonsense. In a little while, it will weigh lighter than
any feather. But I might--I might--if this silly business were not
completely relinquished altogether, be induced in some anxious moment
to guard her from, and surround her with protections against, the
consequences of any foolish step in the way of marriage. Now, Mr.
Copperfield, I hope that you will not render it necessary for me to
open, even for a quarter of an hour, that closed page in the book of
life, and unsettle, even for a quarter of an hour, grave affairs long
since composed.'

There was a serenity, a tranquillity, a calm sunset air about him, which
quite affected me. He was so peaceful and resigned--clearly had his
affairs in such perfect train, and so systematically wound up--that he
was a man to feel touched in the contemplation of. I really think I saw
tears rise to his eyes, from the depth of his own feeling of all this.

But what could I do? I could not deny Dora and my own heart. When he
told me I had better take a week to consider of what he had said, how
could I say I wouldn't take a week, yet how could I fail to know that no
amount of weeks could influence such love as mine?

'In the meantime, confer with Miss Trotwood, or with any person with
any knowledge of life,' said Mr. Spenlow, adjusting his cravat with both
hands. 'Take a week, Mr. Copperfield.'

I submitted; and, with a countenance as expressive as I was able to
make it of dejected and despairing constancy, came out of the room. Miss
Murdstone's heavy eyebrows followed me to the door--I say her eyebrows
rather than her eyes, because they were much more important in her
face--and she looked so exactly as she used to look, at about that
hour of the morning, in our parlour at Blunderstone, that I could have
fancied I had been breaking down in my lessons again, and that the
dead weight on my mind was that horrible old spelling-book, with
oval woodcuts, shaped, to my youthful fancy, like the glasses out of
spectacles.

When I got to the office, and, shutting out old Tiffey and the rest of
them with my hands, sat at my desk, in my own particular nook, thinking
of this earthquake that had taken place so unexpectedly, and in the
bitterness of my spirit cursing Jip, I fell into such a state of torment
about Dora, that I wonder I did not take up my hat and rush insanely to
Norwood. The idea of their frightening her, and making her cry, and of
my not being there to comfort her, was so excruciating, that it impelled
me to write a wild letter to Mr. Spenlow, beseeching him not to visit
upon her the consequences of my awful destiny. I implored him to spare
her gentle nature--not to crush a fragile flower--and addressed him
generally, to the best of my remembrance, as if, instead of being her
father, he had been an Ogre, or the Dragon of Wantley. This letter I
sealed and laid upon his desk before he returned; and when he came in,
I saw him, through the half-opened door of his room, take it up and read
it.

He said nothing about it all the morning; but before he went away in the
afternoon he called me in, and told me that I need not make myself at
all uneasy about his daughter's happiness. He had assured her, he said,
that it was all nonsense; and he had nothing more to say to her. He
believed he was an indulgent father (as indeed he was), and I might
spare myself any solicitude on her account.

'You may make it necessary, if you are foolish or obstinate, Mr.
Copperfield,' he observed, 'for me to send my daughter abroad again,
for a term; but I have a better opinion of you. I hope you will be wiser
than that, in a few days. As to Miss Murdstone,' for I had alluded to
her in the letter, 'I respect that lady's vigilance, and feel obliged to
her; but she has strict charge to avoid the subject. All I desire, Mr.
Copperfield, is, that it should be forgotten. All you have got to do,
Mr. Copperfield, is to forget it.'

All! In the note I wrote to Miss Mills, I bitterly quoted this
sentiment. All I had to do, I said, with gloomy sarcasm, was to forget
Dora. That was all, and what was that! I entreated Miss Mills to see
me, that evening. If it could not be done with Mr. Mills's sanction
and concurrence, I besought a clandestine interview in the back kitchen
where the Mangle was. I informed her that my reason was tottering on
its throne, and only she, Miss Mills, could prevent its being deposed.
I signed myself, hers distractedly; and I couldn't help feeling, while
I read this composition over, before sending it by a porter, that it was
something in the style of Mr. Micawber.

However, I sent it. At night I repaired to Miss Mills's street, and
walked up and down, until I was stealthily fetched in by Miss Mills's
maid, and taken the area way to the back kitchen. I have since seen
reason to believe that there was nothing on earth to prevent my going in
at the front door, and being shown up into the drawing-room, except Miss
Mills's love of the romantic and mysterious.

In the back kitchen, I raved as became me. I went there, I suppose,
to make a fool of myself, and I am quite sure I did it. Miss Mills had
received a hasty note from Dora, telling her that all was discovered,
and saying. 'Oh pray come to me, Julia, do, do!' But Miss Mills,
mistrusting the acceptability of her presence to the higher powers, had
not yet gone; and we were all benighted in the Desert of Sahara.

Miss Mills had a wonderful flow of words, and liked to pour them out. I
could not help feeling, though she mingled her tears with mine, that she
had a dreadful luxury in our afflictions. She petted them, as I may say,
and made the most of them. A deep gulf, she observed, had opened between
Dora and me, and Love could only span it with its rainbow. Love must
suffer in this stern world; it ever had been so, it ever would be so. No
matter, Miss Mills remarked. Hearts confined by cobwebs would burst at
last, and then Love was avenged.

This was small consolation, but Miss Mills wouldn't encourage fallacious
hopes. She made me much more wretched than I was before, and I felt (and
told her with the deepest gratitude) that she was indeed a friend. We
resolved that she should go to Dora the first thing in the morning,
and find some means of assuring her, either by looks or words, of my
devotion and misery. We parted, overwhelmed with grief; and I think Miss
Mills enjoyed herself completely.

I confided all to my aunt when I got home; and in spite of all she could
say to me, went to bed despairing. I got up despairing, and went out
despairing. It was Saturday morning, and I went straight to the Commons.

I was surprised, when I came within sight of our office-door, to see the
ticket-porters standing outside talking together, and some half-dozen
stragglers gazing at the windows which were shut up. I quickened my
pace, and, passing among them, wondering at their looks, went hurriedly
in.

The clerks were there, but nobody was doing anything. Old Tiffey, for
the first time in his life I should think, was sitting on somebody
else's stool, and had not hung up his hat.

'This is a dreadful calamity, Mr. Copperfield,' said he, as I entered.

'What is?' I exclaimed. 'What's the matter?'

'Don't you know?' cried Tiffey, and all the rest of them, coming round
me.

'No!' said I, looking from face to face.

'Mr. Spenlow,' said Tiffey.

'What about him!'

'Dead!' I thought it was the office reeling, and not I, as one of
the clerks caught hold of me. They sat me down in a chair, untied my
neck-cloth, and brought me some water. I have no idea whether this took
any time.

'Dead?' said I.

'He dined in town yesterday, and drove down in the phaeton by himself,'
said Tiffey, 'having sent his own groom home by the coach, as he
sometimes did, you know--'

'Well?'

'The phaeton went home without him. The horses stopped at the
stable-gate. The man went out with a lantern. Nobody in the carriage.'

'Had they run away?'

'They were not hot,' said Tiffey, putting on his glasses; 'no hotter, I
understand, than they would have been, going down at the usual pace. The
reins were broken, but they had been dragging on the ground. The house
was roused up directly, and three of them went out along the road. They
found him a mile off.'

'More than a mile off, Mr. Tiffey,' interposed a junior.

'Was it? I believe you are right,' said Tiffey,--'more than a mile
off--not far from the church--lying partly on the roadside, and partly
on the path, upon his face. Whether he fell out in a fit, or got out,
feeling ill before the fit came on--or even whether he was quite dead
then, though there is no doubt he was quite insensible--no one appears
to know. If he breathed, certainly he never spoke. Medical assistance
was got as soon as possible, but it was quite useless.'

I cannot describe the state of mind into which I was thrown by this
intelligence. The shock of such an event happening so suddenly, and
happening to one with whom I had been in any respect at variance--the
appalling vacancy in the room he had occupied so lately, where his chair
and table seemed to wait for him, and his handwriting of yesterday was
like a ghost--the indefinable impossibility of separating him from the
place, and feeling, when the door opened, as if he might come in--the
lazy hush and rest there was in the office, and the insatiable relish
with which our people talked about it, and other people came in and
out all day, and gorged themselves with the subject--this is easily
intelligible to anyone. What I cannot describe is, how, in the innermost
recesses of my own heart, I had a lurking jealousy even of Death. How
I felt as if its might would push me from my ground in Dora's thoughts.
How I was, in a grudging way I have no words for, envious of her grief.
How it made me restless to think of her weeping to others, or being
consoled by others. How I had a grasping, avaricious wish to shut out
everybody from her but myself, and to be all in all to her, at that
unseasonable time of all times.

In the trouble of this state of mind--not exclusively my own, I hope,
but known to others--I went down to Norwood that night; and finding from
one of the servants, when I made my inquiries at the door, that Miss
Mills was there, got my aunt to direct a letter to her, which I wrote.
I deplored the untimely death of Mr. Spenlow, most sincerely, and shed
tears in doing so. I entreated her to tell Dora, if Dora were in a
state to hear it, that he had spoken to me with the utmost kindness and
consideration; and had coupled nothing but tenderness, not a single or
reproachful word, with her name. I know I did this selfishly, to have my
name brought before her; but I tried to believe it was an act of justice
to his memory. Perhaps I did believe it.

My aunt received a few lines next day in reply; addressed, outside, to
her; within, to me. Dora was overcome by grief; and when her friend had
asked her should she send her love to me, had only cried, as she was
always crying, 'Oh, dear papa! oh, poor papa!' But she had not said No,
and that I made the most of.

Mr. Jorkins, who had been at Norwood since the occurrence, came to the
office a few days afterwards. He and Tiffey were closeted together for
some few moments, and then Tiffey looked out at the door and beckoned me
in.

'Oh!' said Mr. Jorkins. 'Mr. Tiffey and myself, Mr. Copperfield, are
about to examine the desks, the drawers, and other such repositories
of the deceased, with the view of sealing up his private papers, and
searching for a Will. There is no trace of any, elsewhere. It may be as
well for you to assist us, if you please.'

I had been in agony to obtain some knowledge of the circumstances
in which my Dora would be placed--as, in whose guardianship, and so
forth--and this was something towards it. We began the search at once;
Mr. Jorkins unlocking the drawers and desks, and we all taking out the
papers. The office-papers we placed on one side, and the private papers
(which were not numerous) on the other. We were very grave; and when we
came to a stray seal, or pencil-case, or ring, or any little article of
that kind which we associated personally with him, we spoke very low.

We had sealed up several packets; and were still going on dustily and
quietly, when Mr. Jorkins said to us, applying exactly the same words to
his late partner as his late partner had applied to him:

'Mr. Spenlow was very difficult to move from the beaten track. You know
what he was! I am disposed to think he had made no will.'

'Oh, I know he had!' said I.

They both stopped and looked at me. 'On the very day when I last saw
him,' said I, 'he told me that he had, and that his affairs were long
since settled.'

Mr. Jorkins and old Tiffey shook their heads with one accord.

'That looks unpromising,' said Tiffey.

'Very unpromising,' said Mr. Jorkins.

'Surely you don't doubt--' I began.

'My good Mr. Copperfield!' said Tiffey, laying his hand upon my arm, and
shutting up both his eyes as he shook his head: 'if you had been in the
Commons as long as I have, you would know that there is no subject on
which men are so inconsistent, and so little to be trusted.'

'Why, bless my soul, he made that very remark!' I replied persistently.

'I should call that almost final,' observed Tiffey. 'My opinion is--no
will.'

It appeared a wonderful thing to me, but it turned out that there was
no will. He had never so much as thought of making one, so far as his
papers afforded any evidence; for there was no kind of hint, sketch, or
memorandum, of any testamentary intention whatever. What was scarcely
less astonishing to me, was, that his affairs were in a most disordered
state. It was extremely difficult, I heard, to make out what he owed, or
what he had paid, or of what he died possessed. It was considered likely
that for years he could have had no clear opinion on these subjects
himself. By little and little it came out, that, in the competition on
all points of appearance and gentility then running high in the Commons,
he had spent more than his professional income, which was not a very
large one, and had reduced his private means, if they ever had been
great (which was exceedingly doubtful), to a very low ebb indeed. There
was a sale of the furniture and lease, at Norwood; and Tiffey told me,
little thinking how interested I was in the story, that, paying all the
just debts of the deceased, and deducting his share of outstanding bad
and doubtful debts due to the firm, he wouldn't give a thousand pounds
for all the assets remaining.

This was at the expiration of about six weeks. I had suffered tortures
all the time; and thought I really must have laid violent hands upon
myself, when Miss Mills still reported to me, that my broken-hearted
little Dora would say nothing, when I was mentioned, but 'Oh, poor papa!
Oh, dear papa!' Also, that she had no other relations than two aunts,
maiden sisters of Mr. Spenlow, who lived at Putney, and who had not held
any other than chance communication with their brother for many years.
Not that they had ever quarrelled (Miss Mills informed me); but that
having been, on the occasion of Dora's christening, invited to tea, when
they considered themselves privileged to be invited to dinner, they
had expressed their opinion in writing, that it was 'better for the
happiness of all parties' that they should stay away. Since which they
had gone their road, and their brother had gone his.

These two ladies now emerged from their retirement, and proposed to
take Dora to live at Putney. Dora, clinging to them both, and weeping,
exclaimed, 'O yes, aunts! Please take Julia Mills and me and Jip to
Putney!' So they went, very soon after the funeral.

How I found time to haunt Putney, I am sure I don't know; but I
contrived, by some means or other, to prowl about the neighbourhood
pretty often. Miss Mills, for the more exact discharge of the duties of
friendship, kept a journal; and she used to meet me sometimes, on the
Common, and read it, or (if she had not time to do that) lend it to me.
How I treasured up the entries, of which I subjoin a sample--!

'Monday. My sweet D. still much depressed. Headache. Called attention to
J. as being beautifully sleek. D. fondled J. Associations thus awakened,
opened floodgates of sorrow. Rush of grief admitted. (Are tears the
dewdrops of the heart? J. M.)

'Tuesday. D. weak and nervous. Beautiful in pallor. (Do we not remark
this in moon likewise? J. M.) D., J. M. and J. took airing in carriage.
J. looking out of window, and barking violently at dustman, occasioned
smile to overspread features of D. (Of such slight links is chain of
life composed! J. M.)

'Wednesday. D. comparatively cheerful. Sang to her, as congenial melody,
"Evening Bells". Effect not soothing, but reverse. D. inexpressibly
affected. Found sobbing afterwards, in own room. Quoted verses
respecting self and young Gazelle. Ineffectually. Also referred to
Patience on Monument. (Qy. Why on monument? J. M.)

'Thursday. D. certainly improved. Better night. Slight tinge of damask
revisiting cheek. Resolved to mention name of D. C. Introduced same,
cautiously, in course of airing. D. immediately overcome. "Oh, dear,
dear Julia! Oh, I have been a naughty and undutiful child!" Soothed
and caressed. Drew ideal picture of D. C. on verge of tomb. D. again
overcome. "Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do? Oh, take me somewhere!"
Much alarmed. Fainting of D. and glass of water from public-house.
(Poetical affinity. Chequered sign on door-post; chequered human life.
Alas! J. M.)

'Friday. Day of incident. Man appears in kitchen, with blue bag, "for
lady's boots left out to heel". Cook replies, "No such orders." Man
argues point. Cook withdraws to inquire, leaving man alone with J. On
Cook's return, man still argues point, but ultimately goes. J. missing.
D. distracted. Information sent to police. Man to be identified by
broad nose, and legs like balustrades of bridge. Search made in
every direction. No J. D. weeping bitterly, and inconsolable. Renewed
reference to young Gazelle. Appropriate, but unavailing. Towards
evening, strange boy calls. Brought into parlour. Broad nose, but no
balustrades. Says he wants a pound, and knows a dog. Declines to explain
further, though much pressed. Pound being produced by D. takes Cook
to little house, where J. alone tied up to leg of table. Joy of D.
who dances round J. while he eats his supper. Emboldened by this happy
change, mention D. C. upstairs. D. weeps afresh, cries piteously, "Oh,
don't, don't, don't! It is so wicked to think of anything but poor
papa!"--embraces J. and sobs herself to sleep. (Must not D. C. confine
himself to the broad pinions of Time? J. M.)'

Miss Mills and her journal were my sole consolation at this period.
To see her, who had seen Dora but a little while before--to trace the
initial letter of Dora's name through her sympathetic pages--to be made
more and more miserable by her--were my only comforts. I felt as if I
had been living in a palace of cards, which had tumbled down, leaving
only Miss Mills and me among the ruins; I felt as if some grim enchanter
had drawn a magic circle round the innocent goddess of my heart, which
nothing indeed but those same strong pinions, capable of carrying so
many people over so much, would enable me to enter!




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shook my head.

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

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

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

'I am sure of it,' said Agnes.

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

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

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

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

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

Her head was bent down, looking at the fire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'On Dora?' said I.

'Assuredly.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Is there room for me?' said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Not more than usual,' I replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Well?' said I.

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

'Where are you going?' said I.

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

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

'Master Copperfield!' said Uriah.

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

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

'Why yes, I do,' said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Upon your soul?' said Uriah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I suppose I have,' I replied.

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Again?' said I.

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

'Where were you going now?' I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Alone, and on foot?' said I.

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

I should have known that by his friendly tone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'How long ago?' I asked.

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

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

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

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

I read as follows:


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Poor fellow, I can believe it!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Did she object to it?'

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

'Agreeable!' said I.

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

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

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

'The mama?' said I.

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

'You did at last?' said I.

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

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

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

'Perfectly!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miss Lavinia, as I have said, resumed:

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

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

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

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

Miss Lavinia proceeded:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Entirely, ma'am,' said Traddles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I then bound myself once more to the prescribed conditions.

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

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

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

I bowed.

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

I bowed again.

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

I bowed again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Frightened, my own?'

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

'Who, my life?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Does she sing at all?' I asked.

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

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

'Oh dear no!' said Traddles.

'Paint at all?'

'Not at all,' said Traddles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Cross, my love?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'What do you mean?' said I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'No, none,' she answered.

'I have thought so much about it.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'You forgive me!' I repeated disdainfully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



                         'CANTERBURY, Monday Evening.

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

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

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

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

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

                              Your afflicted,

                                   'EMMA MICAWBER.'


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



Once again, let me pause upon a memorable period of my life. Let me
stand aside, to see the phantoms of those days go by me, accompanying
the shadow of myself, in dim procession.

Weeks, months, seasons, pass along. They seem little more than a summer
day and a winter evening. Now, the Common where I walk with Dora is all
in bloom, a field of bright gold; and now the unseen heather lies in
mounds and bunches underneath a covering of snow. In a breath, the river
that flows through our Sunday walks is sparkling in the summer sun, is
ruffled by the winter wind, or thickened with drifting heaps of ice.
Faster than ever river ran towards the sea, it flashes, darkens, and
rolls away.

Not a thread changes, in the house of the two little bird-like ladies.
The clock ticks over the fireplace, the weather-glass hangs in the hall.
Neither clock nor weather-glass is ever right; but we believe in both,
devoutly.

I have come legally to man's estate. I have attained the dignity of
twenty-one. But this is a sort of dignity that may be thrust upon one.
Let me think what I have achieved.

I have tamed that savage stenographic mystery. I make a respectable
income by it. I am in high repute for my accomplishment in all
pertaining to the art, and am joined with eleven others in reporting
the debates in Parliament for a Morning Newspaper. Night after night, I
record predictions that never come to pass, professions that are never
fulfilled, explanations that are only meant to mystify. I wallow in
words. Britannia, that unfortunate female, is always before me, like a
trussed fowl: skewered through and through with office-pens, and bound
hand and foot with red tape. I am sufficiently behind the scenes to know
the worth of political life. I am quite an Infidel about it, and shall
never be converted.

My dear old Traddles has tried his hand at the same pursuit, but it
is not in Traddles's way. He is perfectly good-humoured respecting his
failure, and reminds me that he always did consider himself slow. He has
occasional employment on the same newspaper, in getting up the facts of
dry subjects, to be written about and embellished by more fertile minds.
He is called to the bar; and with admirable industry and self-denial
has scraped another hundred pounds together, to fee a Conveyancer whose
chambers he attends. A great deal of very hot port wine was consumed at
his call; and, considering the figure, I should think the Inner Temple
must have made a profit by it.

I have come out in another way. I have taken with fear and trembling
to authorship. I wrote a little something, in secret, and sent it to a
magazine, and it was published in the magazine. Since then, I have taken
heart to write a good many trifling pieces. Now, I am regularly paid for
them. Altogether, I am well off, when I tell my income on the fingers
of my left hand, I pass the third finger and take in the fourth to the
middle joint.

We have removed, from Buckingham Street, to a pleasant little cottage
very near the one I looked at, when my enthusiasm first came on. My
aunt, however (who has sold the house at Dover, to good advantage), is
not going to remain here, but intends removing herself to a still more
tiny cottage close at hand. What does this portend? My marriage? Yes!

Yes! I am going to be married to Dora! Miss Lavinia and Miss Clarissa
have given their consent; and if ever canary birds were in a flutter,
they are. Miss Lavinia, self-charged with the superintendence of my
darling's wardrobe, is constantly cutting out brown-paper cuirasses, and
differing in opinion from a highly respectable young man, with a long
bundle, and a yard measure under his arm. A dressmaker, always stabbed
in the breast with a needle and thread, boards and lodges in the house;
and seems to me, eating, drinking, or sleeping, never to take her
thimble off. They make a lay-figure of my dear. They are always sending
for her to come and try something on. We can't be happy together for
five minutes in the evening, but some intrusive female knocks at the
door, and says, 'Oh, if you please, Miss Dora, would you step upstairs!'

Miss Clarissa and my aunt roam all over London, to find out articles of
furniture for Dora and me to look at. It would be better for them to buy
the goods at once, without this ceremony of inspection; for, when we go
to see a kitchen fender and meat-screen, Dora sees a Chinese house for
Jip, with little bells on the top, and prefers that. And it takes a
long time to accustom Jip to his new residence, after we have bought it;
whenever he goes in or out, he makes all the little bells ring, and is
horribly frightened.

Peggotty comes up to make herself useful, and falls to work immediately.
Her department appears to be, to clean everything over and over again.
She rubs everything that can be rubbed, until it shines, like her own
honest forehead, with perpetual friction. And now it is, that I begin to
see her solitary brother passing through the dark streets at night, and
looking, as he goes, among the wandering faces. I never speak to him at
such an hour. I know too well, as his grave figure passes onward, what
he seeks, and what he dreads.

Why does Traddles look so important when he calls upon me this afternoon
in the Commons--where I still occasionally attend, for form's sake, when
I have time? The realization of my boyish day-dreams is at hand. I am
going to take out the licence.

It is a little document to do so much; and Traddles contemplates it,
as it lies upon my desk, half in admiration, half in awe. There are the
names, in the sweet old visionary connexion, David Copperfield and Dora
Spenlow; and there, in the corner, is that Parental Institution,
the Stamp Office, which is so benignantly interested in the various
transactions of human life, looking down upon our Union; and there is
the Archbishop of Canterbury invoking a blessing on us in print, and
doing it as cheap as could possibly be expected.

Nevertheless, I am in a dream, a flustered, happy, hurried dream. I
can't believe that it is going to be; and yet I can't believe but that
everyone I pass in the street, must have some kind of perception, that I
am to be married the day after tomorrow. The Surrogate knows me, when
I go down to be sworn; and disposes of me easily, as if there were a
Masonic understanding between us. Traddles is not at all wanted, but is
in attendance as my general backer.

'I hope the next time you come here, my dear fellow,' I say to Traddles,
'it will be on the same errand for yourself. And I hope it will be
soon.'

'Thank you for your good wishes, my dear Copperfield,' he replies. 'I
hope so too. It's a satisfaction to know that she'll wait for me any
length of time, and that she really is the dearest girl--'

'When are you to meet her at the coach?' I ask.

'At seven,' says Traddles, looking at his plain old silver watch--the
very watch he once took a wheel out of, at school, to make a water-mill.
'That is about Miss Wickfield's time, is it not?'

'A little earlier. Her time is half past eight.' 'I assure you, my dear
boy,' says Traddles, 'I am almost as pleased as if I were going to
be married myself, to think that this event is coming to such a happy
termination. And really the great friendship and consideration of
personally associating Sophy with the joyful occasion, and inviting
her to be a bridesmaid in conjunction with Miss Wickfield, demands my
warmest thanks. I am extremely sensible of it.'

I hear him, and shake hands with him; and we talk, and walk, and dine,
and so on; but I don't believe it. Nothing is real.

Sophy arrives at the house of Dora's aunts, in due course. She has the
most agreeable of faces,--not absolutely beautiful, but extraordinarily
pleasant,--and is one of the most genial, unaffected, frank, engaging
creatures I have ever seen. Traddles presents her to us with great
pride; and rubs his hands for ten minutes by the clock, with every
individual hair upon his head standing on tiptoe, when I congratulate
him in a corner on his choice.

I have brought Agnes from the Canterbury coach, and her cheerful and
beautiful face is among us for the second time. Agnes has a great liking
for Traddles, and it is capital to see them meet, and to observe the
glory of Traddles as he commends the dearest girl in the world to her
acquaintance.

Still I don't believe it. We have a delightful evening, and are
supremely happy; but I don't believe it yet. I can't collect myself. I
can't check off my happiness as it takes place. I feel in a misty and
unsettled kind of state; as if I had got up very early in the morning a
week or two ago, and had never been to bed since. I can't make out when
yesterday was. I seem to have been carrying the licence about, in my
pocket, many months.

Next day, too, when we all go in a flock to see the house--our
house--Dora's and mine--I am quite unable to regard myself as its
master. I seem to be there, by permission of somebody else. I half
expect the real master to come home presently, and say he is glad to see
me. Such a beautiful little house as it is, with everything so bright
and new; with the flowers on the carpets looking as if freshly gathered,
and the green leaves on the paper as if they had just come out; with the
spotless muslin curtains, and the blushing rose-coloured furniture, and
Dora's garden hat with the blue ribbon--do I remember, now, how I loved
her in such another hat when I first knew her!--already hanging on its
little peg; the guitar-case quite at home on its heels in a corner;
and everybody tumbling over Jip's pagoda, which is much too big for the
establishment. Another happy evening, quite as unreal as all the rest
of it, and I steal into the usual room before going away. Dora is not
there. I suppose they have not done trying on yet. Miss Lavinia peeps
in, and tells me mysteriously that she will not be long. She is rather
long, notwithstanding; but by and by I hear a rustling at the door, and
someone taps.

I say, 'Come in!' but someone taps again.

I go to the door, wondering who it is; there, I meet a pair of bright
eyes, and a blushing face; they are Dora's eyes and face, and Miss
Lavinia has dressed her in tomorrow's dress, bonnet and all, for me to
see. I take my little wife to my heart; and Miss Lavinia gives a little
scream because I tumble the bonnet, and Dora laughs and cries at once,
because I am so pleased; and I believe it less than ever.

'Do you think it pretty, Doady?' says Dora.

Pretty! I should rather think I did.

'And are you sure you like me very much?' says Dora.

The topic is fraught with such danger to the bonnet, that Miss Lavinia
gives another little scream, and begs me to understand that Dora is only
to be looked at, and on no account to be touched. So Dora stands in a
delightful state of confusion for a minute or two, to be admired; and
then takes off her bonnet--looking so natural without it!--and runs away
with it in her hand; and comes dancing down again in her own familiar
dress, and asks Jip if I have got a beautiful little wife, and whether
he'll forgive her for being married, and kneels down to make him stand
upon the cookery-book, for the last time in her single life.

I go home, more incredulous than ever, to a lodging that I have hard by;
and get up very early in the morning, to ride to the Highgate road and
fetch my aunt.

I have never seen my aunt in such state. She is dressed in
lavender-coloured silk, and has a white bonnet on, and is amazing. Janet
has dressed her, and is there to look at me. Peggotty is ready to go to
church, intending to behold the ceremony from the gallery. Mr. Dick,
who is to give my darling to me at the altar, has had his hair curled.
Traddles, whom I have taken up by appointment at the turnpike, presents
a dazzling combination of cream colour and light blue; and both he and
Mr. Dick have a general effect about them of being all gloves.

No doubt I see this, because I know it is so; but I am astray, and seem
to see nothing. Nor do I believe anything whatever. Still, as we drive
along in an open carriage, this fairy marriage is real enough to fill
me with a sort of wondering pity for the unfortunate people who have
no part in it, but are sweeping out the shops, and going to their daily
occupations.

My aunt sits with my hand in hers all the way. When we stop a little way
short of the church, to put down Peggotty, whom we have brought on the
box, she gives it a squeeze, and me a kiss.

'God bless you, Trot! My own boy never could be dearer. I think of poor
dear Baby this morning.' 'So do I. And of all I owe to you, dear aunt.'

'Tut, child!' says my aunt; and gives her hand in overflowing cordiality
to Traddles, who then gives his to Mr. Dick, who then gives his to me,
who then gives mine to Traddles, and then we come to the church door.

The church is calm enough, I am sure; but it might be a steam-power loom
in full action, for any sedative effect it has on me. I am too far gone
for that.

The rest is all a more or less incoherent dream.

A dream of their coming in with Dora; of the pew-opener arranging us,
like a drill-sergeant, before the altar rails; of my wondering, even
then, why pew-openers must always be the most disagreeable females
procurable, and whether there is any religious dread of a disastrous
infection of good-humour which renders it indispensable to set those
vessels of vinegar upon the road to Heaven.

Of the clergyman and clerk appearing; of a few boatmen and some
other people strolling in; of an ancient mariner behind me, strongly
flavouring the church with rum; of the service beginning in a deep
voice, and our all being very attentive.

Of Miss Lavinia, who acts as a semi-auxiliary bridesmaid, being the
first to cry, and of her doing homage (as I take it) to the memory of
Pidger, in sobs; of Miss Clarissa applying a smelling-bottle; of Agnes
taking care of Dora; of my aunt endeavouring to represent herself as
a model of sternness, with tears rolling down her face; of little Dora
trembling very much, and making her responses in faint whispers.

Of our kneeling down together, side by side; of Dora's trembling less
and less, but always clasping Agnes by the hand; of the service being
got through, quietly and gravely; of our all looking at each other in an
April state of smiles and tears, when it is over; of my young wife being
hysterical in the vestry, and crying for her poor papa, her dear papa.

Of her soon cheering up again, and our signing the register all round.
Of my going into the gallery for Peggotty to bring her to sign it; of
Peggotty's hugging me in a corner, and telling me she saw my own dear
mother married; of its being over, and our going away.

Of my walking so proudly and lovingly down the aisle with my sweet wife
upon my arm, through a mist of half-seen people, pulpits, monuments,
pews, fonts, organs, and church windows, in which there flutter faint
airs of association with my childish church at home, so long ago.

Of their whispering, as we pass, what a youthful couple we are, and what
a pretty little wife she is. Of our all being so merry and talkative in
the carriage going back. Of Sophy telling us that when she saw Traddles
(whom I had entrusted with the licence) asked for it, she almost
fainted, having been convinced that he would contrive to lose it, or to
have his pocket picked. Of Agnes laughing gaily; and of Dora being so
fond of Agnes that she will not be separated from her, but still keeps
her hand.

Of there being a breakfast, with abundance of things, pretty and
substantial, to eat and drink, whereof I partake, as I should do in any
other dream, without the least perception of their flavour; eating
and drinking, as I may say, nothing but love and marriage, and no more
believing in the viands than in anything else.

Of my making a speech in the same dreamy fashion, without having an idea
of what I want to say, beyond such as may be comprehended in the full
conviction that I haven't said it. Of our being very sociably and simply
happy (always in a dream though); and of Jip's having wedding cake, and
its not agreeing with him afterwards.

Of the pair of hired post-horses being ready, and of Dora's going away
to change her dress. Of my aunt and Miss Clarissa remaining with us; and
our walking in the garden; and my aunt, who has made quite a speech at
breakfast touching Dora's aunts, being mightily amused with herself, but
a little proud of it too.

Of Dora's being ready, and of Miss Lavinia's hovering about her, loth to
lose the pretty toy that has given her so much pleasant occupation.
Of Dora's making a long series of surprised discoveries that she
has forgotten all sorts of little things; and of everybody's running
everywhere to fetch them.

Of their all closing about Dora, when at last she begins to say
good-bye, looking, with their bright colours and ribbons, like a bed
of flowers. Of my darling being almost smothered among the flowers, and
coming out, laughing and crying both together, to my jealous arms.

Of my wanting to carry Jip (who is to go along with us), and Dora's
saying no, that she must carry him, or else he'll think she don't like
him any more, now she is married, and will break his heart. Of our
going, arm in arm, and Dora stopping and looking back, and saying, 'If
I have ever been cross or ungrateful to anybody, don't remember it!' and
bursting into tears.

Of her waving her little hand, and our going away once more. Of her
once more stopping, and looking back, and hurrying to Agnes, and giving
Agnes, above all the others, her last kisses and farewells.

We drive away together, and I awake from the dream. I believe it at
last. It is my dear, dear, little wife beside me, whom I love so well!

'Are you happy now, you foolish boy?' says Dora, 'and sure you don't
repent?'


I have stood aside to see the phantoms of those days go by me. They are
gone, and I resume the journey of my story.




It was a strange condition of things, the honeymoon being over, and the
bridesmaids gone home, when I found myself sitting down in my own
small house with Dora; quite thrown out of employment, as I may say, in
respect of the delicious old occupation of making love.

It seemed such an extraordinary thing to have Dora always there. It was
so unaccountable not to be obliged to go out to see her, not to have any
occasion to be tormenting myself about her, not to have to write to her,
not to be scheming and devising opportunities of being alone with her.
Sometimes of an evening, when I looked up from my writing, and saw her
seated opposite, I would lean back in my chair, and think how queer it
was that there we were, alone together as a matter of course--nobody's
business any more--all the romance of our engagement put away upon a
shelf, to rust--no one to please but one another--one another to please,
for life.

When there was a debate, and I was kept out very late, it seemed so
strange to me, as I was walking home, to think that Dora was at home! It
was such a wonderful thing, at first, to have her coming softly down to
talk to me as I ate my supper. It was such a stupendous thing to know
for certain that she put her hair in papers. It was altogether such an
astonishing event to see her do it!

I doubt whether two young birds could have known less about keeping
house, than I and my pretty Dora did. We had a servant, of course. She
kept house for us. I have still a latent belief that she must have been
Mrs. Crupp's daughter in disguise, we had such an awful time of it with
Mary Anne.

Her name was Paragon. Her nature was represented to us, when we engaged
her, as being feebly expressed in her name. She had a written character,
as large as a proclamation; and, according to this document, could do
everything of a domestic nature that ever I heard of, and a great many
things that I never did hear of. She was a woman in the prime of life;
of a severe countenance; and subject (particularly in the arms) to
a sort of perpetual measles or fiery rash. She had a cousin in the
Life-Guards, with such long legs that he looked like the afternoon
shadow of somebody else. His shell-jacket was as much too little for him
as he was too big for the premises. He made the cottage smaller than it
need have been, by being so very much out of proportion to it. Besides
which, the walls were not thick, and, whenever he passed the evening at
our house, we always knew of it by hearing one continual growl in the
kitchen.

Our treasure was warranted sober and honest. I am therefore willing to
believe that she was in a fit when we found her under the boiler; and
that the deficient tea-spoons were attributable to the dustman.

But she preyed upon our minds dreadfully. We felt our inexperience, and
were unable to help ourselves. We should have been at her mercy, if she
had had any; but she was a remorseless woman, and had none. She was the
cause of our first little quarrel.

'My dearest life,' I said one day to Dora, 'do you think Mary Anne has
any idea of time?'

'Why, Doady?' inquired Dora, looking up, innocently, from her drawing.

'My love, because it's five, and we were to have dined at four.'

Dora glanced wistfully at the clock, and hinted that she thought it was
too fast.

'On the contrary, my love,' said I, referring to my watch, 'it's a few
minutes too slow.'

My little wife came and sat upon my knee, to coax me to be quiet, and
drew a line with her pencil down the middle of my nose; but I couldn't
dine off that, though it was very agreeable.

'Don't you think, my dear,' said I, 'it would be better for you to
remonstrate with Mary Anne?'

'Oh no, please! I couldn't, Doady!' said Dora.

'Why not, my love?' I gently asked.

'Oh, because I am such a little goose,' said Dora, 'and she knows I am!'

I thought this sentiment so incompatible with the establishment of any
system of check on Mary Anne, that I frowned a little.

'Oh, what ugly wrinkles in my bad boy's forehead!' said Dora, and still
being on my knee, she traced them with her pencil; putting it to her
rosy lips to make it mark blacker, and working at my forehead with a
quaint little mockery of being industrious, that quite delighted me in
spite of myself.

'There's a good child,' said Dora, 'it makes its face so much prettier
to laugh.' 'But, my love,' said I.

'No, no! please!' cried Dora, with a kiss, 'don't be a naughty Blue
Beard! Don't be serious!'

'My precious wife,' said I, 'we must be serious sometimes. Come! Sit
down on this chair, close beside me! Give me the pencil! There! Now let
us talk sensibly. You know, dear'; what a little hand it was to hold,
and what a tiny wedding-ring it was to see! 'You know, my love, it is
not exactly comfortable to have to go out without one's dinner. Now, is
it?'

'N-n-no!' replied Dora, faintly.

'My love, how you tremble!'

'Because I KNOW you're going to scold me,' exclaimed Dora, in a piteous
voice.

'My sweet, I am only going to reason.'

'Oh, but reasoning is worse than scolding!' exclaimed Dora, in despair.
'I didn't marry to be reasoned with. If you meant to reason with such a
poor little thing as I am, you ought to have told me so, you cruel boy!'

I tried to pacify Dora, but she turned away her face, and shook her
curls from side to side, and said, 'You cruel, cruel boy!' so many
times, that I really did not exactly know what to do: so I took a few
turns up and down the room in my uncertainty, and came back again.

'Dora, my darling!'

'No, I am not your darling. Because you must be sorry that you married
me, or else you wouldn't reason with me!' returned Dora.

I felt so injured by the inconsequential nature of this charge, that it
gave me courage to be grave.

'Now, my own Dora,' said I, 'you are very childish, and are talking
nonsense. You must remember, I am sure, that I was obliged to go out
yesterday when dinner was half over; and that, the day before, I was
made quite unwell by being obliged to eat underdone veal in a hurry;
today, I don't dine at all--and I am afraid to say how long we waited
for breakfast--and then the water didn't boil. I don't mean to reproach
you, my dear, but this is not comfortable.'

'Oh, you cruel, cruel boy, to say I am a disagreeable wife!' cried Dora.

'Now, my dear Dora, you must know that I never said that!'

'You said, I wasn't comfortable!' cried Dora. 'I said the housekeeping
was not comfortable!'

'It's exactly the same thing!' cried Dora. And she evidently thought so,
for she wept most grievously.

I took another turn across the room, full of love for my pretty wife,
and distracted by self-accusatory inclinations to knock my head against
the door. I sat down again, and said:

'I am not blaming you, Dora. We have both a great deal to learn. I am
only trying to show you, my dear, that you must--you really must' (I
was resolved not to give this up)--'accustom yourself to look after Mary
Anne. Likewise to act a little for yourself, and me.'

'I wonder, I do, at your making such ungrateful speeches,' sobbed Dora.
'When you know that the other day, when you said you would like a little
bit of fish, I went out myself, miles and miles, and ordered it, to
surprise you.'

'And it was very kind of you, my own darling,' said I. 'I felt it so
much that I wouldn't on any account have even mentioned that you
bought a Salmon--which was too much for two. Or that it cost one pound
six--which was more than we can afford.'

'You enjoyed it very much,' sobbed Dora. 'And you said I was a Mouse.'

'And I'll say so again, my love,' I returned, 'a thousand times!'

But I had wounded Dora's soft little heart, and she was not to be
comforted. She was so pathetic in her sobbing and bewailing, that I felt
as if I had said I don't know what to hurt her. I was obliged to hurry
away; I was kept out late; and I felt all night such pangs of remorse as
made me miserable. I had the conscience of an assassin, and was haunted
by a vague sense of enormous wickedness.

It was two or three hours past midnight when I got home. I found my
aunt, in our house, sitting up for me.

'Is anything the matter, aunt?' said I, alarmed.

'Nothing, Trot,' she replied. 'Sit down, sit down. Little Blossom has
been rather out of spirits, and I have been keeping her company. That's
all.'

I leaned my head upon my hand; and felt more sorry and downcast, as I
sat looking at the fire, than I could have supposed possible so soon
after the fulfilment of my brightest hopes. As I sat thinking, I
happened to meet my aunt's eyes, which were resting on my face. There
was an anxious expression in them, but it cleared directly.

'I assure you, aunt,' said I, 'I have been quite unhappy myself all
night, to think of Dora's being so. But I had no other intention than to
speak to her tenderly and lovingly about our home-affairs.'

My aunt nodded encouragement.

'You must have patience, Trot,' said she.

'Of course. Heaven knows I don't mean to be unreasonable, aunt!'

'No, no,' said my aunt. 'But Little Blossom is a very tender little
blossom, and the wind must be gentle with her.'

I thanked my good aunt, in my heart, for her tenderness towards my wife;
and I was sure that she knew I did.

'Don't you think, aunt,' said I, after some further contemplation of the
fire, 'that you could advise and counsel Dora a little, for our mutual
advantage, now and then?'

'Trot,' returned my aunt, with some emotion, 'no! Don't ask me such a
thing.'

Her tone was so very earnest that I raised my eyes in surprise.

'I look back on my life, child,' said my aunt, 'and I think of some who
are in their graves, with whom I might have been on kinder terms. If I
judged harshly of other people's mistakes in marriage, it may have been
because I had bitter reason to judge harshly of my own. Let that pass. I
have been a grumpy, frumpy, wayward sort of a woman, a good many years.
I am still, and I always shall be. But you and I have done one another
some good, Trot,--at all events, you have done me good, my dear; and
division must not come between us, at this time of day.'

'Division between us!' cried I.

'Child, child!' said my aunt, smoothing her dress, 'how soon it might
come between us, or how unhappy I might make our Little Blossom, if I
meddled in anything, a prophet couldn't say. I want our pet to like me,
and be as gay as a butterfly. Remember your own home, in that second
marriage; and never do both me and her the injury you have hinted at!'

I comprehended, at once, that my aunt was right; and I comprehended the
full extent of her generous feeling towards my dear wife.

'These are early days, Trot,' she pursued, 'and Rome was not built in a
day, nor in a year. You have chosen freely for yourself'; a cloud passed
over her face for a moment, I thought; 'and you have chosen a very
pretty and a very affectionate creature. It will be your duty, and it
will be your pleasure too--of course I know that; I am not delivering
a lecture--to estimate her (as you chose her) by the qualities she has,
and not by the qualities she may not have. The latter you must develop
in her, if you can. And if you cannot, child,' here my aunt rubbed her
nose, 'you must just accustom yourself to do without 'em. But remember,
my dear, your future is between you two. No one can assist you; you are
to work it out for yourselves. This is marriage, Trot; and Heaven bless
you both, in it, for a pair of babes in the wood as you are!'

My aunt said this in a sprightly way, and gave me a kiss to ratify the
blessing.

'Now,' said she, 'light my little lantern, and see me into my bandbox by
the garden path'; for there was a communication between our cottages in
that direction. 'Give Betsey Trotwood's love to Blossom, when you come
back; and whatever you do, Trot, never dream of setting Betsey up as a
scarecrow, for if I ever saw her in the glass, she's quite grim enough
and gaunt enough in her private capacity!'

With this my aunt tied her head up in a handkerchief, with which she was
accustomed to make a bundle of it on such occasions; and I escorted her
home. As she stood in her garden, holding up her little lantern to light
me back, I thought her observation of me had an anxious air again; but
I was too much occupied in pondering on what she had said, and too much
impressed--for the first time, in reality--by the conviction that Dora
and I had indeed to work out our future for ourselves, and that no one
could assist us, to take much notice of it.

Dora came stealing down in her little slippers, to meet me, now that I
was alone; and cried upon my shoulder, and said I had been hard-hearted
and she had been naughty; and I said much the same thing in effect, I
believe; and we made it up, and agreed that our first little difference
was to be our last, and that we were never to have another if we lived a
hundred years.

The next domestic trial we went through, was the Ordeal of Servants.
Mary Anne's cousin deserted into our coal-hole, and was brought out, to
our great amazement, by a piquet of his companions in arms, who took
him away handcuffed in a procession that covered our front-garden with
ignominy. This nerved me to get rid of Mary Anne, who went so mildly,
on receipt of wages, that I was surprised, until I found out about the
tea-spoons, and also about the little sums she had borrowed in my
name of the tradespeople without authority. After an interval of Mrs.
Kidgerbury--the oldest inhabitant of Kentish Town, I believe, who went
out charing, but was too feeble to execute her conceptions of that
art--we found another treasure, who was one of the most amiable of
women, but who generally made a point of falling either up or down the
kitchen stairs with the tray, and almost plunged into the parlour,
as into a bath, with the tea-things. The ravages committed by this
unfortunate, rendering her dismissal necessary, she was succeeded (with
intervals of Mrs. Kidgerbury) by a long line of Incapables; terminating
in a young person of genteel appearance, who went to Greenwich Fair in
Dora's bonnet. After whom I remember nothing but an average equality of
failure.

Everybody we had anything to do with seemed to cheat us. Our appearance
in a shop was a signal for the damaged goods to be brought out
immediately. If we bought a lobster, it was full of water. All our meat
turned out to be tough, and there was hardly any crust to our loaves.
In search of the principle on which joints ought to be roasted, to be
roasted enough, and not too much, I myself referred to the Cookery Book,
and found it there established as the allowance of a quarter of an hour
to every pound, and say a quarter over. But the principle always failed
us by some curious fatality, and we never could hit any medium between
redness and cinders.

I had reason to believe that in accomplishing these failures we incurred
a far greater expense than if we had achieved a series of triumphs. It
appeared to me, on looking over the tradesmen's books, as if we might
have kept the basement storey paved with butter, such was the extensive
scale of our consumption of that article. I don't know whether the
Excise returns of the period may have exhibited any increase in the
demand for pepper; but if our performances did not affect the market,
I should say several families must have left off using it. And the most
wonderful fact of all was, that we never had anything in the house.

As to the washerwoman pawning the clothes, and coming in a state of
penitent intoxication to apologize, I suppose that might have happened
several times to anybody. Also the chimney on fire, the parish engine,
and perjury on the part of the Beadle. But I apprehend that we were
personally fortunate in engaging a servant with a taste for cordials,
who swelled our running account for porter at the public-house by such
inexplicable items as 'quartern rum shrub (Mrs. C.)'; 'Half-quartern
gin and cloves (Mrs. C.)'; 'Glass rum and peppermint (Mrs. C.)'--the
parentheses always referring to Dora, who was supposed, it appeared on
explanation, to have imbibed the whole of these refreshments.

One of our first feats in the housekeeping way was a little dinner to
Traddles. I met him in town, and asked him to walk out with me that
afternoon. He readily consenting, I wrote to Dora, saying I would bring
him home. It was pleasant weather, and on the road we made my domestic
happiness the theme of conversation. Traddles was very full of it; and
said, that, picturing himself with such a home, and Sophy waiting and
preparing for him, he could think of nothing wanting to complete his
bliss.

I could not have wished for a prettier little wife at the opposite end
of the table, but I certainly could have wished, when we sat down, for a
little more room. I did not know how it was, but though there were only
two of us, we were at once always cramped for room, and yet had always
room enough to lose everything in. I suspect it may have been because
nothing had a place of its own, except Jip's pagoda, which invariably
blocked up the main thoroughfare. On the present occasion, Traddles
was so hemmed in by the pagoda and the guitar-case, and Dora's
flower-painting, and my writing-table, that I had serious doubts of the
possibility of his using his knife and fork; but he protested, with his
own good-humour, 'Oceans of room, Copperfield! I assure you, Oceans!'

There was another thing I could have wished, namely, that Jip had never
been encouraged to walk about the tablecloth during dinner. I began to
think there was something disorderly in his being there at all, even
if he had not been in the habit of putting his foot in the salt or the
melted butter. On this occasion he seemed to think he was introduced
expressly to keep Traddles at bay; and he barked at my old friend, and
made short runs at his plate, with such undaunted pertinacity, that he
may be said to have engrossed the conversation.

However, as I knew how tender-hearted my dear Dora was, and how
sensitive she would be to any slight upon her favourite, I hinted no
objection. For similar reasons I made no allusion to the skirmishing
plates upon the floor; or to the disreputable appearance of the castors,
which were all at sixes and sevens, and looked drunk; or to the further
blockade of Traddles by wandering vegetable dishes and jugs. I could
not help wondering in my own mind, as I contemplated the boiled leg of
mutton before me, previous to carving it, how it came to pass that
our joints of meat were of such extraordinary shapes--and whether our
butcher contracted for all the deformed sheep that came into the world;
but I kept my reflections to myself.

'My love,' said I to Dora, 'what have you got in that dish?'

I could not imagine why Dora had been making tempting little faces at
me, as if she wanted to kiss me.

'Oysters, dear,' said Dora, timidly.

'Was that YOUR thought?' said I, delighted.

'Ye-yes, Doady,' said Dora.

'There never was a happier one!' I exclaimed, laying down the
carving-knife and fork. 'There is nothing Traddles likes so much!'

'Ye-yes, Doady,' said Dora, 'and so I bought a beautiful little barrel
of them, and the man said they were very good. But I--I am afraid
there's something the matter with them. They don't seem right.' Here
Dora shook her head, and diamonds twinkled in her eyes.

'They are only opened in both shells,' said I. 'Take the top one off, my
love.'

'But it won't come off!' said Dora, trying very hard, and looking very
much distressed.

'Do you know, Copperfield,' said Traddles, cheerfully examining the
dish, 'I think it is in consequence--they are capital oysters, but I
think it is in consequence--of their never having been opened.'

They never had been opened; and we had no oyster-knives--and couldn't
have used them if we had; so we looked at the oysters and ate the
mutton. At least we ate as much of it as was done, and made up with
capers. If I had permitted him, I am satisfied that Traddles would have
made a perfect savage of himself, and eaten a plateful of raw meat, to
express enjoyment of the repast; but I would hear of no such immolation
on the altar of friendship, and we had a course of bacon instead; there
happening, by good fortune, to be cold bacon in the larder.

My poor little wife was in such affliction when she thought I should be
annoyed, and in such a state of joy when she found I was not, that the
discomfiture I had subdued, very soon vanished, and we passed a happy
evening; Dora sitting with her arm on my chair while Traddles and I
discussed a glass of wine, and taking every opportunity of whispering
in my ear that it was so good of me not to be a cruel, cross old boy. By
and by she made tea for us; which it was so pretty to see her do, as if
she was busying herself with a set of doll's tea-things, that I was not
particular about the quality of the beverage. Then Traddles and I played
a game or two at cribbage; and Dora singing to the guitar the while,
it seemed to me as if our courtship and marriage were a tender dream
of mine, and the night when I first listened to her voice were not yet
over.

When Traddles went away, and I came back into the parlour from seeing
him out, my wife planted her chair close to mine, and sat down by my
side. 'I am very sorry,' she said. 'Will you try to teach me, Doady?'

'I must teach myself first, Dora,' said I. 'I am as bad as you, love.'

'Ah! But you can learn,' she returned; 'and you are a clever, clever
man!'

'Nonsense, mouse!' said I.

'I wish,' resumed my wife, after a long silence, 'that I could have gone
down into the country for a whole year, and lived with Agnes!'

Her hands were clasped upon my shoulder, and her chin rested on them,
and her blue eyes looked quietly into mine.

'Why so?' I asked.

'I think she might have improved me, and I think I might have learned
from her,' said Dora.

'All in good time, my love. Agnes has had her father to take care of for
these many years, you should remember. Even when she was quite a child,
she was the Agnes whom we know,' said I.

'Will you call me a name I want you to call me?' inquired Dora, without
moving.

'What is it?' I asked with a smile.

'It's a stupid name,' she said, shaking her curls for a moment.
'Child-wife.'

I laughingly asked my child-wife what her fancy was in desiring to be so
called. She answered without moving, otherwise than as the arm I twined
about her may have brought her blue eyes nearer to me:

'I don't mean, you silly fellow, that you should use the name instead
of Dora. I only mean that you should think of me that way. When you are
going to be angry with me, say to yourself, "it's only my child-wife!"
When I am very disappointing, say, "I knew, a long time ago, that she
would make but a child-wife!" When you miss what I should like to be,
and I think can never be, say, "still my foolish child-wife loves me!"
For indeed I do.'

I had not been serious with her; having no idea until now, that she was
serious herself. But her affectionate nature was so happy in what I now
said to her with my whole heart, that her face became a laughing one
before her glittering eyes were dry. She was soon my child-wife indeed;
sitting down on the floor outside the Chinese House, ringing all
the little bells one after another, to punish Jip for his recent bad
behaviour; while Jip lay blinking in the doorway with his head out, even
too lazy to be teased.

This appeal of Dora's made a strong impression on me. I look back on the
time I write of; I invoke the innocent figure that I dearly loved, to
come out from the mists and shadows of the past, and turn its gentle
head towards me once again; and I can still declare that this one little
speech was constantly in my memory. I may not have used it to the best
account; I was young and inexperienced; but I never turned a deaf ear to
its artless pleading.

Dora told me, shortly afterwards, that she was going to be a wonderful
housekeeper. Accordingly, she polished the tablets, pointed the pencil,
bought an immense account-book, carefully stitched up with a needle and
thread all the leaves of the Cookery Book which Jip had torn, and made
quite a desperate little attempt 'to be good', as she called it. But the
figures had the old obstinate propensity--they WOULD NOT add up. When
she had entered two or three laborious items in the account-book, Jip
would walk over the page, wagging his tail, and smear them all out. Her
own little right-hand middle finger got steeped to the very bone in ink;
and I think that was the only decided result obtained.

Sometimes, of an evening, when I was at home and at work--for I wrote
a good deal now, and was beginning in a small way to be known as a
writer--I would lay down my pen, and watch my child-wife trying to be
good. First of all, she would bring out the immense account-book, and
lay it down upon the table, with a deep sigh. Then she would open it at
the place where Jip had made it illegible last night, and call Jip
up, to look at his misdeeds. This would occasion a diversion in Jip's
favour, and some inking of his nose, perhaps, as a penalty. Then she
would tell Jip to lie down on the table instantly, 'like a lion'--which
was one of his tricks, though I cannot say the likeness was
striking--and, if he were in an obedient humour, he would obey. Then she
would take up a pen, and begin to write, and find a hair in it. Then
she would take up another pen, and begin to write, and find that it
spluttered. Then she would take up another pen, and begin to write, and
say in a low voice, 'Oh, it's a talking pen, and will disturb Doady!'
And then she would give it up as a bad job, and put the account-book
away, after pretending to crush the lion with it.

Or, if she were in a very sedate and serious state of mind, she would
sit down with the tablets, and a little basket of bills and other
documents, which looked more like curl-papers than anything else, and
endeavour to get some result out of them. After severely comparing one
with another, and making entries on the tablets, and blotting them
out, and counting all the fingers of her left hand over and over again,
backwards and forwards, she would be so vexed and discouraged, and
would look so unhappy, that it gave me pain to see her bright face
clouded--and for me!--and I would go softly to her, and say:

'What's the matter, Dora?'

Dora would look up hopelessly, and reply, 'They won't come right. They
make my head ache so. And they won't do anything I want!'

Then I would say, 'Now let us try together. Let me show you, Dora.'

Then I would commence a practical demonstration, to which Dora would pay
profound attention, perhaps for five minutes; when she would begin to be
dreadfully tired, and would lighten the subject by curling my hair,
or trying the effect of my face with my shirt-collar turned down. If
I tacitly checked this playfulness, and persisted, she would look so
scared and disconsolate, as she became more and more bewildered, that
the remembrance of her natural gaiety when I first strayed into her
path, and of her being my child-wife, would come reproachfully upon me;
and I would lay the pencil down, and call for the guitar.

I had a great deal of work to do, and had many anxieties, but the same
considerations made me keep them to myself. I am far from sure, now,
that it was right to do this, but I did it for my child-wife's sake. I
search my breast, and I commit its secrets, if I know them, without any
reservation to this paper. The old unhappy loss or want of something
had, I am conscious, some place in my heart; but not to the embitterment
of my life. When I walked alone in the fine weather, and thought of the
summer days when all the air had been filled with my boyish enchantment,
I did miss something of the realization of my dreams; but I thought it
was a softened glory of the Past, which nothing could have thrown upon
the present time. I did feel, sometimes, for a little while, that I
could have wished my wife had been my counsellor; had had more character
and purpose, to sustain me and improve me by; had been endowed with
power to fill up the void which somewhere seemed to be about me; but
I felt as if this were an unearthly consummation of my happiness, that
never had been meant to be, and never could have been.

I was a boyish husband as to years. I had known the softening influence
of no other sorrows or experiences than those recorded in these leaves.
If I did any wrong, as I may have done much, I did it in mistaken love,
and in my want of wisdom. I write the exact truth. It would avail me
nothing to extenuate it now.

Thus it was that I took upon myself the toils and cares of our life,
and had no partner in them. We lived much as before, in reference to our
scrambling household arrangements; but I had got used to those, and Dora
I was pleased to see was seldom vexed now. She was bright and cheerful
in the old childish way, loved me dearly, and was happy with her old
trifles.

When the debates were heavy--I mean as to length, not quality, for in
the last respect they were not often otherwise--and I went home late,
Dora would never rest when she heard my footsteps, but would always come
downstairs to meet me. When my evenings were unoccupied by the pursuit
for which I had qualified myself with so much pains, and I was engaged
in writing at home, she would sit quietly near me, however late the
hour, and be so mute, that I would often think she had dropped asleep.
But generally, when I raised my head, I saw her blue eyes looking at me
with the quiet attention of which I have already spoken.

'Oh, what a weary boy!' said Dora one night, when I met her eyes as I
was shutting up my desk.

'What a weary girl!' said I. 'That's more to the purpose. You must go to
bed another time, my love. It's far too late for you.'

'No, don't send me to bed!' pleaded Dora, coming to my side. 'Pray,
don't do that!'

'Dora!' To my amazement she was sobbing on my neck. 'Not well, my dear!
not happy!'

'Yes! quite well, and very happy!' said Dora. 'But say you'll let me
stop, and see you write.'

'Why, what a sight for such bright eyes at midnight!' I replied.

'Are they bright, though?' returned Dora, laughing. 'I'm so glad they're
bright.' 'Little Vanity!' said I.

But it was not vanity; it was only harmless delight in my admiration. I
knew that very well, before she told me so.

'If you think them pretty, say I may always stop, and see you write!'
said Dora. 'Do you think them pretty?'

'Very pretty.'

'Then let me always stop and see you write.'

'I am afraid that won't improve their brightness, Dora.'

'Yes, it will! Because, you clever boy, you'll not forget me then, while
you are full of silent fancies. Will you mind it, if I say something
very, very silly?---more than usual?' inquired Dora, peeping over my
shoulder into my face.

'What wonderful thing is that?' said I.

'Please let me hold the pens,' said Dora. 'I want to have something to
do with all those many hours when you are so industrious. May I hold the
pens?'

The remembrance of her pretty joy when I said yes, brings tears into my
eyes. The next time I sat down to write, and regularly afterwards,
she sat in her old place, with a spare bundle of pens at her side. Her
triumph in this connexion with my work, and her delight when I wanted a
new pen--which I very often feigned to do--suggested to me a new way of
pleasing my child-wife. I occasionally made a pretence of wanting a
page or two of manuscript copied. Then Dora was in her glory. The
preparations she made for this great work, the aprons she put on, the
bibs she borrowed from the kitchen to keep off the ink, the time she
took, the innumerable stoppages she made to have a laugh with Jip as if
he understood it all, her conviction that her work was incomplete unless
she signed her name at the end, and the way in which she would bring it
to me, like a school-copy, and then, when I praised it, clasp me round
the neck, are touching recollections to me, simple as they might appear
to other men.

She took possession of the keys soon after this, and went jingling about
the house with the whole bunch in a little basket, tied to her slender
waist. I seldom found that the places to which they belonged were
locked, or that they were of any use except as a plaything for Jip--but
Dora was pleased, and that pleased me. She was quite satisfied that a
good deal was effected by this make-belief of housekeeping; and was as
merry as if we had been keeping a baby-house, for a joke.

So we went on. Dora was hardly less affectionate to my aunt than to me,
and often told her of the time when she was afraid she was 'a cross old
thing'. I never saw my aunt unbend more systematically to anyone. She
courted Jip, though Jip never responded; listened, day after day, to the
guitar, though I am afraid she had no taste for music; never attacked
the Incapables, though the temptation must have been severe; went
wonderful distances on foot to purchase, as surprises, any trifles that
she found out Dora wanted; and never came in by the garden, and missed
her from the room, but she would call out, at the foot of the stairs, in
a voice that sounded cheerfully all over the house:

'Where's Little Blossom?'




It was some time now, since I had left the Doctor. Living in his
neighbourhood, I saw him frequently; and we all went to his house on two
or three occasions to dinner or tea. The Old Soldier was in permanent
quarters under the Doctor's roof. She was exactly the same as ever, and
the same immortal butterflies hovered over her cap.

Like some other mothers, whom I have known in the course of my life,
Mrs. Markleham was far more fond of pleasure than her daughter was.
She required a great deal of amusement, and, like a deep old soldier,
pretended, in consulting her own inclinations, to be devoting herself
to her child. The Doctor's desire that Annie should be entertained,
was therefore particularly acceptable to this excellent parent; who
expressed unqualified approval of his discretion.

I have no doubt, indeed, that she probed the Doctor's wound without
knowing it. Meaning nothing but a certain matured frivolity and
selfishness, not always inseparable from full-blown years, I think she
confirmed him in his fear that he was a constraint upon his young
wife, and that there was no congeniality of feeling between them, by so
strongly commending his design of lightening the load of her life.

'My dear soul,' she said to him one day when I was present, 'you know
there is no doubt it would be a little pokey for Annie to be always shut
up here.'

The Doctor nodded his benevolent head. 'When she comes to her mother's
age,' said Mrs. Markleham, with a flourish of her fan, 'then it'll be
another thing. You might put ME into a Jail, with genteel society and
a rubber, and I should never care to come out. But I am not Annie, you
know; and Annie is not her mother.'

'Surely, surely,' said the Doctor.

'You are the best of creatures--no, I beg your pardon!' for the Doctor
made a gesture of deprecation, 'I must say before your face, as I always
say behind your back, you are the best of creatures; but of course you
don't--now do you?---enter into the same pursuits and fancies as Annie?'

'No,' said the Doctor, in a sorrowful tone.

'No, of course not,' retorted the Old Soldier. 'Take your Dictionary,
for example. What a useful work a Dictionary is! What a necessary work!
The meanings of words! Without Doctor Johnson, or somebody of that sort,
we might have been at this present moment calling an Italian-iron,
a bedstead. But we can't expect a Dictionary--especially when it's
making--to interest Annie, can we?'

The Doctor shook his head.

'And that's why I so much approve,' said Mrs. Markleham, tapping him
on the shoulder with her shut-up fan, 'of your thoughtfulness. It shows
that you don't expect, as many elderly people do expect, old heads on
young shoulders. You have studied Annie's character, and you understand
it. That's what I find so charming!'

Even the calm and patient face of Doctor Strong expressed some little
sense of pain, I thought, under the infliction of these compliments.

'Therefore, my dear Doctor,' said the Old Soldier, giving him several
affectionate taps, 'you may command me, at all times and seasons. Now,
do understand that I am entirely at your service. I am ready to go with
Annie to operas, concerts, exhibitions, all kinds of places; and you
shall never find that I am tired. Duty, my dear Doctor, before every
consideration in the universe!'

She was as good as her word. She was one of those people who can bear
a great deal of pleasure, and she never flinched in her perseverance
in the cause. She seldom got hold of the newspaper (which she settled
herself down in the softest chair in the house to read through an
eye-glass, every day, for two hours), but she found out something that
she was certain Annie would like to see. It was in vain for Annie to
protest that she was weary of such things. Her mother's remonstrance
always was, 'Now, my dear Annie, I am sure you know better; and I must
tell you, my love, that you are not making a proper return for the
kindness of Doctor Strong.'

This was usually said in the Doctor's presence, and appeared to me to
constitute Annie's principal inducement for withdrawing her objections
when she made any. But in general she resigned herself to her mother,
and went where the Old Soldier would.

It rarely happened now that Mr. Maldon accompanied them. Sometimes
my aunt and Dora were invited to do so, and accepted the invitation.
Sometimes Dora only was asked. The time had been, when I should have
been uneasy in her going; but reflection on what had passed that
former night in the Doctor's study, had made a change in my mistrust. I
believed that the Doctor was right, and I had no worse suspicions.

My aunt rubbed her nose sometimes when she happened to be alone with
me, and said she couldn't make it out; she wished they were happier; she
didn't think our military friend (so she always called the Old Soldier)
mended the matter at all. My aunt further expressed her opinion, 'that
if our military friend would cut off those butterflies, and give 'em to
the chimney-sweepers for May-day, it would look like the beginning of
something sensible on her part.'

But her abiding reliance was on Mr. Dick. That man had evidently an
idea in his head, she said; and if he could only once pen it up into a
corner, which was his great difficulty, he would distinguish himself in
some extraordinary manner.

Unconscious of this prediction, Mr. Dick continued to occupy precisely
the same ground in reference to the Doctor and to Mrs. Strong. He seemed
neither to advance nor to recede. He appeared to have settled into his
original foundation, like a building; and I must confess that my faith
in his ever Moving, was not much greater than if he had been a building.

But one night, when I had been married some months, Mr. Dick put his
head into the parlour, where I was writing alone (Dora having gone out
with my aunt to take tea with the two little birds), and said, with a
significant cough:

'You couldn't speak to me without inconveniencing yourself, Trotwood, I
am afraid?'

'Certainly, Mr. Dick,' said I; 'come in!'

'Trotwood,' said Mr. Dick, laying his finger on the side of his nose,
after he had shaken hands with me. 'Before I sit down, I wish to make an
observation. You know your aunt?'

'A little,' I replied.

'She is the most wonderful woman in the world, sir!'

After the delivery of this communication, which he shot out of himself
as if he were loaded with it, Mr. Dick sat down with greater gravity
than usual, and looked at me.

'Now, boy,' said Mr. Dick, 'I am going to put a question to you.'

'As many as you please,' said I.

'What do you consider me, sir?' asked Mr. Dick, folding his arms.

'A dear old friend,' said I. 'Thank you, Trotwood,' returned Mr. Dick,
laughing, and reaching across in high glee to shake hands with me. 'But
I mean, boy,' resuming his gravity, 'what do you consider me in this
respect?' touching his forehead.

I was puzzled how to answer, but he helped me with a word.

'Weak?' said Mr. Dick.

'Well,' I replied, dubiously. 'Rather so.'

'Exactly!' cried Mr. Dick, who seemed quite enchanted by my reply. 'That
is, Trotwood, when they took some of the trouble out of you-know-who's
head, and put it you know where, there was a--' Mr. Dick made his two
hands revolve very fast about each other a great number of times, and
then brought them into collision, and rolled them over and over one
another, to express confusion. 'There was that sort of thing done to me
somehow. Eh?'

I nodded at him, and he nodded back again.

'In short, boy,' said Mr. Dick, dropping his voice to a whisper, 'I am
simple.'

I would have qualified that conclusion, but he stopped me.

'Yes, I am! She pretends I am not. She won't hear of it; but I am. I
know I am. If she hadn't stood my friend, sir, I should have been shut
up, to lead a dismal life these many years. But I'll provide for her!
I never spend the copying money. I put it in a box. I have made a will.
I'll leave it all to her. She shall be rich--noble!'

Mr. Dick took out his pocket-handkerchief, and wiped his eyes. He then
folded it up with great care, pressed it smooth between his two hands,
put it in his pocket, and seemed to put my aunt away with it.

'Now you are a scholar, Trotwood,' said Mr. Dick. 'You are a fine
scholar. You know what a learned man, what a great man, the Doctor is.
You know what honour he has always done me. Not proud in his wisdom.
Humble, humble--condescending even to poor Dick, who is simple and knows
nothing. I have sent his name up, on a scrap of paper, to the kite,
along the string, when it has been in the sky, among the larks. The kite
has been glad to receive it, sir, and the sky has been brighter with
it.'

I delighted him by saying, most heartily, that the Doctor was deserving
of our best respect and highest esteem.

'And his beautiful wife is a star,' said Mr. Dick. 'A shining star. I
have seen her shine, sir. But,' bringing his chair nearer, and laying
one hand upon my knee--'clouds, sir--clouds.'

I answered the solicitude which his face expressed, by conveying the
same expression into my own, and shaking my head.

'What clouds?' said Mr. Dick.

He looked so wistfully into my face, and was so anxious to understand,
that I took great pains to answer him slowly and distinctly, as I might
have entered on an explanation to a child.

'There is some unfortunate division between them,' I replied. 'Some
unhappy cause of separation. A secret. It may be inseparable from the
discrepancy in their years. It may have grown up out of almost nothing.'

Mr. Dick, who had told off every sentence with a thoughtful nod, paused
when I had done, and sat considering, with his eyes upon my face, and
his hand upon my knee.

'Doctor not angry with her, Trotwood?' he said, after some time.

'No. Devoted to her.'

'Then, I have got it, boy!' said Mr. Dick.

The sudden exultation with which he slapped me on the knee, and leaned
back in his chair, with his eyebrows lifted up as high as he could
possibly lift them, made me think him farther out of his wits than
ever. He became as suddenly grave again, and leaning forward as before,
said--first respectfully taking out his pocket-handkerchief, as if it
really did represent my aunt:

'Most wonderful woman in the world, Trotwood. Why has she done nothing
to set things right?'

'Too delicate and difficult a subject for such interference,' I replied.

'Fine scholar,' said Mr. Dick, touching me with his finger. 'Why has HE
done nothing?'

'For the same reason,' I returned.

'Then, I have got it, boy!' said Mr. Dick. And he stood up before me,
more exultingly than before, nodding his head, and striking himself
repeatedly upon the breast, until one might have supposed that he had
nearly nodded and struck all the breath out of his body.

'A poor fellow with a craze, sir,' said Mr. Dick, 'a simpleton, a
weak-minded person--present company, you know!' striking himself again,
'may do what wonderful people may not do. I'll bring them together, boy.
I'll try. They'll not blame me. They'll not object to me. They'll not
mind what I do, if it's wrong. I'm only Mr. Dick. And who minds Dick?
Dick's nobody! Whoo!' He blew a slight, contemptuous breath, as if he
blew himself away.

It was fortunate he had proceeded so far with his mystery, for we heard
the coach stop at the little garden gate, which brought my aunt and Dora
home.

'Not a word, boy!' he pursued in a whisper; 'leave all the blame with
Dick--simple Dick--mad Dick. I have been thinking, sir, for some time,
that I was getting it, and now I have got it. After what you have said
to me, I am sure I have got it. All right!' Not another word did Mr.
Dick utter on the subject; but he made a very telegraph of himself for
the next half-hour (to the great disturbance of my aunt's mind), to
enjoin inviolable secrecy on me.

To my surprise, I heard no more about it for some two or three weeks,
though I was sufficiently interested in the result of his endeavours;
descrying a strange gleam of good sense--I say nothing of good feeling,
for that he always exhibited--in the conclusion to which he had come. At
last I began to believe, that, in the flighty and unsettled state of his
mind, he had either forgotten his intention or abandoned it.

One fair evening, when Dora was not inclined to go out, my aunt and I
strolled up to the Doctor's cottage. It was autumn, when there were no
debates to vex the evening air; and I remember how the leaves smelt like
our garden at Blunderstone as we trod them under foot, and how the old,
unhappy feeling, seemed to go by, on the sighing wind.

It was twilight when we reached the cottage. Mrs. Strong was just coming
out of the garden, where Mr. Dick yet lingered, busy with his knife,
helping the gardener to point some stakes. The Doctor was engaged with
someone in his study; but the visitor would be gone directly, Mrs.
Strong said, and begged us to remain and see him. We went into the
drawing-room with her, and sat down by the darkening window. There was
never any ceremony about the visits of such old friends and neighbours
as we were.

We had not sat here many minutes, when Mrs. Markleham, who usually
contrived to be in a fuss about something, came bustling in, with her
newspaper in her hand, and said, out of breath, 'My goodness gracious,
Annie, why didn't you tell me there was someone in the Study!'

'My dear mama,' she quietly returned, 'how could I know that you desired
the information?'

'Desired the information!' said Mrs. Markleham, sinking on the sofa. 'I
never had such a turn in all my life!'

'Have you been to the Study, then, mama?' asked Annie.

'BEEN to the Study, my dear!' she returned emphatically. 'Indeed I have!
I came upon the amiable creature--if you'll imagine my feelings, Miss
Trotwood and David--in the act of making his will.'

Her daughter looked round from the window quickly.

'In the act, my dear Annie,' repeated Mrs. Markleham, spreading the
newspaper on her lap like a table-cloth, and patting her hands upon it,
'of making his last Will and Testament. The foresight and affection of
the dear! I must tell you how it was. I really must, in justice to the
darling--for he is nothing less!--tell you how it was. Perhaps you know,
Miss Trotwood, that there is never a candle lighted in this house, until
one's eyes are literally falling out of one's head with being stretched
to read the paper. And that there is not a chair in this house, in which
a paper can be what I call, read, except one in the Study. This took me
to the Study, where I saw a light. I opened the door. In company with
the dear Doctor were two professional people, evidently connected with
the law, and they were all three standing at the table: the
darling Doctor pen in hand. "This simply expresses then," said the
Doctor--Annie, my love, attend to the very words--"this simply expresses
then, gentlemen, the confidence I have in Mrs. Strong, and gives her all
unconditionally?" One of the professional people replied, "And gives her
all unconditionally." Upon that, with the natural feelings of a mother,
I said, "Good God, I beg your pardon!" fell over the door-step, and came
away through the little back passage where the pantry is.'

Mrs. Strong opened the window, and went out into the verandah, where she
stood leaning against a pillar.

'But now isn't it, Miss Trotwood, isn't it, David, invigorating,' said
Mrs. Markleham, mechanically following her with her eyes, 'to find a man
at Doctor Strong's time of life, with the strength of mind to do this
kind of thing? It only shows how right I was. I said to Annie, when
Doctor Strong paid a very flattering visit to myself, and made her the
subject of a declaration and an offer, I said, "My dear, there is no
doubt whatever, in my opinion, with reference to a suitable provision
for you, that Doctor Strong will do more than he binds himself to do."'

Here the bell rang, and we heard the sound of the visitors' feet as they
went out.

'It's all over, no doubt,' said the Old Soldier, after listening; 'the
dear creature has signed, sealed, and delivered, and his mind's at rest.
Well it may be! What a mind! Annie, my love, I am going to the Study
with my paper, for I am a poor creature without news. Miss Trotwood,
David, pray come and see the Doctor.'

I was conscious of Mr. Dick's standing in the shadow of the room,
shutting up his knife, when we accompanied her to the Study; and of my
aunt's rubbing her nose violently, by the way, as a mild vent for her
intolerance of our military friend; but who got first into the Study, or
how Mrs. Markleham settled herself in a moment in her easy-chair, or how
my aunt and I came to be left together near the door (unless her eyes
were quicker than mine, and she held me back), I have forgotten, if I
ever knew. But this I know,--that we saw the Doctor before he saw us,
sitting at his table, among the folio volumes in which he delighted,
resting his head calmly on his hand. That, in the same moment, we saw
Mrs. Strong glide in, pale and trembling. That Mr. Dick supported her on
his arm. That he laid his other hand upon the Doctor's arm, causing him
to look up with an abstracted air. That, as the Doctor moved his head,
his wife dropped down on one knee at his feet, and, with her hands
imploringly lifted, fixed upon his face the memorable look I had never
forgotten. That at this sight Mrs. Markleham dropped the newspaper,
and stared more like a figure-head intended for a ship to be called The
Astonishment, than anything else I can think of.

The gentleness of the Doctor's manner and surprise, the dignity that
mingled with the supplicating attitude of his wife, the amiable concern
of Mr. Dick, and the earnestness with which my aunt said to herself,
'That man mad!' (triumphantly expressive of the misery from which she
had saved him)--I see and hear, rather than remember, as I write about
it.

'Doctor!' said Mr. Dick. 'What is it that's amiss? Look here!'

'Annie!' cried the Doctor. 'Not at my feet, my dear!'

'Yes!' she said. 'I beg and pray that no one will leave the room! Oh, my
husband and father, break this long silence. Let us both know what it is
that has come between us!'

Mrs. Markleham, by this time recovering the power of speech, and seeming
to swell with family pride and motherly indignation, here exclaimed,
'Annie, get up immediately, and don't disgrace everybody belonging to
you by humbling yourself like that, unless you wish to see me go out of
my mind on the spot!'

'Mama!' returned Annie. 'Waste no words on me, for my appeal is to my
husband, and even you are nothing here.'

'Nothing!' exclaimed Mrs. Markleham. 'Me, nothing! The child has taken
leave of her senses. Please to get me a glass of water!'

I was too attentive to the Doctor and his wife, to give any heed to this
request; and it made no impression on anybody else; so Mrs. Markleham
panted, stared, and fanned herself.

'Annie!' said the Doctor, tenderly taking her in his hands. 'My dear!
If any unavoidable change has come, in the sequence of time, upon our
married life, you are not to blame. The fault is mine, and only mine.
There is no change in my affection, admiration, and respect. I wish to
make you happy. I truly love and honour you. Rise, Annie, pray!'

But she did not rise. After looking at him for a little while, she sank
down closer to him, laid her arm across his knee, and dropping her head
upon it, said:

'If I have any friend here, who can speak one word for me, or for my
husband in this matter; if I have any friend here, who can give a voice
to any suspicion that my heart has sometimes whispered to me; if I have
any friend here, who honours my husband, or has ever cared for me, and
has anything within his knowledge, no matter what it is, that may help
to mediate between us, I implore that friend to speak!'

There was a profound silence. After a few moments of painful hesitation,
I broke the silence.

'Mrs. Strong,' I said, 'there is something within my knowledge, which
I have been earnestly entreated by Doctor Strong to conceal, and have
concealed until tonight. But, I believe the time has come when it would
be mistaken faith and delicacy to conceal it any longer, and when your
appeal absolves me from his injunction.'

She turned her face towards me for a moment, and I knew that I was
right. I could not have resisted its entreaty, if the assurance that it
gave me had been less convincing.

'Our future peace,' she said, 'may be in your hands. I trust it
confidently to your not suppressing anything. I know beforehand that
nothing you, or anyone, can tell me, will show my husband's noble heart
in any other light than one. Howsoever it may seem to you to touch me,
disregard that. I will speak for myself, before him, and before God
afterwards.'

Thus earnestly besought, I made no reference to the Doctor for his
permission, but, without any other compromise of the truth than a little
softening of the coarseness of Uriah Heep, related plainly what had
passed in that same room that night. The staring of Mrs. Markleham
during the whole narration, and the shrill, sharp interjections with
which she occasionally interrupted it, defy description.

When I had finished, Annie remained, for some few moments, silent, with
her head bent down, as I have described. Then, she took the Doctor's
hand (he was sitting in the same attitude as when we had entered the
room), and pressed it to her breast, and kissed it. Mr. Dick softly
raised her; and she stood, when she began to speak, leaning on him, and
looking down upon her husband--from whom she never turned her eyes.

'All that has ever been in my mind, since I was married,' she said in a
low, submissive, tender voice, 'I will lay bare before you. I could not
live and have one reservation, knowing what I know now.'

'Nay, Annie,' said the Doctor, mildly, 'I have never doubted you, my
child. There is no need; indeed there is no need, my dear.'

'There is great need,' she answered, in the same way, 'that I should
open my whole heart before the soul of generosity and truth, whom, year
by year, and day by day, I have loved and venerated more and more, as
Heaven knows!'

'Really,' interrupted Mrs. Markleham, 'if I have any discretion at
all--'

('Which you haven't, you Marplot,' observed my aunt, in an indignant
whisper.) --'I must be permitted to observe that it cannot be requisite
to enter into these details.'

'No one but my husband can judge of that, mama,' said Annie without
removing her eyes from his face, 'and he will hear me. If I say anything
to give you pain, mama, forgive me. I have borne pain first, often and
long, myself.'

'Upon my word!' gasped Mrs. Markleham.

'When I was very young,' said Annie, 'quite a little child, my first
associations with knowledge of any kind were inseparable from a patient
friend and teacher--the friend of my dead father--who was always dear
to me. I can remember nothing that I know, without remembering him. He
stored my mind with its first treasures, and stamped his character upon
them all. They never could have been, I think, as good as they have been
to me, if I had taken them from any other hands.'

'Makes her mother nothing!' exclaimed Mrs. Markleham.

'Not so mama,' said Annie; 'but I make him what he was. I must do that.
As I grew up, he occupied the same place still. I was proud of his
interest: deeply, fondly, gratefully attached to him. I looked up to
him, I can hardly describe how--as a father, as a guide, as one whose
praise was different from all other praise, as one in whom I could have
trusted and confided, if I had doubted all the world. You know, mama,
how young and inexperienced I was, when you presented him before me, of
a sudden, as a lover.'

'I have mentioned the fact, fifty times at least, to everybody here!'
said Mrs. Markleham.

('Then hold your tongue, for the Lord's sake, and don't mention it any
more!' muttered my aunt.)

'It was so great a change: so great a loss, I felt it, at first,' said
Annie, still preserving the same look and tone, 'that I was agitated
and distressed. I was but a girl; and when so great a change came in the
character in which I had so long looked up to him, I think I was sorry.
But nothing could have made him what he used to be again; and I was
proud that he should think me so worthy, and we were married.' '--At
Saint Alphage, Canterbury,' observed Mrs. Markleham.

('Confound the woman!' said my aunt, 'she WON'T be quiet!')

'I never thought,' proceeded Annie, with a heightened colour, 'of any
worldly gain that my husband would bring to me. My young heart had no
room in its homage for any such poor reference. Mama, forgive me when
I say that it was you who first presented to my mind the thought that
anyone could wrong me, and wrong him, by such a cruel suspicion.'

'Me!' cried Mrs. Markleham.

('Ah! You, to be sure!' observed my aunt, 'and you can't fan it away, my
military friend!')

'It was the first unhappiness of my new life,' said Annie. 'It was the
first occasion of every unhappy moment I have known. These moments have
been more, of late, than I can count; but not--my generous husband!--not
for the reason you suppose; for in my heart there is not a thought, a
recollection, or a hope, that any power could separate from you!'

She raised her eyes, and clasped her hands, and looked as beautiful and
true, I thought, as any Spirit. The Doctor looked on her, henceforth, as
steadfastly as she on him.

'Mama is blameless,' she went on, 'of having ever urged you for herself,
and she is blameless in intention every way, I am sure,--but when I saw
how many importunate claims were pressed upon you in my name; how you
were traded on in my name; how generous you were, and how Mr. Wickfield,
who had your welfare very much at heart, resented it; the first sense
of my exposure to the mean suspicion that my tenderness was bought--and
sold to you, of all men on earth--fell upon me like unmerited disgrace,
in which I forced you to participate. I cannot tell you what it
was--mama cannot imagine what it was--to have this dread and trouble
always on my mind, yet know in my own soul that on my marriage-day I
crowned the love and honour of my life!'

'A specimen of the thanks one gets,' cried Mrs. Markleham, in tears,
'for taking care of one's family! I wish I was a Turk!'

('I wish you were, with all my heart--and in your native country!' said
my aunt.)

'It was at that time that mama was most solicitous about my Cousin
Maldon. I had liked him': she spoke softly, but without any hesitation:
'very much. We had been little lovers once. If circumstances had not
happened otherwise, I might have come to persuade myself that I really
loved him, and might have married him, and been most wretched. There can
be no disparity in marriage like unsuitability of mind and purpose.'

I pondered on those words, even while I was studiously attending to
what followed, as if they had some particular interest, or some strange
application that I could not divine. 'There can be no disparity in
marriage like unsuitability of mind and purpose'--'no disparity in
marriage like unsuitability of mind and purpose.'

'There is nothing,' said Annie, 'that we have in common. I have long
found that there is nothing. If I were thankful to my husband for no
more, instead of for so much, I should be thankful to him for having
saved me from the first mistaken impulse of my undisciplined heart.'

She stood quite still, before the Doctor, and spoke with an earnestness
that thrilled me. Yet her voice was just as quiet as before.

'When he was waiting to be the object of your munificence, so freely
bestowed for my sake, and when I was unhappy in the mercenary shape
I was made to wear, I thought it would have become him better to have
worked his own way on. I thought that if I had been he, I would have
tried to do it, at the cost of almost any hardship. But I thought no
worse of him, until the night of his departure for India. That night I
knew he had a false and thankless heart. I saw a double meaning, then,
in Mr. Wickfield's scrutiny of me. I perceived, for the first time, the
dark suspicion that shadowed my life.'

'Suspicion, Annie!' said the Doctor. 'No, no, no!'

'In your mind there was none, I know, my husband!' she returned. 'And
when I came to you, that night, to lay down all my load of shame and
grief, and knew that I had to tell that, underneath your roof, one of my
own kindred, to whom you had been a benefactor, for the love of me, had
spoken to me words that should have found no utterance, even if I had
been the weak and mercenary wretch he thought me--my mind revolted from
the taint the very tale conveyed. It died upon my lips, and from that
hour till now has never passed them.'

Mrs. Markleham, with a short groan, leaned back in her easy-chair; and
retired behind her fan, as if she were never coming out any more.

'I have never, but in your presence, interchanged a word with him from
that time; then, only when it has been necessary for the avoidance of
this explanation. Years have passed since he knew, from me, what his
situation here was. The kindnesses you have secretly done for his
advancement, and then disclosed to me, for my surprise and pleasure,
have been, you will believe, but aggravations of the unhappiness and
burden of my secret.'

She sunk down gently at the Doctor's feet, though he did his utmost to
prevent her; and said, looking up, tearfully, into his face:

'Do not speak to me yet! Let me say a little more! Right or wrong, if
this were to be done again, I think I should do just the same. You never
can know what it was to be devoted to you, with those old associations;
to find that anyone could be so hard as to suppose that the truth of my
heart was bartered away, and to be surrounded by appearances confirming
that belief. I was very young, and had no adviser. Between mama and
me, in all relating to you, there was a wide division. If I shrunk into
myself, hiding the disrespect I had undergone, it was because I honoured
you so much, and so much wished that you should honour me!'

'Annie, my pure heart!' said the Doctor, 'my dear girl!'

'A little more! a very few words more! I used to think there were so
many whom you might have married, who would not have brought such charge
and trouble on you, and who would have made your home a worthier home. I
used to be afraid that I had better have remained your pupil, and almost
your child. I used to fear that I was so unsuited to your learning and
wisdom. If all this made me shrink within myself (as indeed it did),
when I had that to tell, it was still because I honoured you so much,
and hoped that you might one day honour me.'

'That day has shone this long time, Annie,' said the Doctor, 'and can
have but one long night, my dear.'

'Another word! I afterwards meant--steadfastly meant, and purposed to
myself--to bear the whole weight of knowing the unworthiness of one
to whom you had been so good. And now a last word, dearest and best of
friends! The cause of the late change in you, which I have seen with
so much pain and sorrow, and have sometimes referred to my old
apprehension--at other times to lingering suppositions nearer to the
truth--has been made clear tonight; and by an accident I have also come
to know, tonight, the full measure of your noble trust in me, even
under that mistake. I do not hope that any love and duty I may render in
return, will ever make me worthy of your priceless confidence; but with
all this knowledge fresh upon me, I can lift my eyes to this dear
face, revered as a father's, loved as a husband's, sacred to me in
my childhood as a friend's, and solemnly declare that in my lightest
thought I have never wronged you; never wavered in the love and the
fidelity I owe you!'

She had her arms around the Doctor's neck, and he leant his head down
over her, mingling his grey hair with her dark brown tresses.

'Oh, hold me to your heart, my husband! Never cast me out! Do not think
or speak of disparity between us, for there is none, except in all my
many imperfections. Every succeeding year I have known this better, as I
have esteemed you more and more. Oh, take me to your heart, my husband,
for my love was founded on a rock, and it endures!'

In the silence that ensued, my aunt walked gravely up to Mr. Dick,
without at all hurrying herself, and gave him a hug and a sounding kiss.
And it was very fortunate, with a view to his credit, that she did so;
for I am confident that I detected him at that moment in the act of
making preparations to stand on one leg, as an appropriate expression of
delight.

'You are a very remarkable man, Dick!' said my aunt, with an air of
unqualified approbation; 'and never pretend to be anything else, for I
know better!'

With that, my aunt pulled him by the sleeve, and nodded to me; and we
three stole quietly out of the room, and came away.

'That's a settler for our military friend, at any rate,' said my aunt,
on the way home. 'I should sleep the better for that, if there was
nothing else to be glad of!'

'She was quite overcome, I am afraid,' said Mr. Dick, with great
commiseration.

'What! Did you ever see a crocodile overcome?' inquired my aunt.

'I don't think I ever saw a crocodile,' returned Mr. Dick, mildly.

'There never would have been anything the matter, if it hadn't been for
that old Animal,' said my aunt, with strong emphasis. 'It's very much
to be wished that some mothers would leave their daughters alone after
marriage, and not be so violently affectionate. They seem to think the
only return that can be made them for bringing an unfortunate young
woman into the world--God bless my soul, as if she asked to be brought,
or wanted to come!--is full liberty to worry her out of it again. What
are you thinking of, Trot?'

I was thinking of all that had been said. My mind was still running on
some of the expressions used. 'There can be no disparity in marriage
like unsuitability of mind and purpose.' 'The first mistaken impulse of
an undisciplined heart.' 'My love was founded on a rock.' But we were at
home; and the trodden leaves were lying under-foot, and the autumn wind
was blowing.

 David goes the next day to see Dr. Strong about the position. Along the way, he decides that he will use this time to prove to Dora that he is willing to work hard and take care of her. He dreams of having earned a beautiful house for Dora and Jip to play in. Dr. Strong happily receives David and is excited to have help with the dictionary. David works hard but enjoys it because he feels that he is proving himself worthy of Dora. Mr. Dick also wants to help with Miss Betsey's financial situation, so he begins to work copying legal documents for Traddles. One day, Jack Maldon arrives at Dr. Strong's house and asks if he can take Annie to the opera. Dr. Strong encourages her to go, and she agrees, despite the fact that she obviously does not want to. Meanwhile, David receives a letter from Mr. Micawber saying that he is going to move once more. David and Traddles have dinner with the Micawbers, who reveal that Mr. Micawber is going to work for Uriah--which both companions find very unsettling. All this time, Dora has no idea of David's dreadful financial state, so he goes to Miss Mills' home to let her know. At first, she does not believe him when he says that he is ruined. When she finally comes around, she begins crying, for she obviously does not want to live poor. She becomes even more hysterical at the thought that she might have to keep house. David feels awful for making her cry so much. Miss Mills manages to comfort her but makes clear to David that he cannot expect Dora to be able to handle these things. He then has tea with Dora, and they play the guitar together before he has to leave for work, despite Dora's pleas that he not do so. David is content at this point, working hard for Dora and having debates with Mr. Dick. However, Mr. Spenlow soon uncovers his affair with Dora and forbids David from seeing her again. David refuses and leaves. Later, he finds out that Mr. Spenlow has died in a coach accident. Dora will not see him, for she thinks it is disrespectful to her father's memory. David's only connection to her is now through Miss Mills, who reads him her diary entries about Dora. To get his mind off of Dora, David's aunt sends him to check on her house in Dover. He then goes to Canterbury to visit the Wickfields, where he discovers that Mr. Micawber has moved in. David senses, from a strained conversation that the two of them have, that something has changed between them. Nevertheless, he is happy to see Agnes and talk to her about his situation, and she advises him to write to Dora's aunts to ask permission to see her. They are unable to speak alone after that because of Mrs. Heep's constant presence. David later finds out from Uriah that he had his mother follow them; Uriah loves Agnes and plans to marry her. Uriah pronounces his love that night, after he has gotten Mr. Wickfield extremely drunk. The latter grows angry and begins shouting at Uriah, while Uriah warns him not to threaten him because he knows his secret. This whole time, he is also constantly proclaiming his humbleness. The next day David leaves, after a heartfelt goodbye with Agnes and a much more uncomfortable one with Uriah. David writes the letter to Dora's aunts and hopes for the best. One night he runs into Mr. Peggotty, who tells him that he has been searching for Emily all across continental Europe. He has come close to finding her several times, and she has written three letters to the house in Yarmouth, in which she included money. David also learns that Ham continues to work hard but is deeply wounded by the whole affair. While Mr. Peggotty is talking, David sees someone listening at the door, but the figure leaves before he can talk to her. Mr. Peggotty then continues his journey, vowing to search for his niece until he drops dead. David finally receives a reply from Dora's aunts, who agree to meet with him to discuss his relationship with Dora. David brings Traddles along to help him convince the aunts to let him see Dora again. They are successful. After some lecturing, Dora's aunts, Clarissa and Lavinia, agree to let David see Dora at dinner every Sunday at 3:00--and at tea, but no more than twice a week. These arrangements make David very happy. She is very opposed to meeting Traddles or even Miss Betsey, although eventually she comes around. The only thing that displeases David is the way that Dora's aunts treat her like a doll, similar to the way that she treats Jip. He even finds himself treating her that way sometimes. She does not want to discuss such things with him because she knows he will get upset. Likewise, to prevent her from getting upset, he does not say anything and continues to play and sing with her. The older David starts the next chapter by proclaiming that he has worked all of his life to try to do everything well, and there is no fulfillment on this earth without perseverance--talent and opportunity are not enough. He then describes a visit from the Wickfields to Dr. Strong's house. Unfortunately, Uriah accompanies them, which the younger David does not like at all. However, he is very happy to see that Dora takes a liking to Agnes. Dora even wonders how David could have fallen in love with her, having grown up with a lady as good as Agnes. Agnes, meanwhile, reassures David that everything at the Wickfield home has remained the same and that she will never marry Uriah. As David is about to retire to bed, he is pulled into Dr. Strong's study by Uriah, who is already there with Dr. Strong and Mr. Wickfield. Uriah makes them tell the doctor about their suspicions concerning Annie and Jack Maldon. Dr. Strong refuses to believe them and leaves after a good deal of tension. David strikes Uriah for doing such an awful thing, but instead of striking him back, Uriah forgives him, something which incenses David even more. He also receives a letter from Mrs. Micawber, saying that that her husband has become a greedy, evil man and is no longer the jovial person he used to be. The older David now remembers his wedding to Dora. His memories are very beautiful, recollecting the beauty of his wife and the happy, loving presence of friends and family. He even remembers Dora using a cookbook that he gave her to teach Jip tricks. He remembers the tricks as rather adorable, too. Although Dora is a very bad housekeeper and David is no better, the two of them are happy. They have their domestic struggles, especially with the maids, who often rob them. Dora tries to be a good wife by trying to make dinner and trying to balance their finances, although she loses focus not long into these tasks. She hates to annoy David but is very devoted to him, even staying up late to watch him write. She wishes that she could have stayed with Agnes for a year before they married so that she could have learned from her. Despite his wife's faults, however, David is happy as long as Dora is happy. Upon her request, he begins to think of her as his "child-wife," and even Miss Betsey becomes devoted to her and does anything she can to make her happy. Meanwhile, the marriage of Annie and Dr. Strong remains turbulent. The only person who appreciates this is Annie's mother, Mrs. Markelham, whom Miss Betsey and David refer to as the "Old Soldier." Dr. Strong has been sending Annie out frequently to plays and other activities, and he often sends Mrs. Markelham along for company. But Annie is not enjoying these things, knowing that Dr. Strong doubts her fidelity. One night, Mr. Dick asks David if he is weak in intelligence. He is happy when David says yes, for he believes that because of this, he can reconcile Dr. Strong and Annie. That is, Mr. Dick thinks that more intelligent friends would not be able to do so because they are too polite. Mr. Dick brings Annie to Dr. Strong, and she proclaims her faithfulness to him in front of David, Miss Betsey, and Mrs. Markelham, who is the only one who does not seem touched by the display. Miss Betsey kisses Mr. Dick and calls him a good man for his actions. Annie's emotional display both pleases and troubles David, but he cannot explain why.

