The Personal History, Adventures, Experience, and Observation of David Copperfield the Younger. Of Blunderstone Rookery. (Which He Never Meant to Be Published on Any Account.) In Three Volumes. Vol. II: Electronic Edition.

Dickens, Charles, 1812-1870


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Title (from title page): The Personal History, Adventures, Experience, and Observation of David Copperfield the Younger. Of Blunderstone Rookery. (Which He Never Meant to Be Published on Any Account.) In Three Volumes. Vol. II:
Title (from spine): History of David Copperfield 2
Title (from series): Collection of British Authors. Vol. CLXXVI
Author: Charles Dickens
Extent: vi, 386 p.
LEIPZIG
BERNH. TAUCHNITZ JUN.
1850
Call number Dickens 20 1849 v. 2 (Rare Book Collection, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill)

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COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS.
VOL. CLXXVI.

DAVID COPPERFIELD BY CHARLES DICKENS.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.

          


THE PERSONAL HISTORY,
ADVENTURES, EXPERIENCE, AND OBSERVATION
OF
DAVID COPPERFIELD
THE YOUNGER.
OF BLUNDERSTONE ROOKERY.
(WHICH HE NEVER MEANT TO BE PUBLISHED ON ANY ACCOUNT.)

BY

CHARLES DICKENS.

COPYRIGHT EDITION.

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.

LEIPZIG

BERNH. TAUCHNITZ JUN.

1850.




page [v]

CONTENTS
OF VOLUME II.




page [1]

THE
PERSONAL HISTORY AND EXPERIENCE
OF
DAVID COPPERFIELD THE YOUNGER.

CHAPTER I.
Somebody turns up.

           IT has not occurred to me to mention Peggotty since I ran away; but, of course, I wrote her a letter almost as soon as I was housed at Dover, and another, and a longer letter, containing all particulars fully related, when my aunt took me formally under her protection. On my being settled at Doctor Strong's I wrote to her again, detailing my happy condition and prospects. I never could have derived anything like the pleasure from spending the money Mr. Dick had given me, that I felt in sending a gold half-guinea to Peggotty, per post, inclosed in this last letter, to discharge the sum I had borrowed of her: in which epistle, not before, I mentioned about the young man with the donkey-cart.

           To these communications Peggotty replied as promptly, if not as concisely, as a merchant's clerk. Her utmost powers of expression (which were certainly not great in ink) were exhausted in the attempt to write what she felt on the subject of



page 2 my journey. Four sides of incoherent and interjectional beginnings of sentences, that had no end, except blots, were inadequate to afford her any relief. But the blots were more expressive to me than the best composition; for they showed me that Peggotty had been crying all over the paper, and what could I have desired more?

           I made out, without much difficulty, that she could not take quite kindly to my aunt yet. The notice was too short after so long a prepossession the other way. We never knew a person, she wrote; but to think that Miss Betsey should seem to be so different from what she had been thought to be, was a Moral!—that was her word. She was evidently still afraid of Miss Betsey, for she sent her grateful duty to her but timidly; and she was evidently afraid of me, too, and entertained the probability of my running away again soon: if I might judge from the repeated hints she threw out, that the coach-fare to Yarmouth was always to be had of her for the asking.

           She gave me one piece of intelligence which affected me very much, namely, that there had been a sale of the furniture at our old home, and that Mr. and Miss Murdstone were gone away, and the house was shut up, to be let or sold. God knows I had had no part in it while they remained there, but it pained me to think of the dear old place as altogether abandoned; of the weeds growing tall in the garden, and the fallen leaves lying thick and wet upon the paths. I imagined how the winds of winter would howl round it, how the cold rain would beat upon the window-glass, how the moon would make ghosts on the walls of the empty rooms, watching their solitude all night. I thought afresh of the grave in the chuchyard, underneath the tree: and it seemed as if the house were dead too, now, and all connected with my father and mother were faded away.

           There was no other news in Peggotty's letters. Mr. Barkis



page 3 was an excellent husband, she said, though still a little near; but we all had our faults, and she had plenty (though I am sure I don't know what they were); and he sent his duty, and my little bedroom was always ready for me. Mr. Peggotty was well, and Ham was well, and Mrs. Gummidge was but poorly, and little Em'ly wouldn't send her love, but said that Peggotty might send it, if she liked.

           All this intelligence I dutifully imparted to my aunt, only reserving to myself the mention of little Em'ly, to whom I instinctively felt that she would not very tenderly incline. While I was yet new at Doctor Strong's, she made several excursions over to Canterbury to see me, and always at unseasonable hours: with the view, I suppose, of taking me by surprise. But, finding me well employed, and bearing a good character, and hearing on all hands that I rose fast in the school, she soon discontinued these visits. I saw her on a Saturday, every third or fourth week, when I went over to Dover for a treat; and I saw Mr. Dick every alternate Wednesday, when he arrived by stage-coach at noon, to stay until next morning.

           On these occasions Mr. Dick never travelled without a leathern writing-desk, containing a supply of stationery and the Memorial; in relation to which document he had a notion that time was beginning to press now, and that it really must be got out of hand.

           Mr. Dick was very partial to gingerbread. To render his visits the more agreeable, my aunt had instructed me to open a credit for him at a cake-shop, which was hampered with the stipulation that he should not be served with more than one shilling's-worth in the course of any one day. This, and the reference of all his little bills at the county inn where he slept, to my aunt, before they were paid, induced me to suspect that he was only allowed to rattle his money, and not to spend



page 4 it. I found on further investigation that this was so, or at least there was an agreement between him and my aunt that he should account to her for all his disbursements. As he had no idea of deceiving her, and always desired to please her, he was thus made chary of launching into expense. On this point, as well as on all other possible points, Mr. Dick was convinced that my aunt was the wisest and most wonderful of women; as he repeatedly told me with infinite secresy, and always in a whisper.

           “Trotwood,” said Mr. Dick, with an air of mystery, after imparting this confidence to me, one Wednesday; “who's the man that hides near our house and frightens her.”

           “Frightens my aunt, Sir?”

           Mr. Dick nodded. “I thought nothing would have frightened her,” he said, “for she's—” here he whispered softly, “don't mention it—the wisest and most wonderful of women.” Having said which, he drew back, to observe the effect which this description of her made upon me.

           “The first time he came,” said Mr. Dick, “was—let me see—sixteen hundred and forty-nine was the date of King Charles's execution. I think you said sixteen hundred and forty-nine?”

           “Yes, Sir.”

           “I don't know how it can be,” said Mr. Dick, sorely puzzled and shaking his head. “I don't think I am as old as that.”

           “Was it in that year that the man appeared, Sir?” I asked.

           “Why, really,” said Mr. Dick, “I don't see how it can have been in that year, Trotwood. Did you get that date out of history?”

           “Yes, Sir.”



page 5

           “I suppose history never lies, does it?” said Mr. Dick, with a gleam of hope.

           “Oh dear, no, Sir!” I replied, most decisively. I was ingenuous and young, and I thought so.

           “I can't make it out,” said Mr. Dick, shaking his head. “There's something wrong, somewhere. However, it was very soon after the mistake was made of putting some of the trouble out of King Charles's head into my head, that the man first came. I was walking out with Miss Trotwood after tea, just at dark, and there he was, close to our house.”

           “Walking about?” I inquired.

           “Walking about?” repeated Mr. Dick. “Let me see. I must recollect a bit. N—no, no; he was not walking about.”

           I asked, as the shortest way to get at it, what he was doing.

           “Well, he wasn't there at all,” said Mr. Dick, “until he came up behind her, and whispered. Then she turned round and fainted, and I stood still and looked at him, and he walked away; but that he should have been hiding ever since (in the ground or somewhere), is the most extraordinary thing!”

           “Has he been hiding ever since?” I asked.

           “To be sure he has,” retorted Mr. Dick, nodding his head gravely. “Never came out, till last night! We were walking last night, and he came up behind her again, and I knew him again.”

           “And did he frighten my aunt again?”

           “All of a shiver,” said Mr. Dick, counterfeiting that affection and making his teeth chatter. “Held by the palings. Cried. But Trotwood, come here,” getting me close to him, that he might whisper very softly; “why did she give him money, boy, in the moonlight?”

           “He was a beggar, perhaps.”

           Mr. Dick shook his head, as utterly renouncing the suggestion;



page 6 and having replied a great many times, and with great confidence, “No beggar, no beggar, no beggar, Sir!” went on to say, that from his window he had afterwards, and late at night, seen my aunt give this person money outside the garden rails in the moonlight, who then slunk away—into the ground again, as he thought probable—and was seen no more: while my aunt came hurriedly and secretly back into the house, and had, even that morning, been quite different from her usual self; which preyed on Mr. Dick's mind.

           I had not the least belief, in the outset of this story, that the unknown was anything but a delusion of Mr. Dick's, and one of the line of that ill-fated Prince who occasioned him so much difficulty; but after some reflection I began to entertain the question whether an attempt, or threat of an attempt, might have been twice made to take poor Mr. Dick himself from under my aunt's protection, and whether my aunt, the strength of whose kind feeling towards him I knew from herself, might have been induced to pay a price for his peace and quiet. As I was already much attached to Mr. Dick, and very solicitous for his welfare, my fears favoured this supposition; and for a long time his Wednesday hardly ever came round, without my entertaining a misgiving that he would not be on the coach-box as usual. There he always appeared, however, grey-headed, laughing, and happy; and he never had anything more to tell of the man who could frighten my aunt.

           These Wednesdays were the happiest days of Mr. Dick's life; they were far from being the least happy of mine. He soon became known to every boy in the school; and though he never took an active part in any game but kite-flying, was as deeply interested in all our sports as any one among us. How often have I seen him, intent upon a match at marbles or



page 7 pegtop, looking on with a face of unutterable interest, and hardly breathing at the critical times! How often, at hare and hounds, have I seen him mounted on a little knoll, cheering the whole field on to action, and waving his hat above his grey head, oblivious of King Charles the Martyr's head, and all belonging to it! How many a summer-hour have I known to be but blissful minutes to him in the cricket-field! How many winter days have I seen him, standing blue-nosed in the snow and east wind, looking at the boys going down the long slide, and clapping his worsted gloves in rapture!

           He was an universal favourite, and his ingenuity in little things was transcendant. He could cut oranges into such devices as none of us had an idea of. He could make a boat out of anything, from a skewer upwards. He could turn crampbones into chessmen; fashion Roman chariots from old court cards; make spoked wheels out of cotton reels, and birdcages of old wire. But he was greatest of all, perhaps, in the articles of string and straw; with which we were all persuaded he could do anything that could be done by hands.

           Mr. Dick's renown was not long confined to us. After a few Wednesdays, Doctor Strong himself made some inquiries of me about him, and I told him all my aunt had told me; which interested the Doctor so much that he requested, on the occasion of his next visit, to be presented to him. This ceremony I performed; and the Doctor begging Mr. Dick, whensoever he should not find me at the coach-office, to come on there, and rest himself until our morning's work was over, it soon passed into a custom for Mr. Dick to come on as a matter of course, and, if we were a little late, as often happened on a Wednesday, to walk about the courtyard, waiting for me. Here he made the acquaintance of the Doctor's beautiful young wife (paler than formerly, all this time; more



page 8 rarely seen by me or any one, I think; and not so gay, but not less beautiful), and so became more and more familiar by degrees, until, at last, he would come into the school and wait. He always sat in a particular corner, on a particular stool, which was called “Dick,” after him; here he would sit, with his grey head bent forward, attentively listening to whatever might be going on, with a profound veneration for the learning he had never been able to acquire.

           This veneration Mr. Dick extended to the Doctor, whom he thought the most subtle and accomplished philosopher of any age. It was long before Mr. Dick ever spoke to him otherwise than bare-headed; and even when he and the Doctor had struck up quite a friendship, and would walk together by the hour, on that side of the courtyard which was known among us as The Doctor's Walk, Mr. Dick would pull off his hat at intervals to show his respect for wisdom and knowledge. How it ever came about, that the Doctor began to read out scraps of the famous Dictionary, in these walks, I never knew; perhaps he felt it all the same, at first, as reading to himself. However, it passed into a custom too; and Mr. Dick, listening with a face shining with pride and pleasure, in his heart of hearts believed the Dictonary to be the most delightful book in the world.

           As I think of them going up and down before those schoolroom windows—the Doctor reading with his complacent smile, an occasional flourish of the manuscript, or grave motion of his head; and Mr. Dick listening, enchained by interest, with his poor wits calmly wandering God knows where, upon the wings of hard words—I think of it as one of the pleasantest things, in a quiet way, that I have ever seen. I feel as if they might go walking to and fro for ever, and the world might somehow be the better for it—as if a thousand



page 9 things it makes a noise about, were not one-half so good for it, or me.

           Agnes was one of Mr. Dick's friends, very soon; and in often coming to the house, he made acquaintance with Uriah. The friendship between himself and me increased continually, and it was maintained on this odd footing: that, while Mr. Dick came professedly to look after me as my guardian, he always consulted me in any little matter of doubt that arose, and invariably guided himself by my advice; not only having a high respect for my native sagacity, but considering that I inherited a good deal from my aunt.

           One Thursday morning, when I was about to walk with Mr. Dick from the hotel to the coach-office before going back to school (for we had an hour's school before breakfast), I met Uriah in the street, who reminded me of the promise I had made to take tea with himself and his mother: adding, with a writhe, “But I didn't expect you to keep it, Master Copperfield, we're so very umble.”

           I really had not yet been able to make up my mind whether I liked Uriah or detested him; and I was very doubtful about it still, as I stood looking him in the face in the street. But I felt it quite an affront to be supposnd proud, and said I only wanted to be asked.

           “Oh, if that's all, Master Copperfield,” said Uriah, “and it really isn't our umbleness that prevents you, will you come this evening? But if it is our umbleness, I hope you won't mind owning to it, Master Copperfield; for we are well aware of our condition.”

           I said I would mention it to Mr. Wickfield, and if he approved, as I had no doubt he would, I would come with pleasure. So, at six o'clock that evening, which was one of the early office evenings, I announced myself as ready, to Uriah.



page 10

           “Mother will be proud indeed,” he said, as we walked away together. “Or she would be proud, if it wasn't sinful, Master Copperfield.”

           “Yet you didn't mind supposing I was proud this morning,” I returned.

           “Oh dear no, Master Copperfield!” returned Uriah. “Oh, believe me, no! Such a thought never came into my head! I shouldn't have deemed it at all proud if you had thought us too umble for you. Because we are so very umble.”

           “Have you been studying much law lately?” I asked, to change the subject.

           “Oh, Master Copperfield,” he said, with an air of self-denial, “my reading is hardly to be called study. I have passed an hour or two in the evening, sometimes, with Mr. Tidd.”

           “Rather hard, I suppose?” said I.

           “He is hard to me sometimes,” returned Uriah. “But I don't know what he might be, to a gifted person.”

           After beating a little tune on his chin as we walked on, with the two fore-fingers of his skeleton right hand, he added:

           “There are expressions, you see, Master Copperfield—Latin words and terms—in Mr. Tidd, that are trying to a reader of my umble attainments.”

           “Would you like to be taught Latin?” I said, briskly. “I will teach it you with pleasure, as I learn it.”

           “Oh, thank you, Master Copperfield,” he answered, shaking his head. “I am sure it's very kind of you to make the offer, but I am much too umble to accept it.”

           “What nonsense, Uriah!”

           “Oh, indeed you must excuse me, Master Copperfield! I am greatly obliged, and I should like it of all things, I assure



page 11 you; but I am far too umble. There are people enough to tread upon me in my lowly state, without my doing outrage to their feelings by possessing learning. Learning ain't for me. A person like myself had better not aspire. If he is to get on in life, he must get on umbly, Master Copperfield.”

           I never saw his mouth so wide, or the creases in his cheeks so deep, as when he delivered himself of these sentiments: shaking his head all the time, and writhing modestly.

           “I think you are wrong, Uriah,” I said. “I dare say there are several things that I could teach you, if you would like to learn them.”

           “Oh, I don't doubt that, Master Copperfield,” he answered; “not in the least. But not being umble yourself, you don't judge well, perhaps, for them that are. I won't provoke my betters with knowledge, thank you. I'm much too umble. Here is my umble dwelling, Master Copperfield!”

           We entered a low, old-fashioned room, walked straight into from the street, and found there, Mrs. Heep, who was the dead image of Uriah, only short. She received me with the utmost humility, and apologised to me for giving her son a kiss, observing that, lowly as they were, they had their natural affections, which they hoped would give no offence to any one. It was a perfectly decent room, half parlour and half kitchen, but not at all a snug room. The tea-things were set upon the table, and the kettle was boiling on the hob. There was a chest of drawers with an escrutoire top, for Uriah to read or write at of an evening; there was Uriah's blue bag lying down and vomiting papers; there was a company of Uriah's books, commanded by Mr. Tidd; there was a corner cupboard; and there were the usual articles of furniture. I don't remember that any individual object had a bare, pinched, spare look; but I do remember that the whole place had.



page 12

           It was perhaps a part of Mrs. Heep's humility, that she still wore weeds. Notwithstanding the lapse of time that had occurred since Mr. Heep's decease, she still wore weeds. I think there was some compromise in the cap; but otherwise she was as weedy as in the early days of her mourning.

           “This is a day to be remembered, my Uriah, I am sure,” said Mrs. Heep, making the tea, “when Master Copperfield pays us a visit.”

           “I said you'd think so, mother,” said Uriah.

           “If I could have wished father to remain among us for any reason,” said Mrs. Heep, “it would have been, that he might have known his company this afternoon.”

           I felt embarrassed by these compliments; but I was sensible, too, of being entertained as an honoured guest, and I thought Mrs. Heep an agreeable woman.

           “My Uriah,” said Mrs. Heep, “has looked forward to this, Sir, a long while. He had his fears that our umbleness stood in the way, and I joined in them myself. Umble we are, umble we have been, umble we shall ever be,” said Mrs. Heep.

           “I am sure you have no occasion to be so, Ma'am,” I said, “unless you like.”

           “Thank you, Sir,” retorted Mrs. Heep. “We know our station and are thankful in it.”

           I found that Mrs. Heep gradually got nearer to me, and that Uriah gradually got opposite to me, and that they respectfully plied me with the choicest of the eatables on the table. There was nothing particularly choice there, to be sure; but I took the will for the deed, and felt that they were very attentive. Presently they began to talk about aunts, and then I told them about mine; and about fathers and mothers, and then I told them about mine; and then Mrs. Heep began to talk about fathers-in-law, and then I began to tell her about



page 13 mine—but stopped, because my aunt had advised me to observe a silence on that subject. A tender young cork, however, would have had no more chance against a pair of corkscrews, or a tender young tooth against a pair of dentists, or a little shuttlecock against two battledores, than I had against Uriah and Mrs. Heep. They did just what they liked with me; and wormed things out of me that I had no desire to tell, with a certainty I blush to think of: the more especially as, in my juvenile frankness, I took some credit to myself for being so confidential, and felt that I was quite the patron of my two respectful entertainers.

           They were very fond of one another: that was certain. I take it that had its effect upon me, as a touch of nature; but the skill with which the one followed up whatever the other said, was a touch of art which I was still less proof against. When there was nothing more to be got out of me about myself (for on the Murdstone and Grinby life, and on my journey, I was dumb), they began about Mr. Wickfield and Agnes. Uriah threw the ball to Mrs. Heep, Mrs. Heep caught it and threw it back to Uriah, Uriah kept it up a little while, then sent it back to Mrs. Heep, and so they went on tossing it about until I had no idea who had got it, and was quite bewildered. The ball itself was always changing too. Now it was Mr. Wickfield, now Agnes, now the excellence of Mr. Wickfield, now my admiration of Agnes; now the extent of Mr. Wickfield's business and resources, now our domestic life after dinner; now, the wine that Mr. Wickfield took, the reason why he took it, and the pity that it was he took so much; now one thing, now another, then everything at once; and all the time, without appearing to speak very often, or to do anything but sometimes encourage them a little, for fear they should be overcome by their humility and the honour of my company, I found myself perpetually letting out something or other that I



page 14 had no business to let out, and seeing the effect of it in the twinkling of Uriah's dinted nostrils.

           I had begun to be a little uncomfortable, and to wish myself well out of the visit, when a figure coming down the street passed the door—it stood open to air the room, which was warm, the weather being close for the time of year—came back again, looked in, and walked in, exclaiming loudly, “Copperfield! Is it possible!”

           It was Mr. Micawber! It was Mr. Micawber, with his eyeglass, and his walking-stick, and his shirt-collar, and his genteel air, and the condescending roll in his voice, all complete!

           “My dear Copperfield,” said Mr. Micawber, putting out his hand, “this is indeed a meeting which is calculated to impress the mind with a sense of the instability and uncertainty of all human—in short, it is a most extraordinary meeting. Walking along the street, reflecting upon the probability of something turning up (of which I am at present rather sanguine), I find a young, but valued friend turn up, who is connected with the most eventful period of my life; I may say, with the turning point of my existence. Copperfield, my dear fellow, how do you do?”

           I cannot say—I really cannot say—that I was glad to see Mr. Micawber there; but I was glad to see him too, and shook hands with him heartily, inquiring how Mrs. Micawber was.

           “Thank you,” said Mr. Micawber, waving his hand as of old, and settling his chin in his shirt-collar. “She is tolerably convalescent. The twins no longer derive their sustenance from Nature's founts—in short,” said Mr. Micawber, in one of his bursts of confidence, “they are weaned—and Mrs. Micawber is, at present, my travelling companion. She will be rejoiced, Copperfield, to renew her acquaintance with one who has proved himself in all respects a worthy minister at the sacred altar of friendship.”



page 15

           I said I should be delighted to see her.

           “You are very good,” said Mr. Micawber.

           Mr. Micawber then smiled, settled his chin again, and looked about him.

           “I have discovered my friend Copperfield,” said Mr. Micawber genteelly, and without addressing himself particularly to any one, “not in solitude, but partaking of a social meal in company with a widow lady, and one who is apparently her offspring—in short,” said Mr. Micawber, in another of his bursts of confidence, “her son. I shall esteem it an honour to be presented.”

           I could do no less, under these circumstances, than make Mr. Micawber known to Uriah Heep and his mother; which I accordingly did. As they abased themselves before him, Mr. Micawber took a seat, and waved his hand in his most courtly manner.

           “Any friend of my friend Copperfield's,” said Mr. Micawber, “has a personal claim upon myself.”

           “We are too umble, Sir,” said Mrs. Heep, “my son and me, to be the friends of Master Copperfield. He has been so good as take his tea with us, and we are thankful to him for his company; also to you, Sir, for your notice.”

           “Ma'am,” returned Mr. Micawber, with a bow, “you are very obliging: and what are you doing, Copperfield? Still in the wine trade?”

           I was excessively anxious to get Mr. Micawber away; and replied, with my hat in my hand, and a very red face I have no doubt, that I was a pupil at Doctor Strong's.

           “A pupil?” said Mr. Micawber, raising his eyebrows. “I am extremely happy to hear it. Although a mind like my friend Copperfield's”—to Uriah and Mrs. Heep—“does not require that cultivation which, without his knowledge of men and things, it would require, still it is a rich soil teeming with



page 16 latent vegetation—in short,” said Mr. Micawber, smiling, in another burst of confidence, “it is an intellect capable of getting up the classics to any extent.”

           Uriah, with his long hands slowly twining over one another, made a ghastly writhe from the waist upwards, to express his concurrence in this estimation of me.

           “Shall we go and see Mrs. Micawber, Sir?” I said, to get Mr. Micawber away.

           “If you will do her that favour, Copperfield,” replied Mr. Micawber, rising. “I have no scruple in saying, in the presence of our friends here, that I am a man who has, for some years, contended against the pressure of pecuniary difficulties,” I knew he was certain to say something of this kind; he always would be so boastful about his difficulties. “Sometimes I have risen superior to my difficulties. Sometimes my difficulties have—in short, have floored me. There have been times when I have administered a succession of facers to them; there have been times when they have been too many for me, and I have given in, and said to Mrs. Micawber in the words of Cato, ‘Plato, thou reasonest well. It's all up now. I can show fight no more.’ But at no time of my life,” said Mr. Micawber, “have I enjoyed a higher degree of satisfaction than in pouring my griefs (if I may describe difficulties, chiefly arising out of warrants of attorney and promissory notes at two and four months, by that word) into the bosom of my friend Copperfield.”

           Mr. Micawber closed this handsome tribute by saying, “Mr. Heep! Good evening. Mrs. Heep! Your servant,” and then walking out with me in his most fashionable manner, making a good deal of noise on the pavement with his shoes, and humming a tune as we went.

           It was a little inn where Mr. Micawber put up, and he occupied a little room in it, partitioned off from the commercial



page 17 room, and strongly flavoured with tobacco smoke. I think it was over the kitchen, because a warm greasy smell appeared to tome up through the chinks in the floor, and there was a flabby perspiration on the walls. I know it was near the bar, on account of the smell of spirits and gingling of glasses. Here, recumbent on a small sofa, underneath a picture of a race-horse, with her head close to the fire, and her feet pushing the mustard off the dumb-waiter at the other end of the room, was Mrs. Micawber, to whom Mr. Micawber entered first, saying, “My dear, allow me to introduce to you a pupil of Doctor Strong's.”

           I noticed, by-the-by, that although Mr. Micawber was just as much confused as ever about my age and standing, he always remembered, as a genteel thing, that I was a pupil of Doctor Strong's.

           Mrs. Micawber was amazed, but very glad to see me. I was very glad to see her too, and after an affectionate greeting on both sides, sat down on the small sofa near her.

           “My dear,” said Mr. Micawber, “if you will mention to Copperfield what our present position is, which I have no doubt he will like to know, I will go and look at the paper the while, and see whether any thing turns up among the advertisements.”

           “I thought you were at Plymouth, Ma'am,” I said to Mrs. Micawber, as he went out.

           “My dear Master Copperfield,” she replied, “we went to Plymouth.”

           “To be on the spot,” I hinted.

           “Just so,” said Mrs. Micawber. “To be on the spot. But, the truth is, talent is not wanted in the Custom House. The local influence of my family was quite unavailing to obtain any employment in that department, for a man of Mr. Micawber's abilities. They would rather not have a man of



page 18 Mr. Micawber's abilities. He would only show the deficiency of the others. Apart from which,” said Mrs. Micawber, “I will not disguise from you, my dear Master Copperfield, that when that branch of my family which is settled in Plymouth became aware that Mr. Micawber was accompanied by myself, and by little Wilkins and his sister, and by the twins, they did not receive him with that ardour which he might have expected, being so newly released from captivity. In fact,” said Mrs. Micawber, lowering her voice,—“this is between ourselves—our reception was cool.”

           “Dear me!” I said.

           “Yes,” said Mrs. Micawber. “It is truly painful to contemplate mankind in such an aspect, Master Copperfield, but our reception was, decidedly, cool. There is no doubt about it. In fact, that branch of my family which is settled in Plymouth became quite personal to Mr. Micawber, before we had been there a week.”

           I said, and thought, that they ought to be ashamed of themselves.

           “Still, so it was,” continued Mrs Micawber. “Under such circumstances, what could a man of Mr. Micawber's spirit do? But one obvious course was left. To borrow, of that branch of my family, the money to return to London, and to return at any sacrifice.”

           “Then you all came back again, Ma'am?” I said.

           “We all came back again,” replied Mrs. Micawber. “Since then, I have consulted other branches of my family on the course which it is most expedient for Mr. Micawber to take—for I maintain that he must take some course, Master Copperfield,” said Mrs. Micawber, argumentatively. “It is clear that a family of six, not including a domestic, cannot live upon air.”

           “Certainly, Ma'am,” said I.

           “The opinion of those other branches of my family,” pursued



page 19 Mrs. Micawber, “is, that Mr. Micawber should immediately turn his attention to coals.”

           “To what, Ma'am?”

           “To coals,” said Mrs. Micawber. “To the coal trade. Mr. Micawber was induced to think, on inquiry, that there might be an opening for a man of his talent in the Medway Coal Trade. Then, as Mr. Micawber very properly said, the first step to be taken clearly was, to come and see the Medway. Which we came and saw. I say ‘we,’ Master Copperfield; for I never will,” said Mrs. Micawber with emotion, “I never will desert Mr. Micawber.”

           I murmured my admiration and approbation.

           “We came,” repeated Mrs. Micawber, “and saw the Medway. My opinion of the coal trade on that river, is, that it may require talent, but that it certainly requires capital. Talent, Mr. Micawber has; capital, Mr. Micawber has not. We saw, I think, the greater part of the Medway; and that is my individual conclusion. Being so near here, Mr. Micawber was of opinion that it would be rash not to come on, and see the Cathedral. Firstly, on account of its being so well worth seeing, and our never having seen it; and secondly, on account of the great probability of something turning up in a cathedral town. We have been here,” said Mrs. Micawber, “three days. Nothing has, as yet, turned up; and it may not surprise you, my dear Master Copperfield, so much as it would a stranger, to know that we are at present waiting for a remittance from London, to discharge our pecuniary obligations at this hotel. Until the arrival of that remittance,” said Mrs. Micawber, with much feeling, “I am cut off from my home (I allude to lodgings in Pentonville), from my boy and girl, and from my twins.”

           I felt the utmost sympathy for Mr. and Mrs. Micawber in this anxious extremity, and said as much to Mr. Micawber, who now returned: adding that I only wished I had money



page 20 enough, to lend them the amount they needed. Mr. Micawber's answer expressed the disturbance of his mind. He said, shaking hands with me, “Copperfield, you are a true friend; but when the worst comes to the worst, no man is without a friend who is possessed of shaving materials.” At this dreadful hint Mrs. Micawber threw her arms round Mr. Micawber's neck and entreated him to be calm. He wept; but so far recovered, almost immediately, as to ring the bell for the waiter, and bespeak a hot kidney pudding and a plate of shrimps for breakfast in the morning.

           When I took my leave of them, they both pressed me so much to come and dine before they went away, that I could not refuse. But, as I knew I could not come next day, when I should have a good deal to prepare in the evening, Mr. Micawber arranged that he would call at Doctor Strong's in the course of the morning (having a presentiment that the remittance would arrive by that post), and purpose the day after, if it would suit me better. Accordingly I was called out of school next forenoon, and found Mr. Micawber in the parlour; who had called to say that the dinner would take place as proposed. When I asked him if the remittance had come, he pressed my hand and departed.

           As I was looking out of window that same evening, it surprised me, and made me rather uneasy, to see Mr. Micawber and Uriah Heep walk past, arm in arm: Uriah humbly sensible of the honour that was done him, and Mr. Micawber taking a bland delight in extending his patronage to Uriah. But I was still more surprised, when I went to the little hotel next day at the appointed dinner hour, which was four o'clock, to find, from what Mr. Micawber said, that he had gone home with Uriah, and had drunk brandy-and-water at Mrs. Heep's.

           “And I'll tell you what, my dear Copperfield,” said Mr. Micawber, “your friend Heep is a young fellow who might be



page 21 attorney-general. If I had known that young man, at the period when my difficulties came to a crisis, all I can say is, that I believe my creditors would have been a great deal better managed than they were.”

           I hardly understood how this could have been, seeing that Mr. Micawber had paid them nothing at all as it was; but I did not like to ask. Neither did I like to say, that I hoped he had not been too communicative to Uriah; or to inquire if they had talked much about me. I was afraid of hurting Mr. Micawber's feelings, or, at all events, Mrs. Micawber's, she being very sensitive; but I was uncomfortable about it, too, and often thought about it afterwards.

           We had a beautiful little dinner. Quite an elegant dish of fish; the kidney-end of a loin of veal, roasted; fried sausage-meat; a partridge, and a pudding. There was wine, and there was strong ale; and after dinner Mrs. Micawber made us a bowl of hot punch with her own hands.

           Mr. Micawber was uncommonly convivial. I never saw him such good company. He made his face shine with the punch, so that it looked as if it had been varnished all over. He got cheerfully sentimental about the town, and proposed success to it; observing, that Mrs. Micawber and himself had been made extremely snug and comfortable there, and that he never should forget the agreeable hours they had passed in Canterbury. He proposed me afterwards; and he, and Mrs. Micawber, and I, took a review of our past acquaintance, in the course of which we sold the property all over again. Then I proposed Mrs. Micawber; or, at least, said, modestly, “If you'll allow me, Mrs. Micawber, I shall now have the pleasure of drinking your health, Ma'am.” On which Mr. Micawber delivered an eulogium on Mrs. Micawber's character, and said she had ever been his guide, philosopher, and friend, and that he would recommend me, when I came to a marrying time of



page 22 life, to marry such another woman, if such another woman could be found.

           As the punch disappeared, Mr. Micawber became still more friendly and convivial. Mrs. Micawber's spirits becoming elevated, too, we sang “Auld Lang Syne.” When we came to “Here's a hand, my trusty frere,” we all joined hands round the table; and when we declared we would “take a right gude Willie Waught,” and hand't the least idea what it meant, we were really affected.

           In a word, I never saw any body so thoroughly jovial as Mr. Micawber was, down to the very last moment of the evening, when I took a hearty farewell of himself and his amiable wife. Consequently, I was not prepared, at seven o'clock next morning, to receive the following communication, dated half-past nine in the evening; a quarter of an hour after I had left him.

“MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND,

           “The die is cast—all is over. Hiding the ravages of care with a sickly mask of mirth, I have not informed you, this evening, that there is no hope of the remittance! Under these circumstances, alike humiliating to endure, humiliating to contemplate, and humiliating to relate, I have discharged the pecuniary liability contracted at this establishment, by giving a note of hand, made payable fourteen days after date, at my residence, Pentonville, London. When it becomes due, it will not be taken up. The result is destruction. The bolt is impending, and the tree must fall.

           “Let the wretched man who now addresses you, my dear Copperfield, be a beacon to you through life. He writes with that intention, and in that hope. If he could think himself of so much use, one gleam of day might, by possibility, penetrate into the cheerless dungeon of his remaining existence—



page 23 though his longevity is, at present (to say the least of it) extremely problematical.

           “This is the last communication, my dear Copperfield you will ever receive

“From The Beggared Outcast,

“WILKINS MICAWBER.”

           I was so shocked by the contents of this heart-rending letter, that I ran off directly towards the little hotel with the intention of taking it on my way to Doctor Strong's, and trying to soothe Mr. Micawber with a word of comfort. But half-way there, I met the London coach with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber up behind; Mr. Micawber, the very picture of tranquil enjoyment, smiling at Mrs. Micawber's conversation eating walnuts out of a paper bag, with a bottle sticking out of his breast pocket. As they did not see me, I thought it best, all things considered, not to see them. So, with great weight taken off my mind, I turned into a by-street that was the nearest way to school, and felt, upon the whole, relieved that they were gone; though I still liked them very much, nevertheless.



page 24

CHAPTER II.
A retrospect.

           MY school-days! The silent gliding on of my existence—the unseen, unfelt progress of my life—from childhood up to youth! Let me think, as I look back upon that flowing water, now a dry channel overgrown with leaves, whether there are any marks along its course, by which I can remember how it ran.

           A moment, and I occupy my place in the Cathedral, where we all went together, every Sunday morning, assembling first at school for that purpose. The earthy smell, the sunless air, the sensation of the world being shut out, the resounding of the organ through the black and white arched galleries and aisles, are wings that take me back, and hold me hovering above those days, in a half-sleeping and half-waking dream.

           I am not the last boy in the school. I have risen, in a few months, over several heads. But the first boy seems to me a mighty creature, dwelling afar off, whose giddy height is unattainable. Agnes says “No,” but I say “Yes,” and tell her that she little thinks what stores of knowledge have been mastered by the wonderful Being, at whose place she thinks I, even I, weak aspirant, may arrive in time. He is not my private friend and public patron, as Steerforth was, but I hold him in a reverential respect. I chiefly wonder what he'll be, when he leaves Doctor Strong's, and what mankind will do to maintain any place against him.

           But who is this that breaks upon me? This is Miss Shepherd, whom I love.



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           Miss Shepherd is a boarder at the Misses Nettingalls' establishment. I adore Miss Shepherd. She is a little girl, in a spencer, with a round face and curly flaxen hair. The Misses Nettingalls' young ladies come to the Cathedral too. I cannot look upon my book, for I must look upon Miss Shepherd. When the choristers chaunt, I hear Miss Shepherd. In the service I mentally insert Miss Shepherd's name—I put her in among the Royal Family. At home, in my own room, I am sometimes moved to cry out, “Oh, Miss Shepherd!” in a transport of love.

           For some time, I am doubtful of Miss Shepherd's feelings but, at length, Fate being propitious, we meet at the dancing school. I have Miss Shepherd for my partner. I touch Miss Shepherd's glove, and feel a thrill go up the right arm of my jacket, and come out at my hair. I say nothing tender to Miss Shepherd, but we understand each other. Miss Shepherd and myself live but to be united.

           Why do I secretly give Miss Shepherd twelve Brazil nuts for a present, I wonder? They are not expressive of affection, they are difficult to pack into a parcel of any regular shape, they are hard to crack, even in room doors, and they are oily when cracked; yet I feel that they are appropriate to Miss Shepherd. Soft, seedy biscuits, also, I bestow upon Miss Shepherd; and oranges innumerable. Once, I kiss Miss Shepherd in the cloak room. Ecstacy! What are my agony and indignation next day, when I hear a flying rumour that the Misses Nettingall have stood Miss Shepherd in the stocks for turning in her toes!

           Miss Shepherd being the one pervading theme and vision of my life, how do I ever come to break with her? I can't conceive. And yet a coolness grows between Miss Shepherd and myself. Whispers reach me of Miss Shepherd having said she wished I wouldn't stare so, and having avowed a



page 26 preference for Master Jones—for Jones! a boy of no merit whatever! The gulf between me and Miss Shepherd widens. At last, one day, I meet the Misses Nettingalls' establishment out walking. Miss Shepherd makes a face as she goes by, and laughs to her companion. All is over. The devotion of a life—it seems a life, it is all the same—is at an end; Miss Shepherd comes out of the morning service, and the Royal Family know her no more.

           I am higher in the school, and no one breaks my peace. I am not at all polite, now, to the Misses Nettingalls' young ladies, and shouldn't dote on any of them, if they were twice as many and twenty times as beautiful. I think the dancing-school a tiresome affair, and wonder why the girls can't dance by themselves and leave us alone. I am growing great in Latin verses, and neglect the laces of my boots. Doctor Strong refers to me in public as a promising young scholar. Mr. Dick is wild with joy, and my aunt remits me a guinea by the next post.

           The shade of a young butcher rises, like the apparition of an armed head in Macbeth. Who is this young butcher? He is the terror of the youth of Canterbury. There is a vague belief abroad, that the beef suet with which he anoints his hair gives him unnatural strength, and that he is a match for a man. He is a broad-faced, bull-necked young butcher, with rough red cheeks, an ill-conditioned mind, and an injurious tongue. His main use of this tongue, is, to disparage Doctor Strong's young gentlemen. He says, publicly, that if they want anything he'll give it 'em. He names individuals among them (myself included), whom he could undertake to settle with one hand, and the other tied behind him. He waylays the smaller boys to punch their unprotected heads, and calls challenges after me in the open streets. For these sufficient reasons I resolve to fight the butcher.



page 27

           It is a summer evening, down in a green hollow, at the corner of a wall. I meet the butcher by appointment. I am attended by a select body of our boys; the butcher, by two other butchers, a young publican, and a sweep. The preliminaries are adjusted, and the butcher and myself stand face to face. In a moment the butcher lights ten thousand candles out of my left eyebrow. In another moment, I don't know where the wall is, or where I am, or where anybody is. I hardly know which is myself and which the butcher, we are always in such a tangle and tustle, knocking about upon the trodden grass. Sometimes I see the butcher, bloody but confident; sometimes I see nothing, and sit gasping on my second's knee; sometimes I go in at the butcher madly, and cut my knuckles open against his face, without appearing to discompose him at all. At last I awake, very queer about the head, as from a giddy sleep, and see the butcher walking off, congratulated by the two other butchers and the sweep and publican, and putting on his coat as he goes; from which I augur, justly, that the victory is his.

           I am taken home in a sad plight, and I have beef-steaks put to my eyes, and am rubbed with vinegar and brandy, and find a great white puffy place bursting out on my upper lip, which swells immoderately. For three or four days I remain at home, a very ill-looking subject, with a green shade over my eyes; and I should be very dull, but that Agnes is a sister to me, and condoles with me, and reads to me, and makes the time light and happy. Agnes has my confidence completely, always; I tell her all about the butcher, and the wrongs he has heaped upon me; and she thinks I couldn't have done otherwise than fight the butcher, while she shrinks and trembles at my having fought him.

           Time has stolen on unobserved, for Adams is not the head-boy in the days that are come now, nor has he been this many



page 28 and many a day. Adams has left the school so long, that when he comes back, on a visit to Doctor Strong, there are not many there, besides myself, who know him. Adams is going to be called to the bar almost directly, and is to be an advocate, and to wear a wig. I am surprised to find him a meeker man than I had thought, and less imposing in appearance. He has not staggered the world yet, either; for it goes on (as well as I can make out) pretty much the same as if he had never joined it.

           A blank, through which the warriors of poetry and history march on in stately hosts that seem to have no end—and what comes next! I am the head-boy, now; and look down on the line of boys below me, with a condescending interest in such of them as bring to my mind the boy I was myself, when I first came there. That little fellow seems to be no part of me; I remember him as something left behind upon the road of life—as something I have passed, rather than have actually been—and almost think of him as of some one else.

           And the little girl I saw on that first day at Mr. Wickfield's, where is she? Gone also. In her stead, the perfect likeness of the picture, a child likeness no more, moves about the house; and Agnes—my sweet sister, as I call her in my thoughts, my counsellor and friend, the better angel of the lives of all who come within her calm, good, self-denying influence—is quite a woman.

           What other changes have come upon me, besides the changes in my growth and looks, and in the knowledge I have garnered all this while? I wear a gold watch and chain, a ring upon my little finger, and a long-tailed coat; and I use a great deal of bear's grease—which, taken in conjunction with the ring, looks bad. Am I in love again? I am. I worship the eldest Miss Larkins.

           The eldest Miss Larkins is not a little girl. She is a tall, dark, black-eyed, fine figure of a woman. The eldest Miss



page 29 Larkins is not a chicken; for the youngest Miss Larkins is not that, and the eldest must be three or four years older. Perhaps the eldest Miss Larkins may be about thirty. My passion for her is beyond all bounds.

           The eldest Miss Larkins knows officers. It is an awful thing to bear. I see them speaking to her in the street. I see them cross the way to meet her, when her bonnet (she has a bright taste in bonnets) is seen coming down the pavement, accompanied by her sister's bonnet. She laughs and talks, and seems to like it. I spend a good deal of my own spare time in walking up and down to meet her. If I can bow to her once in the day (I know her to bow to, knowing Mr. Larkins), I am happier. I deserve a bow now and then. The raging agonies I suffer on the night of the Race Ball, where I know the eldest Miss Larkins will be dancing with the military, ought to have some compensation, if there be even-handed justice in the world.

           My passion takes away my appetite, and makes me wear my newest silk neck-kerchief continually. I have no relief but in putting on my best clothes, and having my boots cleaned over and over again. I seem, then, to be worthier of the eldest Miss Larkins. Everything that belongs to her, or is connected with her, is precious to me. Mr. Larkins (a gruff old gentleman with a double chin, and one of his eyes immoveable in his head) is fraught with interest to me. When I can't meet his daughter, I go where I am likely to meet him. To say “How do you do, Mr. Larkins? Are the young ladies and all the family quite well?” seems so pointed, that I blush.

           I think continually about my age. Say I am seventeen, and say that seventeen is young for the eldest Miss Larkins, what of that? Besides, I shall be one-and-twenty in no time almost. I regularly take walks outside Mr. Larkins's house in the evening, though it cuts me to the heart to see the



page 30 officers go in, or to hear them up in the drawing-room, where the eldest Miss Larkins plays the harp. I even walk, on two or three occasions, in a sickly, spoony manner, round and round the house after the family are gone to bed, wondering which is the eldest Miss Larkins's chamber (and pitching, I dare say now, on Mr. Larkins's instead); wishing that a fire would burst out; that the assembled crowd would stand appalled; that I, dashing through them with a ladder, might rear it against her window, save her in my arms, go back for something she had left behind, and perish in the flames. For I am generally disinterested in my love, and think I could be content to make a figure before Miss Larkins, and expire.

           —Generally, but not always. Sometimes brighter visions rise before me. When I dress (the occupation of two hours), for a great ball given at the Larkins's (the anticipation of three weeks), I indulge my fancy with pleasing images. I picture myself taking courage to make a declaration to Miss Larkins. I picture Miss Larkins sinking her head upon my shoulder, and saying, “Oh, Mr. Copperfield, can I believe my ears!” I picture Mr. Larkins waiting on me next morning, and saying, “My dear Copperfield, my daughter has told me all. Youth is no objection. Here are twenty thousand pounds. Be happy!” I picture my aunt relenting, and blessing us; and Mr. Dick and Doctor Strong being present at the marriage ceremony. I am a sensible fellow, I believe—I believe, on looking back, I mean—and modest I am sure; but all this goes on notwithstanding.

           I repair to the enchanted house, where there are lights, chattering, music, flowers, officers (I am sorry to see), and the eldest Miss Larkins, a blaze of beauty. She is dressed in blue, with blue flowers in her hair—forget-me-nots—as if she had any need to wear forget-me-nots! It is the first really grown-up party that I have ever been invited to, and I am a



page 31 little uncomfortable; for I appear not to belong to anybody, and nobody appears to have anything to say to me, except Mr. Larkins, who asks me how my schoolfellows are, which he needn't do, as I have not come there to be insulted. But after I have stood in the doorway for some time, and feasted my eyes upon the goddess of my heart, she approaches me—she, the eldest Miss Larkins!—and asks me, pleasantly, if I dance.

           I stammer, with a bow, “With you, Miss Larkins.”

           “With no one else?” inquires Miss Larkins.

           “I should have no pleasure in dancing with any one else.”

           Miss Larkins laughs and blushes (or I think she blushes), and says, “Next time but one, I shall be very glad.”

           The time arrives. “It is a waltz, I think,” Miss Larkins doubtfully observes, when I present myself. “Do you waltz? If not, Captain Bailey—”

           But I do waltz (pretty well, too, as it happens), and I take Miss Larkins out. I take her sternly from the side of Captain Bailey. He is wretched, I have no doubt; but he is nothing to me. I have been wretched, too. I waltz with the eldest Miss Larkins! I don't know where, among whom, or how long. I only know that I swim about in space, with a blue angel, in a state of blissful delirium, until I find myself alone with her in a little room, resting on a sofa. She admires a flower (pink camelia japonica, price half-a-crown), in my button hole. I give it her, and say:

           “I ask an inestimable price for it, Miss Larkins.”

           “Indeed! What is that?” returns Miss Larkins.

           “A flower of yours, that I may treasure it as a miser does gold.”

           “You're a bold boy,” says Miss Larkins. “There.”

           She gives it me, not displeased; and I put it to my lips,



page 32 and then into my breast. Miss Larkins, laughing, draws her hand through my arm, and says, “Now take me back to Captain Bailey.”

           I am lost in the recollection of this delicious interview, and the waltz, when she comes to me again, with a plain elderly gentleman, who has been playing whist all night, upon her arm, and says:

           “Oh! here is my bold friend! Mr. Chestle wants to know you, Mr. Copperfield.”

           I feel at once that he is a friend of the family, and am much gratified.

           “I admire your taste, Sir,” says Mr. Chestle. “It does you credit. I suppose you don't take much interest in hops; but I am a pretty large grower myself; and if you ever like to come over to our neighbourhood—neighbourhood of Ashford—and take a run about our place, we shall be glad for you to stop as long as you like.”

           I thank Mr. Chestle warmly, and shake hands. I think I am in a happy dream. I waltz with the eldest Miss Larkins once again—she says I waltz so well! I go home in a state of unspeakable bliss, and waltz in imagination, all night long, with my arm round the blue waist of my dear divinity. For some days afterwards, I am lost in rapturous reflections; but I neither see her in the street, nor when I call. I am imperfectly consoled for this disappointment by the sacred pledge, the perished flower.

           “Trotwood,” says Agnes, one day after dinner. “Who do you think is going to be married to-morrow? Some one you admire.”

           “Not you, I suppose, Agnes?”

           “Not me!” raising her cheerful face from the music she is copying. “Do you hear him, Papa?—The eldest Miss Larkins.”



page 33

           “To—to Captain Bailey?” I have just power enough to ask.

           “No; to no Captain. To Mr. Chestle, a hop-grower.”

           I am terribly dejected for about a week or two. I take off my ring, I wear my worst clothes, I use no bear's grease, and I frequently lament over the late Miss Larkins's faded flower. Being, by that time, rather tired of this kind of life, and having received new provocation from the butcher, I throw the flower away, go out with the butcher, and gloriously defeat him.

           This, and the resumption of my ring, as well as of the bear's grease in moderation, are the last marks I can discern, now, in my progress to seventeen.



page 34

CHAPTER III.
I look about me, and make a discovery.

           I AM doubtful whether I was at heart glad or sorry, when my school-days drew to an end, and the time came for my leaving Doctor Strong's. I had been very happy there, I had a great attachment for the Doctor, and I was eminent and distinguished in that little world. For these reasons I was sorry to go; but for other reasons, unsubstantial enough, I was glad. Misty ideas of being a young man at my own disposal, of the importance attaching to a young man at his own disposal, of the wonderful things to be seen and done by that magnificent animal, and the wonderful effects he could not fail to make upon society, lured me away. So powerful were these visionary considerations in my boyish mind, that I seem, according to my present way of thinking, to have left school without natural regret. The separation has not made the impression on me, that other separations have. I try in vain to recall how I felt about it, and what its circumstances were; but it is not momentous in my recollection. I suppose the opening prospect confused me. I know that my juvenile experiences went for little or nothing then; and that life was more like a great fairy story, which I was just about to begin to read, than anything else.

           My aunt and I had held many grave deliberations on the calling to which I should be devoted. For a year or more I had endeavoured to find a satisfactory answer to her often-repeated question, “What I would like to be?” But I had no particular liking, that I could discover, for anything. If



page 35 I could have been inspired with a knowledge of the science of navigation, taken the command of a fast-sailing expedition, and gone round the world on a triumphant voyage of discovery, I think I might have considered myself completely suited. But, in the absence of any such miraculous provision, my desire was to apply myself to some pursuit that would not lie too heavily upon her purse; and to do my duty in it, whatever it might be.

           Mr. Dick had regularly assisted at our councils, with a meditative and sage demeanour. He never made a suggestion but once; and on that occasion (I don't know what put it in his head), he suddenly proposed that I should be “a Brazier.” My aunt received this proposal so very ungraciously, that he never ventured on a second; but ever afterwards confined himself to looking watchfully at her for her suggestions, and rattling his money.

           “Trot, I tell you what, my dear,” said my aunt, one morning in the Christmas season when I left school; “as this knotty point is still unsettled, and as we must not make a mistake in our decision if we can help it, I think we had better take a little breathing-time. In the meanwhile, you must try to look at it from a new point of view, and not as a schoolboy.”

           “I will, aunt.”

           “It has occurred to me,” pursued my aunt, “that a little change, and a glimpse of life out of doors, may be useful, in helping you to know your own mind, and form a cooler judgment. Suppose you were to take a little journey now. Suppose you were to go down into the old part of the country again, for instance, and see that—that out-of-the-way woman with the savagest of names,” said my aunt, rubbing her nose, for she could never thoroughly forgive Peggotty for being so called.



page 36

           “Of all things in the world, aunt, I should like it best!”

           “Well,” said my aunt, “that's lucky, for I should like it too. But it's natural and rational that you should like it. And I am very well persuaded that whatever you do, Trot, will always be natural and rational.”

           “I hope so, aunt.”

           “Your sister, Betsey Trotwood,” said my aunt, “would have been as natural and rational a girl as ever breathed. You'll be worthy of her, won't you?”

           “I hope I shall be worthy of you, aunt. That will be enough for me.”

           “It's a mercy that poor dear baby of a mother of yours didn't live,” said my aunt, looking at me approvingly, “or she'd have been so vain of her boy by this time, that her soft little head would have been completely turned, if there was anything of it left to turn.” (My aunt always excused any weakness of her own in my behalf, by transferring it in this way to my poor mother.) “Bless me, Trotwood, how you do remind me of her!”

           “Pleasantly, I hope, aunt?” said I.

           “He's as like her, Dick,” said my aunt, emphatically, “he's as like her, as she was that afternoon, before she began to fret—bless my heart, he's as like her, as he can look at me out of his two eyes!”

           “Is he indeed?” said Mr. Dick.

           “And he's like David, too,” said my aunt, decisively.

           “He is very like David!” said Mr. Dick.

           “But what I want you to be, Trot,” resumed my aunt “—I don't mean physically, but morally; you are very well physically—is, a firm fellow. A fine firm fellow, with a will of your own. With resolution,” said my aunt, shaking her cap at me, and clenching her hand. “With determination.



page 37 With character, Trot—with strength of character that is not to be influenced, except on good reason, by anybody, or by anything. That's what I want you to be. That's what your father and mother might both have been, Heaven knows, and been the better for it.”

           I intimated that I hoped I should be what she described.

           “That you may begin, in a small way, to have a reliance upon yourself, and to act for yourself,” said my aunt, “I shall send you upon your trip, alone. I did think, once, of Mr. Dick's going with you; but, on second thoughts, I shall keep him to take care of me.”

           Mr. Dick, for a moment, looked a little disappointed; until the honour and dignity of having to take care of the most wonderful woman in the world, restored the sunshine to his face.

           “Besides,” said my aunt, “there's the Memorial—”

           “Oh, certainly,” said Mr. Dick, in a hurry, “I intend, Trotwood, to get that done immediately—it really must be done immediately! And then it will go in, you know—and then—,” said Mr. Dick, after checking himself, and pausing a long time, “there'll be a pretty kettle of fish!”

           In pursuance of my aunt's kind scheme, I was shortly afterwards fitted out with a handsome purse of money, and a portmanteau, and tenderly dismissed upon my expedition. At parting, my aunt gave me some good advice, and a good many kisses; and said that as her object was that I should look about me, and should think a little, she would recommend me to stay a few days in London, if I liked it, either on my way down into Suffolk, or in coming back. In a word, I was at liberty to do what I would, for three weeks or a month; and no other conditions were imposed upon my freedom than the before-mentioned thinking and looking about me, and



page 38 a pledge to write three times a week and faithfully report myself.

           I went to Canterbury first, that I might take leave of Agnes and Mr. Wickfield (my old room in whose house I had not yet relinquished), and also of the good Doctor. Agnes was very glad to see me, and told me that the house had not been like itself since I had left it.

           “I am sure I am not like myself when I am away,” said I. “I seem to want my right hand, when I miss you. Though that's not saying much; for there's no head in my right hand, and no heart. Every one who knows you, consults with you, and is guided by you, Agnes.”

           “Every one who knows me, spoils me, I believe,” she answered, smiling.

           “No. It's because you are like no one else. You are so good, and so sweet-tempered. You have such a gentle nature, and you are always right.”

           “You talk,” said Agnes, breaking into a pleasant laugh, as she sat at work, “as if I were the late Miss Larkins.”

           “Come! It's not fair to abuse my confidence,” I answered, reddening at the recollection of my blue enslaver. “But I shall confide in you, just the same, Agnes. I can never grow out of that. Whenever I fall into trouble, or fall in love, I shall always tell you, if you'll let me—even when I come to fall in love in earnest.”

           “Why, you have always been in earnest!” said Agnes, laughing again.

           “Oh! that was as a child, or a school-boy,” said I, laughing in my turn, not without being a little shame-faced. “Times are altering now, and I suppose I shall be in a terrible state of earnestness one day or other. My wonder is, that you are not in earnest yourself, by this time, Agnes.”

           Agnes laughed again, and shook her head.



page 39

           “Oh, I know you are not!” said I, “because if you had been, you would have told me. Or at least”—for I saw a faint blush in her face, “you would have let me find it out for myself. But there is no one that I know of, who deserves to love you, Agnes. Some one of a nobler character, and more worthy altogether than any one I have ever seen here, must rise up, before I give my consent. In the time to come, I shall have a wary eye on all admirers; and shall exact a great deal from the successful one, I assure you.”

           We had gone on, so far, in a mixture of confidential jest and earnest, that had long grown naturally out of our familiar relations, begun as mere children. But Agnes, now suddenly lifting up her eyes to mine, and speaking in a different manner, said:

           “Trotwood, there is something that I want to ask you, and that I may not have another opportunity of asking for a long time, perhaps—something I would ask, I think, of no one else. Have you observed any gradual alteration in Papa?”

           I had observed it, and had often wondered whether she had too. I must have shown as much, now, in my face; for her eyes were in a moment cast down, and I saw tears in them.

           “Tell me what it is,” she said, in a low voice.

           “I think—shall I be quite plain, Agnes, liking him so much?”

           “Yes,” she said.

           “I think he does himself no good by the habit that has increased upon him since I first came here. He is often very nervous—or I fancy so.”

           “It is not fancy,” said Agnes, shaking her head.

           “His hand trembles, his speech is not plain, and his eyes look wild. I have remarked that at those times, and when



page 40 he is least like himself, he is most certain to be wanted on some business.”

           “By Uriah,” said Agnes.

           “Yes; and the sense of being unfit for it, or of not having understood it, or of having shown his condition in spite of himself, seems to make him so uneasy, that next day he is worse, and next day worse, and so he becomes jaded and haggard. Do not be alarmed by what I say, Agnes, but in this state I saw him, only the other evening, lay down his head upon his desk, and shed tears like a child.”

           Her hand passed softly before my lips while I was yet speaking, and in a moment she had met her father at the door of the room, and was hanging on his shoulder. The expression of her face, as they both looked towards me, I felt to be very touching. There was such deep fondness for him, and gratitude to him for all his love and care, in her beautiful look; and there was such a fervent appeal to me to deal tenderly by him, even in my inmost thoughts, and to let no harsh construction find any place against him; she was, at once, so proud of him and devoted to him, yet so compassionate and sorry, and so reliant upon me to be so, too; that nothing she could have said would have expressed more to me, or moved me more.

           We were to drink tea at the Doctor's. We went there at the usual hour; and round the study - fireside found the Doctor, and his young wife, and her mother. The Doctor, who made as much of my going away as if I were going to China, received me as an honoured guest; and called for a log of wood to be thrown on the fire, that he might see the face of his old pupil reddening in the blaze.

           “I shall not see many more new faces in Trotwood's stead, Wickfield,” said the Doctor, warming his hands; “I am getting lazy, and want ease. I shall relinquish all my



page 41 young people in another six months, and lead a quieter life.”

           “You have said so, any time these ten years, Doctor,” Mr. Wickfield answered.

           “But now I mean to do it,” returned the Doctor. “My first master will succeed me—I am in earnest at last—so you'll soon have to arrange our contracts, and to bind us firmly to them, like a couple of knaves.”

           “And to take care,” said Mr. Wickfield, “that you're not imposed on, eh?—as you certainly would be, in any contract you should make for yourself. Well! I am ready. There are worse tasks than that, in my calling.”

           “I shall have nothing to think of then,” said the Doctor, with a smile, “but my Dictionary; and this other contract-bargain—Annie.”

           As Mr. Wickfield glanced towards her, sitting at the tea-table by Agnes, she seemed to me to avoid his look with such unwonted hesitation and timidity, that his attention became fixed upon her, as if something were suggested to his thoughts.

           “There is a post come in from India, I observe,” he said, after a short silence.

           “By-the-by! and letters from Mr. Jack Maldon!” said the Doctor.

           “Indeed?”

           “Poor dear Jack!” said Mrs. Markleham, shaking her head. “That trying climate!—like living, they tell me, on a sandheap, underneath a burning-glass! He looked strong, but he wasn't. My dear Doctor, it was his spirit, not his constitution, that he ventured on so boldly. Annie, my dear, I am sure you must perfectly recollect that your cousin never was strong—not what can be called robust, you know,” said Mrs. Markleham, with emphasis, and looking round upon us generally “—from the time when my daughter and himself were



page 42 children together, and walking about, arm in arm, the livelong day.”

           Annie, thus addressed, made no reply.

           “Do I gather from what you say, Ma'am, that Mr. Maldon is ill?” asked Mr. Wickfield.

           “Ill!” replied the Old Soldier. “My dear Sir, he is all sorts of things,”

           “Except well?” said Mr. Wickfield.

           “Except well, indeed!” said the Old Soldier. “He has had dreadful strokes of the sun, no doubt, and jungle fevers and agues, and every kind of thing you can mention. As to his liver,” said the Old Soldier resignedly, “that, of course, he gave up altogether, when he first went out!”

           “Does he say all this?” asked Mr. Wickfield.

           “Say? My dear Sir,” returned Mrs. Markleham, shaking her head and her fan, “you little know my poor Jack Maldon when you ask that question. Say? Not he. You might drag him at the heels of four wild horses first.”

           “Mamma!” said Mrs. Strong.

           “Annie, my dear,” returned her mother, “once for all, I must really beg that you will not interfere with me, unless it is to confirm what I say. You know as well as I do, that your cousin Maldon would be dragged at the heels of any number of wild horses—why should I confine myself to four! I won't confine myself to four—eight, sixteen, two-and-thirty, rather than say anything calculated to overturn the Doctor's plans.”

           “Wickfield's plans,” said the Doctor, stroking his face, and looking penitently at his adviser. “That is to say, our joint plans for him. I said myself, abroad or at home.”

           “And I said,” added Mr. Wickfield gravely, “abroad. I was the means of sending him abroad. It's my responsibility.”

           “Oh! Responsibility!” said the Old Soldier. “Every thing was done for the best, my dear Mr. Wickfield; every thing was



page 43 done for the kindnest and best, we know. But if the dear fellow can't live there, he can't live there. And if he can't live there, he'll die there, sooner than he'll overturn the Doctor's plans. I know him,” said the Old Soldier, fanning herself, in a sort of calm prophetic agony, “and I know he'll die there, sooner than he'll overturn the Doctor's plans.”

           “Well, well, Ma'am,” said the Doctor, cheerfully, “I am not bigoted to my plans, and I can overturn them myself. I can substitute some other plans. If Mr. Jack Maldon comes home on account of ill health, he must not be allowed to go back, and we must endeavour to make some more suitable and fortunate provision for him in this country.”

           Mrs. Markleham was so overcome by this generous speech—which, I need not say, she had not at all expected or led up to—that she could only tell the Doctor it was like himself, and go several times through that operation of kissing the sticks of her fan, and then tapping his hand with it. After which she gently chid her daughter Annie, for not being more demonstrative when such kindnesses were showered, for her sake, on her old playfellow; and entertained us with some particulars concerning other deserving members of her family, whom it was desirable to set on their deserving legs.

           All this time, her daughter Annie never once spoke, or lifted up her eyes. All this time, Mr. Wickfield had his glance upon her as she sat by his own daughter's side. It appeared to me that he never thought of being observed by any one; but was so intent upon her, and upon his own thoughts in connexion with her, as to be quite absorbed. He now asked what Mr. Jack Maldon had actually written in reference to himself, and to whom he had written it?

           “Why, here,” said Mrs. Markleham, taking a letter from the chimney-piece above the Doctor's head, “the dear fellow says to the Doctor himself—where is it? Oh!—‘I am sorry



page 44 to inform you that my health is suffering severely, and that I fear I may be reduced to the necessity of returning home for a time, as the only hope of restoration.’ That's pretty plain, poor fellow! His only hope of restoration! But Annie's letter is plainer still. Annie, show me that letter again.”

           “Not now, Mamma,” she pleaded in a low tone.

           “My dear, you absolutely are, on some subjects, one of the most ridiculous persons in the world,” returned her mother, “and perhaps the most unnatural to the claims of your own family. We never should have heard of the letter at all, I believe, unless I had asked for it myself. Do you call that confidence, my love, towards Doctor Strong? I am surprised. You ought to know better.”

           The letter was reluctantly produced; and as I handed it to the old lady, I saw how the unwilling hand from which I took it, trembled.

           “Now let us see,” said Mrs. Markleham, putting her glass to her eye, “where the passage is. ‘The remembrance of old times, my dearest Annie’—and so forth—it's not there. ‘The amiable old Proctor’—who's he? Dear me, Annie, how illegibly your cousin Maldon writes, and how stupid I am! ‘Doctor,’ of course. Ah! amiable indeed!” Here she left off, to kiss her fan again, and shake it at the Doctor, who was looking at us in a state of placid satisfaction. “Now I have found it. ‘You may not be surprised to hear, Annie’ ”—no, to be sure, knowing that he never was really strong; what did I say just now?—‘that I have undergone so much in this distant place, as to have decided to leave it at all hazards; on sick leave, if I can; on total resignation, if that is not to be obtained. What I have endured, and do endure here, is insupportable.’ And but for the promptitude of that best of creatures,” said Mrs. Markleham, telegraphing the Doctor as before,



page 45 and refolding the letter, “it would be insupportable to me to think of.”

           Mr. Wickfield said not one word, though the old lady looked to him as if for his commentary on this intelligence; but sat severely silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground. Long after the subject was dismissed, and other topics occupied us, he remained so; seldom raising his eyes, unless to rest them for a moment, with a thoughtful frown, upon the Doctor, or his wife, or both.

           The Doctor was very fond of music. Agnes sang with great sweetness and expression, and so did Mrs. Strong. They sang together, and played duets together, and we had quite a little concert. But I remarked two things: first, that though Annie soon recovered her composure, and was quite herself, there was a blank between her and Mr. Wickfield which separated them wholly from each other; secondly, that Mr. Wickfield seemed to dislike the intimacy between her and Agnes, and to watch it with uneasiness. And now, I must confess, the recollection of what I had seen on that night when Mr. Maldon went away, first began to return upon me with a meaning it had never had, and to trouble me. The innocent beauty of her face was not as innocent to me as it had been; I mistrusted the natural grace and charm of her manner; and when I looked at Agnes by her side, and thought how good and true Agnes was, suspicions arose within me that it was an ill-assorted friendship.

           She was so happy in it herself, however, and the other was so happy too, that they made the evening fly away as if it were but an hour. It closed in an incident which I well remember. They were taking leave of each other, and Agnes was going to embrace her and kiss her, when Mr. Wickfield stepped between them, as if by accident, and drew Agnes quickly away. Then I saw, as though all the intervening time had been cancelled,



page 46 and I were still standing in the doorway on the night of the departure, the expression of that night in the face of Mrs. Strong, as it confronted his.

           I cannot say what an impression this made upon me, or how impossible I found it, when I thought of her afterwards, to separate her from this look, and remember her face in its innocent loveliness again. It haunted me when I got home. I seemed to have left the Doctor's roof with a dark cloud lowering on it. The reverence that I had for his grey head, was mingled with commiseration for his faith in those who were treacherous to him, and with resentment against those who injured him. The impending shadow of a great affliction, and a great disgrace that had no distinct form in it yet, fell like a stain upon the quiet place where I had worked and played as a boy, and did it a cruel wrong. I had no pleasure in thinking, any more, of the grave old broad-leaved aloe-trees which remained shut up in themselves a hundred years together, and of the trim smooth grass-plot, and the stone urns, and the Doctor's walk, and the congenial sound of the Cathedral bell hovering above them all. It was as if the tranquil sanctuary of my boyhood had been sacked before my face, and its peace and honour given to the winds.

           But morning brought with it my parting from the old house, which Agnes had filled with her influence; and that occupied my mind sufficiently. I should be there again soon, no doubt; I might sleep again—perhaps often—in my old room; but the days of my inhabiting there were gone, and the old time was past. I was heavier at heart when I packed up such of my books and clothes as still remained there to be sent to Dover, than I cared to show to Uriah Heep: who was so officious to help me, that I uncharitably thought him mighty glad that I was going.

           I got away from Agnes and her father, somehow, with an



page 47 indifferent show of being very manly, and took my seat upon the box of the London coach. I was so softened and forgiving, going through the town, that I had half a mind to nod to my old enemy the butcher, and throw him five shillings to drink. But he looked such a very obdurate butcher as he stood scraping the great block in the shop, and moreover, his appearance was so little improved by the loss of a front tooth which I had knocked out, that I thought it best to make no advances.

           The main object on my mind, I remember, when we got fairly on the road, was to appear as old as possible to the coachman, and to speak extremely gruff. The latter point I achieved at great personal inconvenience; but I stuck to it, because I felt it was a grown-up sort of thing.

           “You are going through, Sir?” said the coachman.

           “Yes, William,” I said, condescendingly (I knew him); “I am going to London. I shall go down into Suffolk afterwards.”

           “Shooting, Sir?” said the coachman.

           He knew as well as I did that it was just as likely, at that time of year, I was going down there whaling; but I felt complimented, too.

           “I don't know,” I said, pretending to be undecided, “whether I shall take a shot or not.”

           “Birds is got wery shy, I'm told,” said William.

           “So I understand,” said I.

           “Is Suffolk your county, Sir?” asked William.

           “Yes,” I said, with some importance, “Suffolk's my county.”

           “I'm told the dumplings is uncommon fine down there,” said William.

           I was not aware of it myself, but I felt it necessary to uphold the institutions of my county, and to evince a familiarity



page 48 with them; so I shook my head, as much as to say “I believe you!”

           “And the Punches,” said William. “There's cattle! A Suffolk Punch, when he's a good un, is worth his weight in gold. Did you ever breed any Suffolk Punches yourself, Sir?”

           “N—no,” I said, “not exactly.”

           “Here's a gen'lm'n behind me, I'll pound it,” said William, “as has bred 'em by wholesale.”

           The gentleman spoken of was a gentleman with a very unpromising squint, and a prominent chin, who had a tall white hat on with a narrow flat brim, and whose close-fitting drab trousers seemed to button all the way up outside his legs from his boots to his hips. His chin was cocked over the coachman's shoulder, so near to me, that his breath quite tickled the back of my head; and as I looked round at him, he leered at the leaders with the eye with which he didn't squint, in a very knowing manner.

           “Ain't you?” said William.

           “Ain't I what?” asked the gentleman behind.

           “Bred them Suffolk Punches by wholesale?”

           “I should think so,” said the gentleman. “There ain't no sort of orse that I ain't bred, and no sort of dorg. Orses and dorgs is some men's fancy. They're wittles and drink to me—lodging, wife, and children—reading, writing, and 'rithmetic—snuff, tobacker, and sleep.”

           “That ain't a sort of man to see sitting behind a coachbox, is it though?” said William in my ear, as he handled the reins.

           I construed this remark into an indication of a wish that he should have my place, so I blushingly offered to resign it.

           “Well, if you don't mind, Sir,” said William, “I think it would be more correct.”



page 49

           I have always considered this as the first fall I had in life. When I booked my place at the coach-office, I had had “Box Seat” written against the entry, and had given the bookkeeper half-a-crown. I was got up in a special great coat and shawl, expressly to do honour to that distinguished eminence; had glorified myself upon it a good deal; and had felt that I was a credit to the coach. And here, in the very first stage, I was supplanted by a shabby man with a squint, who had no other merit than smelling like a livery-stables, and being able to walk across me, more like a fly than a human being, while the horses were at a canter!

           A distrust of myself, which has often beset me in life on small occasions, when it would have been better away, was assuredly not stopped in its growth by this little incident outside the Canterbury coach. It was in vain to take refuge in gruffness of speech. I spoke from the pit of my stomach for the rest of the journey, but I felt completely extinguished, and dreadfully young.

           It was curious and interesting, nevertheless, to be sitting up there, behind four horses: well educated, well dressed, and with plenty of money in my pocket: and to look out for the places where I had slept on my weary journey. I had abundant occupation for my thoughts, in every conspicuous landmark on the road. When I looked down at the trampers whom we passed, and saw that well-remembered style of face turned up, I felt as if the tinker's blackened hand were in the bosom of my shirt again. When we clattered through the narrow street of Chatham, and I caught a glimpse, in passing, of the lane where the old monster lived who had bought my jacket, I stretched my neck eagerly to look for the place where I had sat, in the sun and in the shade, waiting for my money. When we came, at last, within a stage of London, and passed the veritable Salem House where Mr. Creakle had laid about him



page 50 with a heavy hand, I would have given all I had, for lawful permission to get down and thrash him, and let all the boys out like so many caged sparrows.

           We went to the Golden Cross at Charing Cross, then a mouldy sort of establishment in a close neighbourhood. A waiter showed me into the coffee-room; and a chambermaid introduced me to my small bed-chamber, which smelt like a hackney-coach, and was shut up like a family vault. I was still painfully conscious of my youth, for nobody stood in any awe of me at all: the chambermaid being utterly indifferent to my opinions on any subject, and the waiter being familiar with me, and offering advice to my inexperience.

           “Well now,” said the waiter, in a tone of confidence, “what would you like for dinner? Young gentlemen likes poultry in general, have a fowl!”

           I told him, as majestically as I could, that I wasn't in the humour for a fowl.

           “Ain't you!” said the waiter. “Young gentlemen is generally tired of beef and mutton, have a weal cutlet!”

           I assented to this proposal, in default of being able to suggest anything else.

           “Do you care for taters?” said the waiter, with an insinuating smile, and his head on one side. “Young gentlemen generally has been overdosed with taters.”

           I commanded him, in my deepest voice, to order a veal cutlet and potatoes, and all things fitting; and to inquire at the bar if there were any letters for Trotwood Copperfield, Esquire—which I knew there were not, and couldn't be, but thought it manly to appear to expect.

           He soon came back to say that there were none (at which I was much surprised), and began to lay the cloth for my dinner in a box by the fire. While he was so engaged, he asked me what I would take with it; and on my replying



page 51 “Half a pint of sherry,” thought it a favourable opportunity, I am afraid, to extract that measure of wine from the stale leavings at the bottoms of several small decanters. I am of this opinion, because, while I was reading the newspaper, I observed him behind a low wooden partition, which was his private apartment, very busy pouring out of a number of those vessels into one, like a chemist and druggist making up a prescription. When the wine came, too, I thought it flat; and it certainly had more English crumbs in it, than were to be expected in a foreign wine in anything like a pure state; but I was bashful enough to drink it, and say nothing.

           Being, then, in a pleasant frame of mind (from which I infer that poisoning is not always disagreeable in some stages of the process), I resolved to go to the play. It was Covent Garden Theatre that I chose; and there, from the back of a centre box, I saw Julius Cæsar and the new Pantomime. To have all those noble Romans alive before me, and walking in and out for my entertainment, instead of being the stern task-masters they had been at school, was a most novel and delightful effect. But the mingled reality and mystery of the whole show, the influence upon me of the poetry, the lights, the music, the company, the smooth stupendous changes of glittering and brilliant scenery, were so dazzling, and opened up such illimitable regions of delight, that when I came out into the rainy street, at twelve o'clock at night, I felt as if I had come from the clouds, where I had been leading a romantic life for ages, to a bawling, splashing, link-lighted, umbrella-struggling, hackney-coach-jostling, patten-clinking, muddy, miserable world.

           I had emerged by another door, and stood in the street for a little while, as if I really were a stranger upon earth: but the unceremonious pushing and hustling that I received, soon recalled me to myself, and put me in the road back to the



page 52 hotel; whither I went, revolving the glorious vision all the way; and where, after some porter and oysters, I sat revolving it still, at past one o'clock, with my eyes on the coffeeroom fire.

           I was so filled with the play, and with the past,—for it was, in a manner, like a shining transparency, through which I saw my earlier life moving along—that I don't know when the figure of a handsome well-formed young man, dressed with a tasteful easy negligence which I have reason to remember very well, became a real presence to me. But I recollect being conscious of his company without having noticed his coming in—and my still sitting, musing, over the coffeeroom fire.

           At last I rose to go to bed, much to the relief of the sleepy waiter, who had got the fidgets in his legs, and was twisting them, and hitting them, and putting them through all kinds of contortions in his small pantry. In going towards the door, I passed the person who had come in, and saw him plainly. I turned directly, came back, and looked again. He did not know me, but I knew him in a moment.

           At another time I might have wanted the confidence or the decision to speak to him, and might have put it off until next day, and might have lost him. But, in the then condition of my mind, where the play was still running high, his former protection of me appeared so deserving of my gratitude, and my old love for him overflowed my breast so freshly and spontaneously, that I went up to him at once, with a fast-beating heart, and said:

           “Steerforth! won't you speak to me?”

           He looked at me—just as he used to look, sometimes—but I saw no recognition in his face.

           “You don't remember me, I am afraid,” said I.



page 53

           “My God!” he suddenly exclaimed. “It's little Copperfield!”

           I grasped him by both hands, and could not let them go. But for very shame, and the fear that it might displease him, I could have held him round the neck and cried.

           “I never, never, never was so glad! My dear Steerforth, I am so overjoved to see you!”

           “And I am rejoiced to see you, too!” he said, shaking my hands heartily. “Why, Copperfield, old boy, don't be overpowered!” And yet he was glad, too, I thought, to see how the delight I had in meeting him affected me.

           I brushed away the tears that my utmost resolution had not been able to keep back, and I made a clumsy laugh of it, and we sat down together, side by side.

           “Why, how do you come to be here?” said Steerforth, clapping me on the shoulder.

           “I came here by the Canterbury coach, to-day. I have been adopted by an aunt down in that part of the country, and have just finished my education there. How do you come to be here, Steerforth?”

           “Well, I am what they call an Oxford man,” he returned; “that is to say, I get bored to death down there, periodically—and I am on my way now to my mother's. You're a devilish amiable-looking fellow, Copperfield. Just what you used to be, now I look at you! Not altered in the least!”

           “I knew you immediately,” I said; “but you are more easily remembered.”

           He laughed as he ran his hand through the clustering curls of his hair, and said gaily:

           “Yes, I am on an expedition of duty. My mother lives a little way out of town; and the roads being in a beastly condition, and our house tedious enough, I remained here tonight instead of going on. I have not been in town half-a-dozen



page 54 hours, and those I have been dozing and grumbling away at the play.”

           “I have been at the play, too,” said I. “At Covent Garden. What a delightful and magnificent entertainment, Steerforth!”

           Steerforth laughed heartily.

           —“My dear young Davy,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder again, “you are a very Daisy. The daisy of the field, at sunrise, is not fresher than you are! I have been at Covent Garden, too, and there never was a more miserable business.—Holloa, you Sir!”

           This was addressed to the waiter, who had been very attentive to our recognition, at a distance, and now came forward deferentially.

           “Where have you put my friend, Mr. Copperfield?” said Steerforth.

           “Beg your pardon, Sir?”

           “Where does he sleep? What's his number? You know what I mean,” said Steerforth.

           “Well, Sir,” said the waiter, with an apologetic air. “Mr. Copperfield is at present in forty-four, Sir.”

           “And what the devil do you mean,” retorted Steerforth, “by putting Mr. Copperfield into a little loft over a stable?”

           “Why, you see we wasn't aware, Sir,” returned the waiter, still apologetically, “as Mr. Copperfield was anyways particular. We can give Mr. Copperfield seventy-two, Sir, if it would be preferred. Next you, Sir.”

           “Of course it would be preferred,” said Steerfoorth. “And do it at once.”

           The waiter immediately withdrew to make the exchange. Steerforth, very much amused at my having been put into forty-four, laughed again, and clapped me on the shoulder again, and invited me to breakfast with him next morning at



page 55 ten o'clock—an invitation I was only too proud and happy to accept. It being now pretty late, we took our candle went up-stairs, where we parted with friendly heartiness door, and where I found my new room a great improve on my old one, it not being at all musty, and having an immense four-post bedstead in it, which was quite a little landed estate. Here, among pillows enough for six, I soon fell asleep in a blissful condition, and dreamed of ancient Rome, Steerforth, and friendship, until the early morning coaches, rumbling out of the archway underneath, made me dream of thunder and the gods.



page 56

CHAPTER IV.
Steerforth's home.

           WHEN the chambermaid tapped at my door at eight o'clock, and informed me that my shaving-water was outside, I felt severely the having no occasion for it, and blushed in my bed. The suspicion that she laughed too, when she said it, preyed upon my mind all the time I was dressing; and gave me, I was conscious, a sneaking and guilty air when I passed her on the staircase, as I was going down to breakfast. I was so sensitively aware, indeed, of being younger than I could have wished, that for some time I could not make up my mind to pass her at all, under the ignoble circumstances of the case; but, hearing her there with a broom, stood peeping out of window at King Charles on horseback, surrounded by a maze of hackney-coaches and looking anything but regal in a drizzling rain and a dark-brown fog, until I was admonished by the waiter that the gentleman was waiting for me.

           It was not in the coffee-room that I found Steerforth expecting me, but in a snug private apartment, red-curtained and Turkey-carpeted, where the fire burnt bright, and a fine hot breakfast was set forth on a table covered with a clean cloth; and a cheerful miniature of the room, the fire, the breakfast, Steerforth, and all, was shining in the little round mirror over the sideboard. I was rather bashful at first, Steerforth being so self-possessed, and elegant, and superior to me in all respects (age included); but his easy patronage soon put that to rights, and made me quite at home. I could not enough admire the change he had wrought in the Golden Cross; or



page 57 compare the dull forlorn state I had held yesterday, with this morning's comfort and this morning's entertainment. As to the waiter's familiarity, it was quenched as if it had never been. He attended on us, as I may say, in sackcloth and ashes.

           “Now, Copperfield,” said Steerforth, when we were alone, “I should like to hear what you are doing, and where you are going, and all about you. I feel as if you were my property.”

           Glowing with pleasure to find that he had still this interest in me, I told him how my aunt had proposed the little expedition that I had before me, and whither it tended.

           “As you are in no hurry, then,” said Steerforth, “come home with me to Highgate, and stay a day or two. You will be pleased with my mother—she is a little vain and prosy about me, but that you can forgive her—and she will be pleased with you.”

           “I should like to be as sure of that, as you are kind enough to say you are,” I answered, smiling.

           “Oh!” said Steerforth, “every one who likes me, has a claim on her that is sure to be acknowledged.”

           “Then I think I shall be a favourite,” said I.

           “Good!” said Steerforth. “Come and prove it. We will go and see the lions for an hour or two—it's something to have a fresh fellow like you to show them to, Copperfield—and then we'll journey out to Highgate by the coach.”

           I could hardly believe but that I was in a dream, and that I should wake presently in number forty-four, to the solitary box in the coffee-room and the familiar waiter again. After I had written to my aunt and told her of my fortunate meeting with my admired old school-fellow, and my acceptance of his invitation, we went out in a hackney-chariot, and saw a Panorama and some other sights, and took a walk through the Museum, where I could not help observing how much Steerforth



page 58 knew, on an infinite variety of subjects, and of how little account he seemed to make his knowledge.

           “You'll take a high degree at college, Steerforth,” said I, “if you have not done so already; and they will have good reason to be proud of you.”

           “I take a degree!” cried Steerforth. “Not I! my dear Daisy—will you mind my calling you Daisy?”

           “Not at all!” said I.

           “That's a good fellow! My dear Daisy,” said Steerforth, laughing, “I have not the least desire or intention to distinguish myself in that way. I have done quite sufficient for my purpose. I find that I am heavy company enough for myself, as I am.”

           “But the fame—” I was beginning.

           “You romantic Daisy!” said Steerforth, laughing still more heartily; “why should I trouble myself, that a parcel of heavy-headed fellows may gape and hold up their hands? Let them do it at some other man. There's fame for him, and he's welcome to it.”

           I was abashed at having made so great a mistake, and was glad to change the subject. Fortunately it was not difficult to do, for Steerforth could always pass from one subject to another with a carelessness and lightness that were his own.

           Lunch succeeded to our sight-seeing, and the short winter day wore away so fast, that it was dusk when the stage-coach stopped with us at an old brick house at Highgate on the summit of the hill. An elderly lady, though not very far advanced in years, with a proud carriage and a handsome face, was in the doorway as we alighted; and greeting Steerforth as “My dearest James,” folded him in her arms. To this lady he presented me as his mother, and she gave me a stately welcome.



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           It was a genteel old-fashioned house, very quiet and orderly. From the windows of my room I saw all London lying in the distance like a great vapour, with here and there some lights twinkling through it. I had only time, in dressing, to glance at the solid furniture, the framed pieces of work (done, I supposed, by Steerforth's mother when she was a girl), and some pictures in crayons of ladies with powdered hair and boddices, coming and going on the walls, as the newly-kindled fire crackled and sputtered, when I was called to dinner.

           There was a second lady in the dining-room, of a slight short figure, dark, and not agreeable to look at, but with some appearance of good looks too, who attracted my attention: perhaps because I had not expected to see her; perhaps because I found myself sitting opposite to her; perhaps because of something really remarkable in her. She had black hair and eager black eyes, and was thin, and had a scar upon her lip. It was an old scar—I should rather call it, seam, for it was not discoloured, and had healed years ago—which had once cut through her mouth, downward towards the chin, but was now barely visible across the table, except above and on her upper lip, the shape of which it had altered. I concluded in my own mind that she was about thirty years of age, and that she wished to be married. She was a little dilapidated—like a house—with having been so long to let; yet had, as I have said, an appearance of good looks. Her thinness seemed to be the effect of some wasting fire within her, which found a vent in her gaunt eyes.

           She was introduced as Miss Dartle, and both Steerforth and his mother called her Rosa. I found that she lived there, and had been for a long time Mrs. Steerforth's companion. It appeared to me that she never said anything she wanted to say, outright; but hinted it, and made a great deal more of



page 60 it by this practice. For example, when Mrs. Steerforth observed, more in jest than earnest, that she feared her son led but a wild life at college, Miss Dartle put in thus:

           “Oh, really? You know how ignorant I am, and that I only ask for information, but isn't it always so? I thought that kind of life was on all hands understood to be—eh?”

           “It is education for a very grave profession, if you mean that, Rosa,” Mrs. Steerforth answered with some coldness.

           “Oh! Yes! That's very true,” returned Miss Dartle. “But isn't it, though?—I want to be put right if I am wrong—isn't it really?”

           “Really what?” said Mrs. steerforth.

           “Oh! You mean it's not!” returned Miss Dartle. “Well, I'm very glad to hear it! Now, I know what to do. That's the advantage of asking. I shall never allow people to talk before me about wastefulness and profligacy, and so forth, in connection with that life, any more.”

           “And you will be right,” said Mrs. Steerforth. “My son's tutor is a conscientious gentleman; and if I had not implicit reliance on my son, I should have reliance on him.”

           “Should you?” said Miss Dartle. “Dear me! Conscientious, is he? Really conscientious, now?”

           “Yes, I am convinced of it,” said Mrs. Steerforth.

           “How very nice!” exclaimed Miss Dartle. “What a comfort! Really conscientious? Then he's not—but of course he can't be, if he's really conscientious. Well, I shall be quite happy in my opinion of him, from this time. You can't think how it elevates him in my opinion, to know for certain that he's really conscientious!”

           Her own views of every question, and her correction of everything that was said to which she was opposed, Miss Dartle insinuated in the same way: sometimes, I could not conceal from myself, with great power, though in contradiction



page 61 even of Steerforth. An instance happened before dinner was done. Mrs. Steerforth speaking to me about my intention of going down into Suffolk, I said at hazard how glad I should be, if Steerforth would only go there with me; and explaining to him that I was going to see my old nurse, and Mr. Peggotty's family, I reminded him of the boatman whom he had seen at school.

           “Oh! That bluff fellow!” said Steerforth. “He had son with him, hadn't he?”

           “No. That was his nephew,” I replied; “whom adopted, though, as a son. He has a very pretty little niece too, whom he adopted as a daughter. In short, his house (or rather his boat, for he lives in one, on dry land) is full of people who are objects of his generosity and kindness. You would be delighted to see that household.”

           “Should I?” said Steerforth. “Well, I think I should. I must see what can be done. It would be worth a journey not to mention the pleasure of a journey with you, Daisy, to see that sort of people together, and to make one of 'em.”

           My heart leaped with a new hope of pleasure. But it was in reference to the tone in which he had spoken of “that sort of people,” that Miss Dartle, whose sparkling eyes had been watchful of us, now broke in again.

           “Oh, but, really? Do tell me. Are they, though?” she said.

           “Are they what? And are who what?” said Steerforth.

           “That sort of people.—Are they really animals and clods, and beings of another order? I want to know so much.”

           “Why, there's a pretty wide separation between them and us,” said Steerforth, with indifference. “They are not be expected to be as sensitive as we are. Their delicacy is not to be shocked, or hurt very easily. They are wonderfully virtuous, I dare say—some people contend for that, at least;



page 62 and I am sure I don't want to contradict them—but they have not very fine natures, and they may be thankful that, like their coarse rough skins, they are not easily wounded.”

           “Really!” said Miss Dartle. “Well, I don't know, now, when I have been better pleased than to hear that. It's so consoling! It's such a delight to know that, when they suffer, they don't feel! Sometimes I have been quite uneasy for that sort of people; but now I shall just dismiss the idea of them, altogether. Live and learn. I had my doubts, I confess, but now they're cleared up. I didn't know, and now I do know; and that shows the advantage of asking—don't it?”

           I believed that Steerforth had said what he had, in jest, or to draw Miss Dartle out; and I expected him to say as much when she was gone, and we two were sitting before the fire. But he merely asked me what I thought of her.

           “She is very clever, is she not?” I asked.

           “Clever! She brings everything to a grindstone,” said Steerforth, “and sharpens it, as she has sharpened her own face and figure these years past. She has worn herself away by constant sharpening. She is all edge.”

           “What a remarkable scar that is upon her lip!” I said.

           Steerforth's face fell, and he paused a moment.

           “Why, the fact is,” he returned, “—I did that.”

           “By an unfortunate accident!”

           “No. I was a young boy, and she exasperated me, and I threw a hammer at her. A promising young angel I must have been!”

           I was deeply sorry to have touched on such a painful theme, but that was useless now.

           “She has borne the mark ever since, as you see,” said Steerforth; “and she'll bear it to her grave, if she ever rests in one—though I can hardly believe she will ever rest anywhere. She was the motherless child of a sort of cousin of my



page 63 father's. He died one day. My mother, who was then a widow, brought her here to be company to her. She has a couple of thousand pounds of her own, and saves the interest of it every year, to add to the principal. There's the history of Miss Rosa Dartle for you.”

           “And I have no doubt she loves you like a brother?” said I.

           “Humph!” retorted Steerforth, looking at the fire. “Some brothers are not loved over much; and some love—but help yourself, Copperfield! We'll drink the daisies of the field, in compliment to you; and the lilies of the valley that toil not, neither do they spin, in compliment to me—the more sham for me!” A moody smile that had overspread his feature cleared off as he said this merrily, and he was his own frank, winning self again.

           I could not help glancing at the scar with a painful interest when we went in to tea. It was not long before I observe that it was the most susceptible part of her face, and that, when she turned pale, that mark altered first, and became a dull, lead-coloured streak, lengthening out to its full extent, like mark in invisible ink brought to the fire. There was a little altercation between her and Steerforth about a cast of the dice at backgammon—when I thought her, for one moment, in storm of rage; and then I saw it start forth like the old writin on the wall.

           It was no matter of wonder to me to find Mrs. Steerforth devoted to her son. She seemed to be able to speak or think about nothing else. She showed me his picture as an infant in a locket, with some of his baby-hair in it; she showed me his picture as he had been when I first knew him; and she wore at her breast his picture as he was now. All the letters he had ever written to her, she kept in a cabinet near her own chair by the fire; and she would have read me some of them, and I



page 64 should have been very glad to hear them too, if he had not interposed, and coaxed her out of the design.

           “It was at Mr. Creakle's, my son tells me, that you first became acquainted,” said Mrs. Steerforth, as she and I were talking at one table, while they played backgammon at another. “Indeed, I recollect his speaking, at that time, of a pupil younger than himself who had taken his fancy there; but your name, as you may suppose, has not lived in my memory.”

           “He was very generous and noble to me in those days, I assure you, Ma'am,” said I, “and I stood in need of such a friend. I should have been quite crushed without him.”

           “He is always generous and noble,” said Mrs. Steerforth, proudly.

           I subscribed to this with all my heart, God knows. She knew I did; for the stateliness of her manner already abated towards me, except when she spoke in praise of him, and then her air was always lofty.

           “It was not a fit school generally for my son,” said she; “far from it; but there were particular circumstances to be considered at the time, of more importance even than that selection. My son's high spirit made it desirable that he should be placed with some man who felt its superiority, and would be content to bow himself before it; and we found such a man there.”

           I knew that, knowing the fellow. And yet I did not despise him the more for it, but thought it a redeeming quality in him—if he could be allowed any grace for not resisting one so irresistible as Steerforth.

           “My son's great capacity was tempted on, there, by a feeling of voluntary emulation and conscious pride,” the fond lady went on to say. “He would have risen against all constraint; but he found himself the monarch of the place, and he haughtily determined to be worthy of his station. It was like himself.”



page 65

           I echoed, with all my heart and soul, that it was like himself.

           “So my son took, of his own will, and on no compulsion, to the course in which he can always, when it is his pleasure, out-strip every competitor,” she pursued. “My son informs me, Mr. Copperfield, that you were quite devoted to him, and that when you met yesterday you made yourself known to him with tears of joy. I should be an affected woman if I made any pretence of being surprised by my son's inspiring such emotions; but I cannot be indifferent to any one who is so sensible of his merit, and I am very glad to see you here, and can assure you that he feels an unusual friendship for you, and that you may rely on his protection.”

           Miss Dartle plyed backgammon as eagerly as she did everything else. If I had seen her, first, at the board, I should have fancied that her figure had got thin, and her eyes had got large, over that pursuit, and no other in the world. But I am very much mistaken if she missed a word of this, or lost a look of mine as I received it with the utmost pleasure, and, honoured by Mrs. Steerforth's confidence, felt older than I had done since I left Canterbury.

           When the evening was pretty far spent, and a tray of glasses and decanters came in, Steerforth promised, over the fire, that he would seriously think of going down into the country with me. There was no hurry, he said; a week hence would do; and his mother hospitably said the same. While we were taking, he more than once called me Daisy; which brought Miss Dartle out again.

           “But really, Mr. Copperfield,” she asked, “is it a nick-name? And why does he give it you? Is it—eh?—because he thinks you young and innocent? I am so stupid in these things.”

           I coloured in replying that I believed it was.

           “Oh!” said Miss Dartle. “Now I am glad to know that! I ask for information, and I am glad to know it. He thinks you



page 66 young and innocent; and so you are his friend. Well, that's quite delightful!”

           She went to bed soon after this, and Mrs. Steerforth retired too. Steerforth and I, after lingering for half an hour over the fire, talking about Traddles and all the rest of them at old Salem House, went up-stairs together. Steerforth's room was next to mine, and I went in to look at it. It was a picture of comfort, full of easy chairs, cushions and footstools, worked by his mother's hand, and with no sort of thing omitted that could help to render it complete. Finally, her handsome features looked down on her darling from a portrait on the wall, as if it were even something to her that her likeness should watch him while he slept.

           I found the fire burning clear enough in my room by this time, and the curtains drawn before the windows and round the bed, giving it a very snug appearance. I sat down in a great chair upon the hearth to meditate on my happiness; and had enjoyed the contemplation of it for some time, when I found a likeness of Miss Dartle looking eagerly at me from above the chimney-piece.

           It was a startling likeness, and necessarily had a startling look. The painter hadn't made the scar, but I made it; and there it was, coming and going: now confined to the upper lip as I had seen it at dinner, and now showing the whole extent of the wound inflicted by the hammer, as I had seen it when she was passionate.

           I wondered peevishly why they couldn't put her anywhere else instead of quartering her on me. To get rid of her, I undressed quickly, extinguished my light, and went to bed. But, as I fell asleep, I could not forget that she was still there looking, “Is it really, though? I want to know;” and when I awoke in the night, I found that I was uneasily asking all sorts of people in my dreams whether it really was or not—without knowing what I meant.



page 67

CHAPTER V.
Little Em'ly.

           THERE was a servant in that house, a man who, I understood, was usually with Steerforth, and had come into his service at the University, who was in appearance a pattern of respectability. I believe there never existed in his station a more respectable-looking man. He was taciturn, soft-footed, very quiet in his manner, deferential, observant, always at hand when wanted, and never near when not wanted; but his great claim to consideration was his respectability. He had not a pliant face, he had rather a stiff neck, rather a tight smooth head with short hair clinging to it at the sides, a soft way of speaking, with a peculiar habit of whispering the letter S so distinctly, that he seemed to use it oftener than any other man; but every peculiarity that he had he made respectable. If his nose had been upside-down, he would have made that respectable. He surrounded himself with an atmosphere of respectability, and walked secure in it. It would have been next to impossible to suspect him of anything wrong, he was so thoroughly respectable. Nobody could have thought of putting him in a livery, he was so highly respectable. To have imposed any derogatory work upon him, would have been to inflict a wanton insult on the feelings of a most respectable man. And of this, noticed the women-servants in the household were so intuitively conscious, that they always did such work themselves, and generally while he read the paper by the pantry fire.

           Such a self-contained man I never saw. But in that quality,



page 68 as in every other he possessed, he only seemed to be the more respectable. Even the fact that no one knew his Christian name, seemed to form a part of his respectability. Nothing could be objected against his surname Littimer, by which he was known. Peter might habe been hanged, or Tom transported; but Littimer was perfectly respectable.

           It was occasioned, I suppose, by the reverend nature of respectability in the abstract, but I felt particularly young in this man's presence. How old he was himself I could not guess—and that again went to his credit on the same score; for in the calmness of respectability he might have numbered fifty years as well as thirty.

           Littimer was in my room in the morning before I was up, to bring me that reproachful shaving-water, and to put out my clothes. When I undrew the curtains and looked out of bed, I saw him, in an equable temperature of respectability, unaffected by the east wind of January, and not even breathing frostily, standing my boots right and left in the first dancing position, and blowing specks of dust off my coat as he laid it down like a baby.

           I gave him good morning, and asked him what o'clock it was. He took out of his pocket the most respectable hunting-watch I ever saw, and preventing the spring with his thumb from opening far, looked in at the face as if he were consulting an oracular oyster, shut it up again, and said, if I pleased, it was halfpast eight.

           “Mr. Steerforth will be glad to hear how you have rested, Sir.”

           “Thank you,” said I, “very well indeed. Is Mr. Steerforth quite well?”

           “Thank you, Sir, Mr. Steerforth is tolerably well.” Another of his characteristics,—no use of superlatives. A cool calm medium always.



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           “Is there anything more I can have the honour of doing for you, Sir? The warning-bell will ring at nine; the family take breakfast at halfpast nine.”

           “Nothing, I thank you.”

           “I thank you, Sir, if you please;” and with that, and with a little inclination of his head when he passed the bedside, as an apology for correcting me, he went out, shutting the door as delicately as if I had just fallen into a sweet sleep on which my life depended.

           Every morning we held exactly this conversation: never any more, and never any less: and yet, invariably, however far I might have been lifted out of myself over-night, and advanced towards maturer years, by Steerforth's companionship, or Mrs. Steerforth's confidence, or Miss Dartle's conversation, in the presence of this most respectable man I became, as our smaller poets sing, “a boy again.”

           He got horses for us; and Steerforth, who knew every thing, gave me lessons in riding. He provided foils for us, and Steerforth gave me lessons in fencing—gloves, and I began, of the same master, to improve in boxing. It gave me no manner of concern that Steerforth should find me a novice in these sciences, but I never could bear to show my want of skill before the respectable Littimer. I had no reason to believe that Littimer understood such arts himself; he never led me to suppose anything of the kind, by so much as the vibration of one of his respectable eyelashes; yet whenever he was by, while we were practising, I felt myself the greenest and most inexperienced of mortals.

           I am particular about this man, because he made a particular effect on me at that time, and because of what took place thereafter.

           The week passed away in a most delightful manner. It passed rapidly, as may be supposed, to one entranced as I



page 70 was; and yet it gave me so many occasions for knowing Steerforth better, and admiring him more in a thousand respects, that at its close I seemed to have been with him for a much longer time. A dashing way he had of treating me like a plaything, was more agreeable to me than any behaviour he could have adopted. It reminded me of our old acquaintance; it seemed the natural sequel of it; it showed me that he was unchanged; it relieved me of any uneasiness I might have felt, in comparing my merits with his, and measuring my claims upon his friendship by any equal standard; above all, it was a familiar, unrestrained, affectionate demeanour that he used towards no one else. As he had treated me at school differently from all the rest, I joyfully believed that he treated me in life unlike any other friend he had. I believed that I was nearer to his heart than any other friend, and my own heart warmed with attachment to him.

           He made up his mind to go with me into the country, and the day arrived for our departure. He had been doubtful at first whether to take Littimer or not, but decided to leave him at home. The respectable creature, satisfied with his lot whatever it was, arranged our portmanteaus on the little carriage that was to take us into London, as if they were intended to defy the shocks of ages; and received my modestly proffered donation with perfect tranquility.

           We bade adieu to Mrs. Steerforth and Miss Dartle, with many thanks on my part, and much kindness on the devoted mother's. The last thing I saw was Littimer's unruffled eye; fraught, as I fancied, with the silent conviction that I was very young indeed.

           What I felt, in returning so auspiciously to the old familiar places, I shall not endeavour to describe. We went down by the Mail. I was so concerned, I recollect, even for the honour of Yarmouth, that when Steerforth said, as we drove through



page 71 its dark streets to the inn, that, as well as he could make out, it was a good, queer, out-of-the-way kind of hole, I was highly pleased. We went to bed on our arrival (I observed a pair of dirty shoes and gaiters in connexion with my old friend the Dolphin as we passed that door), and breakfasted late in the morning. Steerforth, who was in great spirits, had been strolling about the beach before I was up, and had made acquaintance, he said, with half the boatmen in the place. Moreover he had seen, in the distance, what he was sure must be the identical house of Mr. Peggotty, with smoke coming out of the chimney; and had had a great mind, he told me, to walk in and swear he was myself grown out of knowledge.

           “When do you propose to introduce me there, Daisy?” he said. “I am at your disposal. Make your own arrangements.”

           “Why, I was thinking that this evening would be a good time, Steerforth, when they are all sitting round the fire. I should like you to see it when it's snug, it's such a curious place.”

           “So be it!” returned Steerforth. “This evening.”

           “I shall not give them any notice that we are here, you know,” said I, delighted. “We must take them by surprise.”

           “Oh, of course! It's no fun,” said Steerforth, “unless we take them by surprise. Let us see the natives in their aboriginal condition.”

           “Though they are that sort of people that you mentioned,” I returned.

           “Aha! What! you recollect my skirmishes with Rosa, do you?” he exclaimed with a quick look. “Confound the girl, I am half afraid of her. She's like a goblin to me. But never mind her. Now what are you going to do? You are going to see your nurse, I suppose?”



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           “Why, yes,” I said, “I must see Peggotty first of all.”

           “Well,” replied Steerforth, looking at his watch. “Suppose I deliver you up to be cried over for a couple of hours. Is that long enough?”

           I answered, laughing, that I thought we might get through it in that time, but that he must come also; for he would find that his renown had preceded him, and that he was almost as great a personage as I was.

           “I'll come anywhere you like,” said Steerforth, “or do anything you like. Tell me where to come to; and in two hours I'll produce myself in any state you please, sentimental or comical.”

           I gave him minute directions for finding the residence of Mr. Barkis, carrier to Blunderstone and elsewhere, and, on this understanding, went out alone. There was a sharp bracing air; the ground was dry; the sea was crisp and clear; the sun was diffusing abundance of light, if not much warmth; and everything was fresh and lively. I was so fresh and lively myself, in the pleasure of being there, that I could have stopped the people in the streets and shaken hands with them.

           The streets looked small, of course. The streets that we have only seen as children, always do, I believe, when we go back to them. But I had forgotten nothing in them, and found nothing changed, until I came to Mr. Omer's shop. OMER AND JORAM was now written up, where OMER used to be; but the inscription, DRAPER, TAILOR, HABERDASHER, FUNERAL FURNISHER, &c., remained as it was.

           My footsteps seemed to tend so naturally to the shop-door, after I had read these words from over the way, that I went across the road and looked in. There was a pretty woman at the back of the shop, dancing a little child in her arms, while another little fellow clung to her apron. I had no difficulty



page 73 in recognising either Minnie or Minnie's children. The glass-door of the parlour was not open; but in the workshop across the yard I could faintly hear the old tune playing, as if it had never left off.

           “Is Mr. Omer at home?” said I, entering. “I should like to see him, for a moment, if he is.”

           “Oh yes, Sir, he is at home,” said Minnie; “this weather don't suit his asthma out of doors. Joe, call your grandfather!”

           The little fellow, who was holding her apron, gave such a lusty shout, that the sound of it made him bashful, and he buried his face in her skirts, to her great admiration. I heard a heavy puffing and blowing coming towards us, and soon Mr. Omer, shorter-winded than of yore, but not much older-looking, stood before me.

           “Servant, Sir,” said Mr. Omer. “What can I do for you, Sir?”

           “You can shake hands with me, Mr. Omer, if you please,” said I, putting out my own. “You were very good-natured to me once, when I am afraid I didn't show that I thought so.”

           “Was I though?” returned the old man. “I'm glad to hear it, but I don't remember when. Are you sure it was me?”

           “Quite.”

           “I think my memory has got as short as my breath,” said Mr. Omer, looking at me and shaking his head; “for I don't remember you.”

           “Don't you remember your coming to the coach to meet me, and my having breakfast here, and our riding out to Blunderstone together: you, and I, and Mrs. Joram, and Mr. Joram too—who wasn't her husband then?”

           “Why, Lord bless my soul!” exclaimed Mr. Omer, after



page 74 being thrown by his surprise into a fit of coughing, “you don't say so! Minnie, my dear, you recollect? Dear me, yes—the party was a lady, I think?”

           “My mother,” I rejoined.

           “To—be—sure,” said Mr. Omer, touching my waistcoat with his forefinger, “and there was a little child too! There was two parties. The little party was laid along with the other party. Over at Blunderstone it was, of course. Dear me! And how have you been since?”

           Very well, I thanked him, as I hoped he had been too.

           “Oh! nothing to grumble at, you know,” said Mr. Omer. “I find my breath gets short, but it seldom gets longer as a man gets older. I take it as it comes, and make the most of it. That's the best way, ain't it?”

           Mr. Omer coughed again, in consequence of laughing, and was assisted out of his fit by his daughter, who now stood close beside us, dancing her smallest child on the counter.

           “Dear me!” said Mr. Omer. “Yes, to be sure. Two parties! Why, in that very ride, if you'll believe me, the day was named for my Minnie to marry Joram. ‘Do name it, Sir,’ says Joram. ‘Yes, do, father,’ says Minnie. And now he's come into the business. And look here! The youngest!”

           Minnie laughed, and stroked her banded hair upon her temples, as her father put one of his fat fingers into the hand of the child she was dancing on the counter.

           “Two parties, of course!” said Mr. Omer, nodding his head retrospectively. “Ex-actly so! And Joram's at work, at this minute, on a grey one with silver nails, not this measurement”—the measurement of the dancing child upon the counter—“by a good two inches.—Will you take something?”

           I thanked him, but declined.



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           “Let me see,” said Mr. Omer. “Barkis's the carrier's wife—Peggotty's the boatman's sister—she had something to do with your family? She was in service there, sure?”

           My answering in the affirmative gave him great satisfaction.

           “I believe my breath will get long next, my memory's getting so much so,” said Mr. Omer. “Well, Sir, we've got a young relation of hers here, under articles to us, that has as elegant a taste in the dress-making business—I assure you I don't believe there's a Duchess in England can touch her.”

           “Not little Em'ly?” said I, involuntarily.

           “Em'ly's her name,” said Mr. Omer, “and she's little too. But if you'll believe me, she has such a face of her own that half the women in this town are mad against her.”

           “Nonsense, father!” cried Minnie.

           “My dear,” said Mr. Omer, “I don't say it's the case with you,” winking at me, “but I say that half the women in Yarmouth—ah! and in five mile round—are mad against that girl.”

           “Then she should have kept to her own station in life, father,” said Minnie, “and not have given them any hold to talk about her, and then they couldn't have done it.”

           “Couldn't have done it, my dear!” retorted Mr. Omer. “Couldn't have done it! Is that your knowledge of life? What is there that any woman couldn't do, that she shouldn't do—especially on the subject of another woman's good looks?”

           I really thought it was all over with Mr. Omer, after he had uttered this libellous pleasantry. He coughed to that extent, and his breath eluded all his attempts to recover it with that obstinacy, that I fully expected to see his head go down behind the counter, and his little black breeches, with the rusty little bunches of ribbons at the knees, come quivering up in a



page 76 last ineffectual struggle. At length, however, he got better, though he still panted hard, and was so exhausted that he was obliged to sit on the stool of the shop-desk.

           “You see,” he said, wiping his head, and breathing with difficulty, “she hasn't taken much to any companions here; she hasn't taken kindly to any particular acquaintances and friends, not to mention sweethearts. In consequence, an ill-natured story got about, that Em'ly wanted to be a lady. Now my opinion is, that it came into circulation principally on account of her sometimes saying, at the school, that if she was a lady she would like to do so and so for her uncle—don't you see?—and buy him such and such fine things.”

           “I assure you, Mr. Omer, she has said so to me,” I returned eagerly, “when we were both children.”

           Mr. Omer nodded his head and rubbed his chin. “Just so. Then out of a very little, she could dress herself, you see, better than most others could out of a deal, and that made things unpleasant. Moreover, she was rather what might be called wayward—I'll go so far as to say what I should call wayward myself,” said Mr. Omer, “—didn't know her own mind quite—a little spoiled—and couldn't, at first, exactly bind herself down. No more than that was ever said against her, Minnie?”

           “No, father,” said Mrs. Joram. “That's the worst, I believe.”

           “So when she got a situation,” said Mr. Omer, “to keep a fractious old lady company, they didn't very well agree, and she didn't stop. At last she came here, apprenticed for three years. Nearly two of'em are over, and she has been as good a girl as ever was. Worth any six! Minnie, is she worth any six, now?”

           “Yes, father,” replied Minnie. “Never say I detracted from her!”



page 77

           “Very good,” said Mr. Omer. “That's right. And so, young gentleman,” he added, after a few moments' further rubbing of his chin, “that you may not consider me long-winded as well as short-breathed, I believe that's all about it.”

           As they had spoken in a subdued tone, while speaking of Em'ly, I had no doubt that she was near. On my asking now, if that were not so, Mr. Omer nodded yes, and nodded towards the door of the parlour. My hurried inquiry if I might peep in, was answered with a free permission; and, looking through the glass, I saw her sitting at her work. I saw her, a most beautiful little creature, with the cloudless blue eyes, that had looked into my childish heart, turned laughingly upon another child of Minnie's who was playing near her; with enough of wilfulness in her bright face to justify what I had heard; with much of the old capricious coyness lurking in it; but with nothing in her pretty looks, I am sure, but what was meant for goodness and for happiness, and what was on a good and happy course.

           The tune across the yard that seemed as if it never had left off—alas! it was the tune that never does leave off—was beating, softly, all the while.

           “Wouldn't you like to step in,” said Mr. Omer, “and speak to her? Walk in and speak to her, Sir! Make yourself at home!”

           I was too bashful to do so then—I was afraid of confusing her, and I was no less afraid of confusing myself: but I informed myself of the hour at which she left of an evening, in order that our visit might be timed accordingly; and taking leave of Mr. Omer, and his pretty daughter, and her little children, went away to my dear old Peggotty's.

           Here she was, in the tiled kitchen, cooking dinner! The moment I knocked at the door she opened it, and asked me what I pleased to want. I looked at her with a smile, but she



page 78 gave me no smile in return. I had never ceased to write to her, but it must have been seven years since we had met.

           “Is Mr. Barkis at home, Ma'am?” I said, feigning to speak roughly to her.

           “He's at home, Sir,” returned Peggotty, “but he's bad abed with the rheumatics.”

           “Don't he go over to Blunderstone now?” I asked.

           “When he's well, he do,” she answered.

           “Do you ever go there, Mrs. Barkis?”

           She looked at me more attentively, and I noticed a quick movement of her hands towards each other.

           “Because I want to ask a question about a house there, that they call the—what is it?—the Rookery,” said I.

           She took a step backward, and put out her hands in an undecided frightened way, as if to keep me off.

           “Peggotty!” I cried to her.

           She cried, “My darling boy!” and we both burst into tears, and were locked in one another's arms.

           What extravagancies she committed; what laughing and crying over me; what pride she showed, what joy, what sorrow that she whose pride and joy I might have been, could never hold me in a fond embrace; I have not the heart to tell. I was troubled with no misgiving that it was young in me to respond to her emotions. I had never laughed and cried in all my life, I dare say—not even to her—more freely than I did that morning.

           “Barkis will be so glad,” said Peggotty, wiping her eyes with her apron, “that it'll do him more good than pints of liniment. May I go and tell him you are here? Will you come up and see him, my dear?”

           Of course I would. But Peggotty could not get out of the room as easily as she meant to, for as often as she got to the door and looked round at me, she came back again to have



page 79 another laugh and another cry upon my shoulder. At last, to make the matter easier, I went up-stairs with her; and having waited outside for a minute, while she said a word of preparation to Mr. Barkis, presented myself before that invalid.

           He received me with absolute enthusiasm. He was too rheumatic to be shaken hands with, but he begged me to shake the tassel on the top of his nightcap, which I did most cordially. When I sat down by the side of the bed, he said that it did him a world of good to feel as if he was driving me on the Blunderstone road again. As he lay in bed, face upward, and so covered, with that exception, that he seemed to be nothing but a face—like a conventional cherubim,—he looked the queerest object I ever beheld.

           “What name was it, as I wrote up, in the cart, Sir?” said Mr. Barkis, with a slow rheumatic smile.

           “Ah! Mr. Barkis, we had some grave-talks about that matter, hadn't we?”

           “I was willin' a long time, Sir?” said Mr. Barkis.

           “A long time,” said I.

           “And I don't regret it,” said Mr. Barkis. “Do you remember what you told me once, about her making all the apple parsties and doing all the cooking?”

           “Yes, very well,” I returned.

           “It was as true,” said Mr. Barkis, “as turnips is. It was as true,” said Mr. Barkis, nodding his nightcap, which was his only means of emphasis, “as taxes is. And nothing's truer than them.”

           Mr. Barkis turned his eyes upon me, as if for my assent to this result of his reflections in bed; and I gave it.

           “Nothing's truer than them,” repeated Mr. Barkis; “a man as poor as I am finds that out in his mind when he's laid up. I'm a very poor man, Sir.”

           “I am sorry to hear it, Mr. Barkis.”



page 80

           “A very poor man, indeed I am,” said Mr. Barkis.

           Here his right hand came slowly and feebly from under the bed-clothes, and with a purposeless uncertain grasp took hold of a stick which was loosely tied to the side of the bed. After some poking about with this instrument, in the course of which his face assumed a variety of distracted expressions, Mr. Barkis poked it against a box, an end of which had been visible to me all the time. Then his face became composed.

           “Old clothes,” said Mr. Barkis.

           “Oh!” said I.

           “I wish it was Money, Sir,” said Mr. Barkis.

           “I wish it was, indeed,” said I.

           “But it AIN'T,” said Mr. Barkis, opening both his eyes as wide as he possibly could.

           I expressed myself quite sure of that, and Mr. Barkis, turning his eyes more gently to his wife, said:

           “She's the usefullest and best of women, C. P. Barkis. All the praise that any one can give to C. P. Barkis, she deserves, and more! My dear, you'll get a dinner to-day, for company; something good to eat and drink, will you?”

           I should have protested against this unnecessary demonstration in my honour, but that I saw Peggotty, on the opposite side of the bed, extremely anxious I should not. So I held my peace.

           “I have got a trifle of money somewhere about me, my dear,” said Mr. Barkis, “but I'm a little tired. If you and Mr. David will leave me for a short nap, I'll try and find it when I wake.”

           We left the room, in compliance with this request. When we got outside the door, Peggotty informed me that Mr. Barkis, being now “a little nearer” than he used to be, always resorted to this same device before producing a single coin from his store; and that he endured unheard-of agonies in



page 81 crawling out of bed alone, and taking it from that unlucky box. In effect, we presently heard him uttering suppressed groans of the most dismal nature, as this magpie proceeding racked him in every joint; but while Peggotty's eyes were full of compassion for him, she said his generous impulse would do him good, and it was better not to check it. So he groaned on, until he had got into bed again, suffering, I have no doubt, a martyrdom; and then called us in, pretending to have just woke up from a refreshing sleep, and to produce a guinea from under his pillow. His satisfaction in which happy imposition on us, and in having preserved the impenetrable secret of the box, appeared to be a sufficient compensation to him for all his tortures.

           I prepared Peggotty for Steerforth's arrival, and it was not long before he came. I am persuaded she knew no difference between his having been a personal benefactor of hers, and a kind friend to me, and that she would have received him with the utmost gratitude and devotion in any case. But his easy, spirited, good humour; his genial manner, his handsome looks, his natural gift of adapting himself to whomsoever he pleased, and making direct, when he cared to do it, to the main point of interest in anybody's heart; bound her to him wholly in five minutes. His manner to me, alone, would have won her. But, through all these causes combined, I sincerely believe she had a kind of adoration for him before he left the thouse that night.

           He stayed there with me to dinner—if I were to say willingly, I should not half express how readily and gaily. He went into Mr. Barkis's room like light and air, brightening and refreshing it as if he were healthy weather. There was no noise, no effort, no consciousness, in anything he did; but in everything an indescribable lightness, a seeming impossibility of doing anything else, or doing anything better, which was so



page 82 graceful, so natural, and agreeable, that it overcomes me, even now, in the remembrance.

           We made merry in the little parlour, where the Book of Martyrs, unthumbed since my time, was laid out upon the desk as of old, and where I now turned over its terrific pictures, remembering the old sensations they had awakened, but not feeling them. When Peggotty spoke of what she called my room, and of its being ready for me at night, and of her hoping I would occupy it, before I could so much as look at Steerforth, hesitating, he was possessed of the whole case.

           “Of course,” he said. “You'll sleep here, while we stay, and I shall sleep at the hotel.”

           “But to bring you so far,” I returned, “and to separate, seems bad companionship, Steerforth.”

           “Why, in the name of Heaven, where do you naturally belong!” he said. “What is ‘seems,’ compared to that!” It was settled at once.

           He maintained all his delightful qualities to the last, until we started forth, at eight o'clock, for Mr. Peggotty's boat. Indeed, they were more and more brightly exhibited as the hours went on; for I thought even then, and I have no doubt now, that the consciousness of success in his determination to please, inspired him with a new delicacy of perception, and made it, subtle as it was, more easy to him. If any one had told me, then, that all this was a brilliant game, played for the excitement of the moment, for the employment of high spirits, in the thoughtless love of superiority, in a mere wasteful careless course of winning what was worthless to him, and next minute thrown away—I say, if any one had told me such a lie that night, I wonder in what manner of receiving it my indignation would have found a vent!

           Probably only in an increase, had that been possible, of the romantic feelings of fidelity and friendship with which I walked



page 83 beside him, over the dark wintry sands, towards the old boat; the wind sighing around us even more mournfully, than it had sighed and moaned upon the night when I first darkened Mr. Peggotty's door.

           “This is a wild kind of place, Steerforth, is it not?”

           “Dismal enough in the dark,” he said; “and the sea roars as if it were hungry for us. Is that the boat, where I see a light yonder?”

           “That's the boat,” said I.

           “And it's the same I saw this morning,” he returned. “I came straight to it, by instinct, I suppose.”

           We said no more as we approached the light, but made softly for the door. I laid my hand upon the latch; and whispering Steerforth to keep close to me, went in.

           A murmur of voices had been audible on the outside, and, at the moment of our entrance, a clapping of hands: which latter noise, I was surprised to see, proceeded from the generally disconsolate Mrs. Gummidge. But Mrs. Gummidge was not the only person there, who was unusually excited. Mr. Peggotty, his face lighted up with uncommon satisfaction, and laughing with all his might, held his rough arms wide open, as if for little Em'ly to run into them; Ham, with a mixed expression in his face of admiration, exultation, and a lumbering sort of bashfulness that sat upon him very well, held little Em'ly by the hand, as if he were presenting her to Mr. Peggotty; little Em'ly herself, blushing and shy, but delighted with Mr. Peggotty's delight, as her joyous eyes expressed, was stopped by our entrance (for she saw us first) in the very act of springing from Ham to nestle in Mr. Peggotty's embrace. In the first glimpse we had of them all, and at the moment of our passing from the dark cold night into the warm light room, this was the way in which they were all employed: Mrs. Gummidge in the back ground, clapping her hands like a madwoman.



page 84

           The little picture was so instantaneously dissolved by our going in, that one might have doubted whether it had ever been. I was in the midst of the astonished family, face to face with Mr. Peggotty, and holding out my hand to him, when Ham shouted:

           “Mas'r Davy! It's Mas'r Davy!”

           In a moment we were all shaking hands with one another, and asking one another how we did, and telling one another how glad we were to meet, and all talking at once. Mr. Peggotty was so proud and overjoyed to see us, that he did not know what to say or do, but kept over and over again shaking hands with me, and then with Steerforth, and then with me, and then ruffling his shaggy hair all over his head, and laughing with such glee and triumph, that it was a treat to see him.

           “Why, that you two gent'lmen—gent'lmen growed—should come to this here roof to-night, of all nights in my life,” said Mr. Peggotty, “is such a thing as never happened afore, I do rightly believe! Em'ly, my darling, come here! Come here, my little witch! There's Mas'r Davy's friend, my dear! There's the gent'lman as you've heerd on, Em'ly. He comes to see you, along with Mas'r Davy, on the brightest night of your uncle's life as ever was or will be, Gorm the t'other one, and horroar for it!”

           After delivering this speech all in a breath, and with extraordinary animation and pleasure, Mr. Peggotty put one of his large hands rapturously on each side of his niece's face, and kissing it a dozen times, laid it with a gentle pride and love upon his broad chest, and patted it as if his hand had been a lady's. Then he let her go; and as she ran into the [ illegible: ] chamber where I used to sleep, looked round upon us, quite hot and out of breath with his uncommon satisfaction.



page 85

           “If you two gent'lmen—gent'lmen growed now, and such gent'lmen—” said Mr. Peggotty.

           “So th' are, so th' are!” cried Ham. “Well said! So th' are. Mas'r Davy bor—gent'lmen growed—so th' are!”

           “If you two gent'lmen, gent'lmen growed,” said Mr. Peggotty, “don't ex-cuse me for being in a state of mind, when you understand matters, I'll arks your pardon. Em'ly, my dear!—She knows I'm a going to tell,” here his delight broke out again, “and has made off. Would you be so good as look arter her, Mawther, for a minute?”

           Mrs. Gummidge nodded and disappeared.

           “If this ain't,” said Mr. Peggotty, sitting down among us by the fire, “the brightest night o' my life, I'm a shell-fish—biled too—and more I can't say. This here little Em'ly, Sir,” in a low voice to Steerforth, “—her as you see a blushing here just now—”

           Steerforth only nodded; but with such a pleased expression of interest, and of participation in Mr. Peggotty's feelings, that the latter answered him as if he had spoken.

           “To be sure,” said Mr. Peggotty. “That's her, and so she is. Thankee, Sir.”

           Ham nodded to me several times, as if he would have said so too.

           “This here little Em'ly of ours,” said Mr. Peggotty, “has been, in our house, what I suppose (I'm a ignorant man, but that's my belief) no one but a little bright-eyed creetur can be in a house. She ain't my child; I never had one; but I couldn't love her more. You understand! I couldn't do it!”

           “I quite understand,” said Steerforth.

           “I know you do, Sir,” returned Mr. Peggotty, “and thankee again. Mas'r Davy, he can remember what she was; you may judge for your own self what she is; but neither



page 86 of you can't fully know what she has been, is, and will be, to my loving art. I am rough, Sir,” said Mr. Peggotty, “I am as rough as a Sea Porkypine; but no one, unless, mayhap, it is a woman, can know, I think, what our little Em'ly is to me. And betwixt ourselves,” sinking his voice lower yet, “that woman's name ain't Missis Gummidge neither, though she has a world of merits.”

           Mr. Peggotty ruffled his hair again with both hands, as a further preparation for what he was going to say, and went on with a hand upon each of his knees.

           “There was a certain person as had know'd our Em'ly, from the time when her father was drownded; as had seen her constant; when a babby, when a young gal, when a woman. Not much of a person to look at, he warn't,” said Mr. Peggotty, “something o' my own build—rough—a good deal o' the sou'-wester in him—wery salt—but, on the whole, a honest sort of a chap, with his art in the right place.”

           I thought I had never seen Ham grin to anything like the extent to which he sat grinning at us now.

           “What does this here blessed tarpaulin go and go,” said Mr. Peggotty, with his face one high noon of enjoyment, “but he loses that there art of his to our little Em'ly. He follers her about, he makes hisself a sort o' servant to her, he loses in a great measure his relish for his wittles, and in the long run he makes it clear to me wot's amiss. Now I could wish myself, you see, that our little Em'ly was in a fair way of being married. I could wish to see her, at all ewents, under articles to a honest man as had a right to defend her. I don't know how long I may live, or how soon I may die; but I know that if I was capsized, any night, in a gale of wind in Yarmouth Roads here, and was to see the town-lights shining for the last time over the rollers as I couldn't make no head against, I could go down quieter for thinking ‘There's a



page 87 man ashore there, iron-true to my little Em'ly, God bless her, and no wrong can touch my Em'ly while so be as that man lives!’”

           Mr. Peggotty, in simple earnestness, waved his right arm, as if he were waving it at the town-lights for the last time, and then, exchanging a nod with Ham, whose eye he caught, proceeded as before.

           “Well! I counsels him to speak to Em'ly. He's big enough, but he's bashfuller than a little un, and he don't like. So I speak. ‘What! Him!’ says Em'ly. ‘Him that I've know'd so intimate so many years, and like so much! Oh, Uncle! I never can have him. He's such a good fellow!’ I gives her a kiss, and I says no more to her than ‘My dear, you're right to speak out, you're to choose for yourself, you're as free as a little bird.’ Then I aways to him, and I says, ‘I wish it could have been so, but it can't. But you can both be as you was, and wot I say to you is, Be as you was with her, like a man.’ He says to me, a shaking of my hand, ‘I will!’ he says. And he was—honourable and manful—for two year going on, and we was just the same at home here as afore.”

           Mr. Peggotty's face, which had varied in its expression with the various stages of his narrative, now resumed all its former triumphant delight, as he laid a hand upon my knee and a hand upon Steerforth's (previously wetting them both, for the greater emphasis of the action), and divided the following speech between us:

           “All of a sudden, one evening—as it might be to-night—comes little Em'ly from her work, and him with her! There ain't so much in that, you'll say. No, because he takes care on her, like a brother, arter dark, and indeed afore dark, and at all times. But this tarpaulin chap, he takes hold of her hand, and he cries out to me, joyful, ‘Look here! This



page 88 is to be my little wife!’ And she says, half bold and half shy, and half a laughing and half a crying, ‘Yes, uncle! If you please.’—If I please!” cried Mr. Peggotty, rolling his head in an ecstacy at the idea; “Lord, as if I should do anythink else!—‘If you please, I am steadier now, and I have thought hetter of it, and I'll be as good a little wife as I can to him, for he's a dear, good fellow!’ Then Missis Gummidge, she claps her hands like a play, and you come in. There! the murder's out!” said Mr. Peggotty—“You come in! It took place this here present hour; and here's the man that'll marry her, the minute she's out of her time.”

           Ham staggered, as well he might, under the blow Mr. Peggotty dealt him in his unbounded joy, as a mark of confidence and friendship; but feeling called upon to say something to us, he said, with much faltering and great difficulty:

           “She warn't no higher than you was, Mas'r Davy—when you first come—when I thought what she'd grow up to be. I see her grow up—gent'lmen—like a flower. I'd lay down my life for her—Mas'r Davy—Oh! most content and cheerful! She's more to me—gent'lmen—than—she's all to me that ever I can want, and more than ever I—than ever I could say. I—I love her true. There ain't a gent'lman in all the land—nor yet sailing upon all the sea—that can love his lady more than I love her, though there's many a common man—would say better—what he meant.”

           I thought it affecting to see such a sturdy fellow as Ham was now, trembling in the strength of what he felt for the pretty little creature who had won his heart. I thought the simple confidence reposed in us by Mr. Peggotty and by himself, was, in itself, affecting. I was affected by the story altogether. How far my emotions were influenced by the



page 89 recollections of my childhood, I don't know. Whether I had come there with any lingering fancy that I was still to love little Em'ly, I don't know. I know that I was filled with pleasure by all this; but, at first, with an indescribably sensitive pleasure, that a very little would have changed to pain.

           Therefore, if it had depended upon me to touch the prevailing chord among them with any skill, I should have made a poor hand of it. But it depended upon Steerforth; and he did it with such address, that in a few minutes we were all as easy and as happy as it was possible to be.

           “Mr. Peggotty,” he said, “you are a thoroughly good fellow, and deserve to be as happy as you are to-night. My hand upon it! Ham, I give you joy, my boy. My hand upon that, too! Daisy, stir the fire, and make it a brisk one! and Mr. Peggotty, unless you can induce your gentle niece to come back (for whom I vacate this seat in the corner), I shall go. Any gap at your fireside on such a night—such a gap least of all—I wouldn't make, for the wealth of the Indies!”

           So Mr. Peggotty went into my old room to fetch little Em'ly. At first little Em'ly didn't like to come, and then Ham went. Presently they brought her to the fireside, very much confused, and very shy,—but she soon became more assured when she found how gently and respectfully Steerforth spoke to her; how skilfully he avoided anything that would embarrass her; how he talked to Mr. Peggotty of boats, and ships, and tides, and fish; how he referred to me about the time when he had seen Mr. Peggotty at Salem House; how delighted he was with the boat and all belonging to it; how lightly and easily he carried on, until he brought us, by degrees, into a charmed circle, and we were all talking away without any reserve.



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           Em'ly, indeed, said little all the evening; but she looked, and listened, and her face got animated, and she was charming. Steerforth told a story of a dismal shipwreck (which arose out of his talk with Mr. Peggotty), as if he saw it all before him—and little Em'ly's eyes were fastened on him all the time, as if she saw it too. He told us a merry adventure of his own, as a relief to that, with as much gaiety as if the narrative were as fresh to him as it was to us—and little Em'ly laughed until the boat rang with the musical sounds, and we all laughed (Steerforth too), in irresistible sympathy with what was so pleasant and light-hearted. He got Mr. Peggotty to sing, or rather to roar, “When the stormy winds do blow, do blow, do blow;” and he sang a sailor's song himself, so pathetically and beautifully, that I could have almost fancied that the real wind creeping sorrowfully round the house, and murmuring low through our unbroken silence, was there to listen.

           As to Mrs. Gummidge, he roused that victim of despondency with a success never attained by any one else (so Mr. Peggotty informed me) since the decease of the old one. He left her so little leisure for being miserable that she said next day she thought she must have been bewitched.

           But he set up no monopoly of the general attention, or the conversation. When little Em'ly grew more courageous, and talked (but still bashfully) across the fire to me, of our old wanderings upon the beach, to pick up shells and pebbles; and when I asked her if she recollected how I used to be devoted to her; and when we both laughed and reddened, casting these looks back on the pleasant old times, so unreal to look at now; he was silent and attentive, and observed us thoughtfully. She sat, at this time, and all the evening, on the old locker in her old little corner by the fire—Ham beside her, where I used to sit. I could not satisfy myself



page 91 whether it was in her own little tormenting way, or in a maidenly reserve before us, that she kept quite close to the wall, and away from him; but I observed that she did so, all the evening.

           As I remember, it was almost midnight when we took our leave. We had had some biscuit and dried fish for supper, and Steerforth had produced from his pocket a full flask of Hollands, which we men (I may say we men, now, without a blush) had emptied. We parted merrily; and as they all stood crowded round the door to light us as far as they could upon our road, I saw the sweet blue eyes of little Em'ly peeping after us, from behind Ham, and heard her soft voice calling to us to be careful how we went.

           “A most engaging little Beauty!” said Steerforth, taking my arm. “Well! It's a quaint place, and they are quaint company, and it's quite a new sensation to mix with them.”

           “How fortunate we are, too,” I returned, “to have arrived to witness their happiness in that intended marriage! I never saw people so happy. How delightful to see it, and to be made the sharers in their honest joy, as we have been!”

           “That's rather a chuckle-headed fellow for the girl; isn't he?” said Steerforth.

           He had been so hearty with him, and with them all, that I felt a shock in this unexpected and cold reply. But turning quickly upon him, and seeing a laugh in his eyes, I answered, much relieved:

           “Ah, Steerforth! It's well for you to joke about the poor! You may skirmish with Miss Dartle, or try to hide your sympathies in jest from me, but I know better. When I see how perfectly you understand them, how exquisitely you can enter into happiness like this plain fisherman's, or humour



page 92 a love like my old nurse's, I know that there is not a joy or sorrow, not an emotion, of such people, that can be indifferent to you. And I admire and love you for it, Steerforth, twenty times the more!”

           He stopped, and, looking in my face, said, “Daisy, I believe you are in earnest, and are good. I wish we all were!” Next moment he was gaily singing Mr. Peggotty's song, as we walked at a round pace back to Yarmouth.



page 93

CHAPTER VI.
Some old scenes, and some new people.

           STEERFORTH and I stayed for more than a fortnight in that part of the country. We were very much together, I need not say; but occasionally we were asunder for some hours at a time. He was a good sailor, and I was but an indifferent one; and when he went out boating with Mr. Peggotty, which was a favourite amusement of his, I generally remained ashore. My occupation of Peggotty's spare-room put a constraint upon me, from which he was free: for, knowing how assiduously she attended on Mr. Barkis all day, I did not like to remain out late at night; whereas Steerforth, lying at the Inn, had nothing to consult but his own humour. Thus it came about, that I heard of his making little treats for the fishermen at Mr. Peggotty's house of call, “The Willing Mind,” after I was in bed, and of his being asloat, wrapped in fisherman's clothes, whole moonlight nights, and coming back when the morning tide was at flood. By this time, however, I knew that his restless nature and bold spirits delighted to find a vent in rough toil and hard weather, as in any other means of excitement that presented itself freshly to him; so none of his proceedings surprised me.

           Another cause of our being sometimes apart, was, that I had naturally an interest in going over to Blunderstone, and revisiting the old familiar scenes of my childhood; while Steerforth, after being there once, had naturally no great interest in going there again. Hence, on three or four days that I can at once recall, we went our several ways after an early breakfast, and met again at a late dinner. I had no idea how



page 94 he employed his time in the interval, beyond a general knowledge that he was very popular in the place, and had twenty means of actively diverting himself where another man might not have found one.

           For my own part, my occupation in my solitary pilgrimages was to recall every yard of the old road as I went along it, and to haunt the old spots, of which I never tired. I haunted them, as my memory had often done, and lingered among them as my younger thoughts had lingered when I was far away. The grave beneath the tree, where both my parents lay—on which I had looked out, when it was my father's only, with such curious feelings of compassion, and by which I had stood, so desolate, when it was opened to receive my pretty mother and her baby—the grave which Peggotty's own faithful care had ever since kept neat, and made a garden of, I walked near, by the hour. It lay a little off the church-yard path, in a quiet corner, not so far removed but I could read the names upon the stone as I walked to and fro, startled by the sound of the church-bell when it struck the hour, for it was like a departed voice to me. My reflections at these times were always associated with the figure I was to make in life, and the dissinguished things I was to do. My echoing footsteps went to no other tune, but were as constant to that as if I had come home to build my castles in the air at a living mother's side.

           There were great changes in my old home. The ragged rests, so long deserted by the rooks, were gone; and the trees were lopped and topped out of their remembered shapes. The garden had run wild, and half the windows of the house were shut up. It was occupied, but only by a poor lunatic gentleman, and the people who took care of him. He was always sitting at my little window, looking out into the churchyard; and I wondered whether his rambling thoughts ever went upon any of the fancies that used to occupy mine, on the



page 95 rosy mornings when I peeped out of that same little window in my night-clothes, and saw the sheep quietly feeding in the light of the rising sun.

           Our old neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Grayper, were gone to South America, and the rain had made its way through the roof of their empty house, and stained the outer walls. Mr. Chillip was married again to a tall, raw-boned, high-nosed wife; and they had a weazen little baby, with a heavy head that it couldn't hold up, and two weak staring eyes, with which it seemed to be always wondering why it had ever been born.

           It was with a singular jumble of sadness and pleasure that I used to linger about my native place, until the reddening winter sun admonished me that it was time to start on my returning walk. But, when the place was left behind, and especially when Steerforth and I were happily seated over our dinner by a blazing fire, it was delicious to think of having been there. So it was, though in a softened degree, when I went to my neat room at night; and, turning over the leaves of the crocodile-book (which was always there, upon a little table), remembered with a grateful heart how blest I was in having such a friend as Steerforth, such a friend as Peggotty, and such a substitute for what I had lost as my excellent and generous aunt.

           My nearest way to Yarmouth, in coming back from these long walks, was by a ferry. It landed me on the flat between the town and the sea, which I could make straight across, and so save myself a considerable circuit by the high road. Mr. Peggotty's house being on that waste-place, and not a hundred yards out of my track, I always looked in as I went by. Steerforth was pretty sure to be there expecting me, and we went on together through the frosty air and gathering fog towards the twinkling lights of the town.

           One dark evening, when I was later than usual—for I had,



page 96 that day, been making my parting visit to Blunderstone, as we were now about to return home—I found him alone in Mr. Peggotty's house, sitting thoughtfully before the fire. He was so intent upon his own reflections that he was quite unconscious of my approach. This, indeed, he might easily have been if he had been less absorbed, for footsteps fell noiselessly on the sandy ground outside; but even my entrance failed to rouse him. I was standing close to him, looking at him; and still, with a heavy brow, he was lost in his meditations.

           He gave such a start when I put my hand upon his shoulder, that he made me start too.

           “You come upon me,” he said, almost angrily, “like a reproachful ghost!”

           “I was obliged to announce myself somehow,” I replied. “Have I called you down from the stars?”

           “No,” he answered. “No.”

           “Up from anywhere, then?” said I, taking my seat near him.

           “I was looking at the pictures in the fire,” he returned.

           “But you are spoiling them for me,” said I, as he stirred it quickly with a piece of burning wood, striking out of it a train of red-hot sparks that went careering up the little chimney, and roaring out into the air.

           “You would not have seen them,” he returned. “I detest this mongrel time, neither day nor night. How late you are! Where have you been?”

           “I have been taking leave of my usual walk,” said I.

           “And I have been sitting here,” said Steerforth, glancing round the room, “thinking that all the people we found so glad on the night of our coming down, might—to judge from the present wasted air of the place—be dispersed, or dead, or come to I don't know what harm. David, I wish to God I had had a judicious father these last twenty years!”



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           “My dear Steerforth, what is the matter?”

           “I wish with all my soul I had been better guided!” he exclaimed. “I wish with all my soul I could guide myself better!”

           There was a passionate dejection in his manner that quite amazed me. He was more unlike himself than I could have supposed possible.

           “It would be better to be this poor Peggotty, or his lout of a nephew,” he said, getting up and leaning moodily against the chimney-piece, with his face towards the fire, “than to be myself, twenty times richer and twenty times wiser, and be the torment to myself that I have been, in this Devil's bark of a boat, within the last half-hour!”

           I was so confounded by the alteration in him, that at first I could only observe him in silence, as he stood leaning his head upon his hand, and looking gloomily down at the fire. At length I begged him, with all the earnestess I felt, to tell me what had occurred to cross him so unusually, and to let me sympathise with him, if I could not hope to advise him. Before I had well concluded, he began to laugh—fretfully at first, but soon with returning gaiety.

           “Tut, it's nothing, Daisy! nothing!” he replied. “I told you, at the inn in London, I am heavy company for myself, sometimes. I have been a nightmare to myself, just now—must have had one, I think. At odd dull times, nursery tales come up into the memory, unrecognised for what they are. I believe I have been confounding myself with the bad boy who ‘didn't care,’ and became food for lions—a grander kind of going to the dogs, I suppose. What old women call the horrors, have been creeping over me from head to foot. I have been afraid of myself.”

           “You are afraid of nothing else, I think,” said I.

           “Perhaps not, and yet may have enough to be afraid of



page 98 too,” he answered. “Well! So it goes by! I am not about to be hipped again, David; but I tell you, my good fellow, once more, that it would have been well for me (and for more than me) if I had had a steadfast and judicious father!”

           His face was always full of expression, but I never saw it express such a dark kind of earnestness as when he said these words, with his glance bent on the fire.

           “So much for that!” he said, making as if he tossed something light into the air, with his hand.

           “‘Why, being gone, I am a man again,’ like Macbeth. And now for dinner! If I have not (Macbeth-like) broken up the feast with most admired disorder, Daisy.”

           “But where are they all, I wonder!” said I.

           “God knows,” said Steerforth. “After strolling to the ferry looking for you, I strolled in here and found the place deserted. That set me thinking, and you found me thinking.”

           The advent of Mrs. Gummidge with a basket, explained how the house had happened to be empty. She had hurried out to buy something that was needed, against Mr. Peggotty's return with the tide; and had left the door open in the meanwhile, lest Ham and little Em'ly, with whom it was an early night, should come home while she was gone. Steerforth, after very much improving Mrs. Gummidge's spirits by a cheerful salutation, and a jocose embrace, took my arm, and hurried me away.

           He had improved his own spirits, no less than Mrs. Gummidge's, for they were again at their usual flow, and he was full of vivacious conversation as we went along.

           “And so,” he said, gaily, “we abandon this buccaneer life to-morrow, do we?”

           “So we agreed,” I returned. “And our places by the coach are taken, you know.”



page 99

           “Ay! there's no help for it, I suppose,” said Steerforth. “I have almost forgotten that there is anything to do in the world but to go out tossing on the sea here. I wish there was not.”

           “As long as the novelty should last,” said I, laughing.

           “Like enough,” he returned; “though there's a sarcastic meaning in that observation for an amiable piece of innocence like my young friend. Well! I dare say I am a capricious fellow, David. I know I am; but while the iron is hot, I can strike it vigorously too. I could pass a reasonably good examinatiou already, as a pilot in these waters, I think.”

           “Mr. Peggotty says you are a wonder,” I returned.

           “A nautical phenomenon, eh?” laughed Steerforth.

           “Indeed he does, and you know how truly; knowing how ardent you are in any pursuit you follow, and how easily you can master it. And that amazes me most in you, Steerforth—that you should be contented with such fitful uses of your powers.”

           “Contented?” he answered, merrily. “I am never contented, except with your freshness, my gentle Daisy. As to fitfulness, I have never learnt the art of binding myself to any of the wheels on which the Ixions of these days are turning round and round. I missed it somehow in a bad apprenticeship, and now don't care about it.—You know I have bought a boat down here?”

           “What an extraordinary fellow you are, Steerforth!” I exclaimed, stopping—for this was the first I had heard of it. “When you may never care to come near the place again!”

           “I don't know that,” he returned. “I have taken a fancy to the place. At all events,” walking me briskly on, “I have bought a boat that was for sale—a clipper, Mr. Peggotty says; and so she is—and Mr. Peggotty will be master of her in my absence.”



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           “Now I understand you, Steerforth!” said I, exultingly. “You pretend to have bought it for yourself, but you have really done so to confer a benefit on him. I might have known as much at first, knowing you. My dear kind Steerforth, how can I tell you what I think of your generosity?”

           “Tush!” he answered, turning red. “The less said, the better.”

           “Didn't I know?” cried I, “didn't I say that there was not a joy, or sorrow, or any emotion of such honest hearts that was indifferent to you?”

           “Aye, aye,” he answered, “you told me all that. There let it rest. We have said enough!”

           Afraid of offending him by pursuing the subject when he made so light of it, I only pursued it in my thoughts as we went on at even a quicker pace than before.

           “She must be newly rigged,” said Steerforth, “and I shall leave Littimer behind to see it done, that I may know she is quite complete. Did I tell you Littimer had come down?”

           “No.”

           “Oh, yes! came down this morning, with a letter from my mother.”

           As our looks met, I observed that he was pale even to his lips, though he looked very steadily at me. I feared that some difference between him and his mother might have led to his being in the frame of mind in which I had found him at the solitary fireside. I hinted so.

           “Oh no!” he said, shaking his head, and giving a slight laugh. “Nothing of the sort! Yes. He is come down, that man of mine.”

           “The same as ever?” said I.

           “The same as ever,” said Steerforth. “Distant and quiet as the North Pole. He shall see to the boat being fresh named.



page 101 She's the Stormy Petrel now. What does Mr. Peggotty care for Stormy Petrels! I'll have her christened again.”

           “By what name?” I asked.

           “The Little Em'ly.”

           As he had continued to look steadily at me, I took it as a reminder that he objected to being extolled for his consideration. I could not help showing in my face how much it pleased me, but I said little, and he resumed his usual smile, and seemed relieved.

           “But see here,” he said, looking before us, “where the original little Em'ly comes! And that fellow with her, eh? Upon my soul, he's a true knight. He never leaves her!”

           Ham was a boat-builder in these days, having improved a natural ingenuity in that handicraft, until he had become a skilled workman. He was in his working-dress, and looked rugged enough, but manly withal, and a very fit protector for the blooming little creature at his side. Indeed, there was a frankness in his face, an honesty, and an undisguised show of his pride in her, and his love for her, which were, to me, the best of good looks. I thought, as they came towards us, that they were well matched even in that particular.

           She withdrew her hand timidly from his arm as we stopped to speak to them, and blushed as she gave it to Steerforth and to me. When they passed on, after we had exchanged a few words, she did not like to replace that hand, but, still appearing timid and constrained, walked by herself. I thought all this very pretty and engaging, and Steerforth seemed to think so too, as we looked after them fading away in the light of a young moon.

           Suddenly there passed us—evidently following them—a young woman whose approach we had not observed, but whose face I saw as she went by, and thought I had a faint remembrance of. She was lightly dressed; looked bold, and haggard,



page 102 and flaunting, and poor; but seemed, for the time to have given all that to the wind which was blowing, and to have nothing in her mind but going after them. As the dark distant level, absorbing their figures into itself, left but itself visible between us and the sea and clouds, her figure disappeared in like manner, still no nearer to them than before.

           “That is a black shadow to be following the girl,” said Steerforth, standing still; “what does it mean?”

           He spoke in a low voice that sounded almost strange to me.

           “She must have it in her mind to beg of them, I think,” said I.

           “A beggar would be no novelty,” said Steerforth, “but it is a strange thing that the beggar should take that shape tonight.”

           “Why?” I asked him.

           “For no better reason, truly, than because I was thinking,” he said, after a pause, “of something like it, when it came by. Where the Devil did it come from, I wonder!”

           “From the shadow of this wall, I think,” said I, as we emerged upon a road on which a wall abutted.

           “It's gone!” he returned, looking over his shoulder. “And all ill go with it. Now for our dinner!”

           But, he looked again over his shoulder towards the sea-line glimmering afar off; and yet again. And he wondered about it, in some broken expressions, several times, in the short remainder of our walk; and only seemed to forget it when the light of fire and candle shone upon us, seated warm and merry, at table.

           Littimer was there, and had his usual effect upon me. When I said to him that I hoped Mrs. Steerforth and Miss Dartle were well, he answered respectfully (and of course respectably), that they were tolerably well, he thanked me, and had sent their compliments. This was all, and yet he seemed



page 103 to me to say as plainly as a man could say: “You are very young, Sir; you are exceedingly young.”

           We had almost finished dinner, when taking a step or two towards the table, from the corner where he kept watch upon us, or rather upon me, as I felt, he said to his master:

           “I beg your pardon, Sir. Miss Mowcher is down here.”

           “Who?” cried Steerforth, much astonished.

           “Miss Mowcher, Sir.”

           “Why, what on earth does she do here?” said Steerforth.

           “It appears to be her native part of the country, Sir. She informs me that she makes one of her professional visits here, every year, Sir. I met her in the street this afternoon, and she wished to know if she might have the honour of waiting on you after dinner, Sir.”

           “Do you know the Giantess in question, Daisy?” inquired Steerforth.

           I was obliged to confess—I felt ashamed, even of being at this disadvantage before Littimer—that Miss Mowcher and I were wholly unacquainted.

           “Then you shall know her,” said Steerforth, “for she is one of the seven wonders of the world. When Miss Mowcher comes, show her in.”

           I felt some curiosity and excitement about this lady, especially as Steerforth burst into a fit of laughing when I referred to her, and positively refused to answer any question of which I made her the subject. I remained, therefore, in a state of considerable expectation until the cloth had been removed some half an hour, and we were sitting over our decanter of wine before the fire, when the door opened, and Littimer, with his habitual serenity quite undisturbed, announced:

           “Miss Mowcher!”

           I looked at the doorway and saw nothing. I was still looking at the doorway, thinking that Miss Mowcher was a



page 104 long while making her appearance, when, to my infinite astonishment, there came waddling round a sofa which stood between me and it, a pursy dwarf, of about forty or forty-five, with a very large head and face, a pair of roguish grey eyes, and such extremely little arms, that, to enable herself to lay a finger archly against her snub nose, as she ogled Steerforth, she was obliged to meet the finger half-way, and lay her nose against it. Her chin, which was what is called a double-chin, was so fat that it entirely swallowed up the strings of her bonnet, bow and all. Throat she had none; waist she had none; legs she had none, worth mentioning; for though she was more than full-sized down to where her waist would have been, if she had had any, and though she terminated, as human beings generally do, in a pair of feet, she was so short that she stood at a common-sized chair as at a table, resting a bag she carried on the seat. This lady; dressed in an off-hand, easy style; bringing her nose and her forefinger together, with the difficulty I have described; standing with her head necessarily on one side, and, with one of her sharp eyes shut up, making an uncommonly knowing face; after ogling Steerforth for a few moments, broke into a torrent of words.

           “What! My flower!” she pleasantly began, shaking her large head at him. “You're there, are you! Oh, you naughty boy, fie for shame, what do you do so far away from home? Up to mischief, I'll be bound. Oh, you're a downy fellow, Steerforth, so you are, and I'm another, ain't I? Ha, ha, ha! You'd have betted a hundred pound to five, now, that you wouldn't have seen me here, wouldn't you? Bless you, man alive, I'm everywhere. I'm here and there, and where not, like the conjuror's half-crown in the lady's hankercher. Talking of hankerchers—and talking of ladies—what a comfort you are to your blessed mother, ain't



page 105 you, my dear boy, over one of my shoulders, and I don't say which!”

           Miss Mowcher untied her bonnet, at this passage of her discourse, threw back the strings, and sat down, panting, on a footstool in front of the fire—making a kind of arbor of the dining-table, which spread its mahogany shelter above her head.

           “Oh my stars and what's-their-names!” she went on, clapping a hand on each of her little knees, and glancing shrewdly at me, “I'm of too full a habit, that's the fact, Steerforth. After a flight of stairs, it gives me as much trouble to draw every breath I want, as if it was a bucket of water. If you saw me looking out of an upper window, you'd think I was a fine woman, wouldn't you?”

           “I should think that, wherever I saw you,” replied Steerforth.

           “Go along, you dog, do!” cried the little creature, making a whisk at him with the handkerchief with which she was wiping her face, “and don't be impudent! But I give you my word and honour I was at Lady Mithers's last week—there's a woman! How she wears!—and Mithers himself came into the room where I was waiting for her—there's a man! How he wears! and his wig too, for he's had it these ten years—and he went on at that rate in the complimentary line, that I began to think I should be obliged to ring the bell. Ha! ha! ha! He's a pleasant wretch, but he wants principle.”

           “What were you doing for Lady Mithers?” asked Steerforth.

           “That's tellings, my blessed infant,” she retorted, tapping her nose again, screwing up her face, and twinkling her eyes like an imp of supernatural intelligence. “Never you mind! You'd like to know whether I stop her hair from falling off, or dye it, or touch up her complexion, or improve her eyebrows,



page 106 wouldn't you? And so you shall, my darling—when I tell you! Do you know what my great grandfather's name was?”

           “No,” said Steerforth.

           “It was Walker, my sweet pet,” replied Miss Mowcher, “and he came of a long line of Walkers, that I inherit all the Hookey estates from.”

           I never beheld anything approaching to Miss Mowcher's wink, except Miss Mowcher's self-possession. She had a wonderful way too, when listening to what was said to her, or when waiting for an answer to what she had said herself, of pausing with her head cunningly on one side, and one eye turned up like a magpie's. Altogether I was lost in amazement, and sat staring at her, quite oblivious, I am afraid, of the laws of politeness.

           She had by this time drawn the chair to her side, and was busily engaged in producing from the bag (plunging in her short arm to the shoulder, at every dive) a number of small bottles, sponges, combs, brushes, bits of flannel, little pairs of curling irons, and other instruments, which she tumbled in a heap upon the chair. From this employment she suddenly desisted, and said to Steerforth, much to my confusion:

           “Who's your friend?”

           “Mr. Copperfield,” said Steerforth; “he wants to know you.”

           “Well, then, he shall! I thought he looked as if he did!” returned Miss Mowcher, waddling up to me, bag in hand, and laughing on me as she came. “Face like a peach!” standing on tiptoe to pinch my cheek as I sat. “Quite tempting! I'm very fond of peaches. Happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Copperfield, I'm sure.”

           I said that I congratulated myself on having the honour to make hers, and that the happiness was mutual.



page 107

           “Oh my goodness, how polite we are!” exclaimed Miss Mowcher, making a preposterous attempt to cover her large face with her morsel of a hand. “What a world of gammon and spinnage it is, though, ain't it!”

           This was addressed confidentially to both of us, as the morsel of a hand came away from the face, and buried itself, arm and all, in the bag again.

           “What do you mean, Miss Mowcher?” said Steerforth.

           “Ha! ha! ha! What a refreshing set of humbugs we are, to be sure, ain't we, my sweet child?” replied that morsel of a woman, feeling in the bag with her head on one side, and her eye in the air. “Look here!” taking something out. “Scraps of the Russian Prince's nails! Prince Alphabet turned topsy-turvy, I call him, for his name's got all the letters in it, higgledy-piggledy.”

           “The Russian Prince is a client of yours, is he?” said Steerforth.

           “I believe you, my pet,” replied Miss Mowcher. “I keep his nails in order for him. Twice a week! Fingers and toes!”

           “He pays well, I hope?” said Steerforth.

           “Pays as he speaks, my dear child—through the nose,” replied Miss Mowcher. “None of your close shavers the Prince ain't. You'd say so, if you saw his moustachios. Red by nature, black by art.”

           “By your art, of course,” said Steerforth.

           Miss Mowcher winked assent. “Forced to send for me. Couldn't help it. The climate affected his dye; it did very well in Russia, but it was no go here. You never saw such a rusty Prince in all your born days as he was. Like old iron!”

           “Is that why you called him a humbug, just now?” inquired Steerforth.

           “Oh, you're broth of a boy, ain't you?” returned Miss Mowcher, shaking her head violently. “I said, what a set of



page 108 humbugs we were in general, and I showed you the scraps of the Prince's nails to prove it. The Prince's nails do more for me, in private families of the genteel sort, than all my talents put together. I always carry 'em about. They 're the best introduction. If Miss Mowcher cuts the Prince's nails, she must be all right. I give 'em away to the young ladies. They put 'em in albums, I believe. Ha! ha! ha! Upon my life, ‘the whole social system’ (as the men call it when they make speeches in Parliament) is a system of Prince's nails!” said this least of women, trying to fold her short arms, and nodding her large head.

           Steerforth laughed heartily, and I laughed too. Miss Mowcher continuing all the time to shake her head (which was very much on one side), and to look into the air with one eye, and to wink with the other.

           “Well, well!” she said, smiting her small knees, and rising, “this is not business. Come, Steerforth, let's explore the polar regions, and have it over.”

           She then selected two or three of the little instruments, and a little bottle, and asked (to my surprise) if the table would bear. On Steerforth's replying in the affirmative, she pushed a chair against it, and begging the assistance of my hand, mounted up, pretty nimbly, to the top, as if it were a stage.

           “If either of you saw my ankles,” she said, when she was safely elevated, “say so, and I'll go home and destroy myself.”

           “I did not,” said Steerforth.

           “I did not,” said I.

           “Well then,” cried Miss Mowcher, “I'll consent to live. Now, ducky, ducky, ducky, come to Mrs. Bond and be killed!”

           This was an invocation to Steerforth to place himself under her hands; who, accordingly, sat himself down, with his back



page 109 to the table, and his laughing face towards me, and submitted his head to her inspection, evidently for no other purpose than our entertainment. To see Miss Mowcher standing over him, looking at his rich profusion of brown hair through a large round magnifying glass, which she took out of her pocket, was a most amazing spectacle.

           “You're a pretty fellow!” said Miss Mowcher, after a brief inspection. “You'd be as bald as a friar on the top of your head in twelve months, but for me. Just half-a-minute, my young friend, and we'll give you a polishing that shall keep your curls on for the next ten years!”

           With this, she tilted some of the contents of the little bottle on to one of the little bits of flannel, and, again imparting some of the virtues of that preparation to one of the little brushes, began rubbing and scraping away with both on the crown of Steerforth's head in the busiest manner I ever witnessed, talking all the time.

           “There's Charley Pyegrave, the duke's son,” she said. “You know Charley?” peeping round into his face.

           “A little,” said Steerforth.

           “What a man he is! There's a whisker! As to Charley's legs, if they were only a pair (which they ain't), they'd defy competition. Would you believe he tried to do without me—in the Life-Guards, too?”

           “Mad!” said Steerforth.

           “It looks like it. However, mad or sane, he tried,” returned Miss Mowcher. “What does he do, but, lo and behold you, he goes into a perfumer's shop, and wants to buy a bottle of the Madagascar Liquid.”

           “Charley does?” said Steerforth.

           “Charley does. But they haven't got any of the Madagascar Liquid.”

           “What is it? Something to drink?” asked Steerforth.



page 110

           “To drink?” returned Miss Mowcher, stopping to slap his cheek. “To doctor his own moustachios with, you know. There was a woman in the shop—elderly female—quite a Griffin—who had never even heard of it by name. ‘Begging pardon, Sir,’ said the Griffin to Charley, ‘it's not—not—not ROUGE, is it?’ ‘Rouge,’ said Charley to the Griffin. ‘What the unmentionable to ears polite, do you think I want with rouge?’ ‘No offence, Sir,’ said the Griffin; ‘we have it asked for by so many names, I thought it might be.’ Now that, my child,” continued Miss Mowcher, rubbing all the time as busily as ever, “is another instance of the refreshing humbug I was speaking of. I do something in that way myself—perhaps a good deal—perhaps a little—sharp's the word, my dear boy—never mind!”

           “In what way do you mean? In the rouge way?” said Steerforth.

           “Put this and that together, my tender pupil,” returned the wary Mowcher, touching her nose, “work it by the rule of Secrets in all trades, and the product will give you the desired result. I say I do a little in that way myself. One Dowager, she calls it lip-salve. Another, she calls it gloves. Another, she calls it tucker-edging. Another, she calls it a fan. I call it whatever they call it. I supply it for 'em, but we keep up the trick so, to one another, and make believe with such a face, that they'd as soon think of laying it on, before a whole drawing-room, as before me. And when I wait upon 'em, they'll say to me sometimes—with it on—thick, and no mistake—‘How am I looking, Mowcher? Am I pale?’ Ha! ha! ha! ha! Isn't that refreshing, my young friend!”

           I never did in my days behold anything like Mowcher as she stood upon the dining-table, intensely enjoying this refreshment, rubbing busily at Steerforth's head, and winking at me over it.



page 111

           “Ah!” she said. “Such things are not much in demand hereabouts. That sets me off again! I havn't seen a pretty woman since I've been here, Jemmy.”

           “No?” said Steerforth.

           “Not the ghost of one,” replied Miss Mowcher.

           “We could show her the substance of one, I think?” said Steerforth, addressing his eyes to mine. “Eh, Daisy?”

           “Yes, indeed,” said I.

           “Aha?” cried the little creature, glancing sharply at my face, and then peeping round at Steerforth's. “Umph?”

           The first exclamation sounded like a question put to both of us, and the second like a question put to Steerforth only. She seemed to have found no answer to either, but continued to rub, with her head on one side and her eye turned up, as if she were looking for an answer in the air, and were confident of its appearing presently.

           “A sister of yours, Mr. Copperfield?” she cried, after a pause, and still keeping the same look out. “Aye, aye?”

           “No,” said Steerforth, before I could reply. “Nothing of the sort. On the contrary, Mr. Copperfield used—or I am much mistaken—to have a great admiration for her.”

           “Why, hasn't he now?” returned Miss Mowcher. “Is he fickle? oh, for shame! Did he sip every flower, and change every hour, until Polly his passion requited?—Is her name Polly?”

           The Elfin suddenness with which she pounced upon me with this question, and a searching look, quite disconcerted me for a moment.

           “No, Miss Mowcher,” I replied. “Her name is Emily.”

           “Aha?” she cried exactly as before. “Umph? What a rattle I am! Mr. Copperfield, ain't I volatile?”

           Her tone and look implied something that was not agreeable



page 112 to me in connexion with the subject. So I said, in a graver manner than any of us had yet assumed:

           “She is as virtuous as she is pretty. She is engaged to be married to a most worthy and deserving man in her own station of life. I esteem her for her good sense, as much as I admire her for her good looks.”

           “Well said!” cried Steerforth. “Hear, hear, hear! Now, I'll quench the curiosity of this little Fatima, my dear Daisy, by leaving her nothing to guess at. She is at present apprenticed, Miss Mowcher, or articled, or whatever it may be, to Omer and Joram, Haberdashers, Milliners, and so forth, in this town. Do you observe? Omer and Joram. The promise of which my friend has spoken, is made and entered into with her cousin; Christtan name, Ham; surname, Peggotty; occupation, boat-builder; also of this town. She lives with a relative; Christian name, unknown; surname, Peggotty; occupation, seafaring; also of this town. She is the prettiest and most engaging little fairy in the world. I admire her—as my friend does—exceedingly. If it were not that I might appear to disparage her Intended, which I know my friend would not like, I would add, that to me she seems to be throwing herself away; that I am sure she might do better; and that I swear she was born to be a lady.”

           Miss Mowcher listened to these words, which were very slowly and distinctly spoken, with her head on one side, and her eye in the air as if she were still looking for that answer. When he ceased, she became brisk again in an instant, and rattled away with surprising volubility.

           “Oh! And that's all about it, is it?” she exclaimed, trimming his whiskers with a little restless pair of scissors, that went glancing round his head in all directions. “Very well: very well! Quite a long story. Ought to end, ‘and they lived happy ever afterwards;’ oughtn't it? Ah! What's that game



page 113 at forfeits? I love my love with an E, because she's enticing; I hate her with an E, because she's engaged. I took her to the sign of the exquisite, and treated her with an elopement, her name's Emily, and she lives in the east? Ha! ha! ha! Mr. Copperfield, ain't I volatile?”

           Merely looking at me with extravagant slyness, and not waiting for any reply, she continued, without drawing breath:

           “There! If ever any scapegrace was trimmed and touched up to perfection, you are, Steerforth. If I understand any noddle in the world, I understand yours. Do you hear me when I tell you that, my darling? I understand yours,” peeping down into his face. “Now you may mizzle, Jemmy (as we say at Court), and if Mr. Copperfield will take the chair I'll operate on him.”

           “What do you say, Daisy?” inquired Steerforth, laughing, and resigning his seat. “Will you be improved?”

           “Thank you, Miss Mowcher, not this evening.”

           “Don't say no,” returned the little woman, looking at me with the aspect of a connoisseur; “a little bit more eyebrow?”

           “Thank you,” I returned, “some other time.”

           “Have it carried half a quarter of an inch towards the temple,” said Miss Mowcher. “We can do it in a fortnight.”

           “No, I thank you. Not at present.”

           “Go in for a tip,” she urged. “No? Let's get the seaffolding up, then, for a pair of whiskers. Come!”

           I could not help blushing as I declined, for I felt we were on my weak point, now. But Miss Mowcher, finding that I was not at present disposed for any decoration within the range of her art, and that I was, for the time being, proof against the blandishments of the small bottle which she held up before one eye to enforce her persuasions, said we would make a beginning on an early day, and requested the aid of



page 114 my hand to descend from her elevated station. Thus assisted, she skipped down with much agility, and began to tie her double chin into her bonnet.

           “The fee,” said Steerforth, “is—”

           “Five bob,” replied Miss Mowcher, “and dirt-cheap, my chicken. Ain't I volatile, Mr. Copperfield?”

           I replied politely: “Not at all.” But I thought she was rather so, when she tossed up his two half-crowns like a goblin pieman, caught them, dropped them in her pocket, and gave it a loud slap.

           “That's the Till!” observed Miss Mowcher, standing at the chair again, and replacing in the bag the miscellaneous collection of little objects she had emptied out of it. “Have I got all my traps? It seems so. It won't do to be like long Ned Beadwood, when they took him to church ‘to marry him to somebody,’ as he says, and left the bride behind. Ha! ha! ha! A wicked rascal, Ned, but droll! Now, I know I'm going to break your hearts, but I am forced to leave you. You must call up all your fortitude, and try to bear it. Good bye, Mr. Copperfield! Take care of yourself, Jockey of Norfolk! How I have been rattling on! It's all the fault of you two wretches. I forgive you! ‘Bob swore!’—as the Englishman said for ‘Good night,’ when he first learnt French, and thought it so like English. ‘Bob swore,’ my ducks!”

           With the bag slung over her arm, and rattling as she waddled away, she waddled to the door; where she stopped to inquire if she should leave us a lock of her hair. “Ain't I volatile?” she added, as a commentary on this offer, and, with her finger on her nose, departed.

           Steerforth laughed to that degree, that it was impossible for me to help laughing too; though I am not sure I should have done so, but for this inducement. When we had had our laugh quite out, which was after some time, he told me



page 115 that Miss Mowcher had quite an extensive connexion, and made herself useful to a variety of people in a variety of ways. Some people trifled with her as a mere oddity, he said; but she was as shrewdly and sharply observant as any one he knew, and as long-headed as she was short-armed. He told me that what she had said of being here, and there, and everywhere, was true enough; for she made little darts into the provinces, and seemed to pick up customers everywhere, and to know everybody. I asked him what her disposition was: whether it was at all mischievous, and if her sympathies were generally on the right side of things: but, not succeeding in attracting his attention to these questions after two or three attempts, I forbore or forgot to repeat them. He told me instead, with much rapidity, a good deal about her skill, and her profits; and about her being a scientific cupper, if I should ever have occasion for her services in that capacity.

           She was the principal theme of our conversation during the evening: and when we parted for the night Steerforth called after me over the bannisters, “Bob swore!” as I went down stairs.

           I was surprised, when I came to Mr. Barkis's house to find Ham walking up and down in front of it, and still more surprised to learn from him that little Em'ly was inside. I naturally inquired why he was not there too, instead of pacing the street by himself?

           “Why, you see, Mas'r Davy,” he rejoined, in a hesitating manner, “Em'ly, she's talking to some 'un in here.”

           “I should have thought,” said I, smiling, “that that was a reason for your being in here too, Ham.”

           “Well, Mas'r Davy, in a general way, so 't would be,” he returned; “but look'ee here, Mas'r Davy,” lowering his voice, and speaking very gravely. “It's a young woman,



page 116 Sir—a young woman, that Em'ly knowed once, and doen't ought to know no more.”

           When I heard these words, a light began to fall upon the figure I had seen following them, some hours ago.

           “It's a poor wurem, Mas'r Davy,” said Ham, “as is trod under foot by all the town. Up street and down street. The mowld o' the churchyard don't hold any that the folk shrink away from, more.”

           “Did I see her to-night, Ham, on the sands, after we met you?”

           “Keeping us in sight?” said Ham. “It's like you did, Mas'r Davy. Not that I know'd, then, she was theer, Sir, but along of her creeping soon arterwards under Em'ly's little winder, when she see the light come, and whisp'ring ‘Em'ly, Em'ly, for Christ's sake have a woman's heart towards me. I was once like you!’ Those was solemn words, Mas'r Davy, fur to hear!”

           “They were indeed, Ham. What did Em'ly do?”

           “Says Em'ly, ‘Martha, is it you? Oh, Martha, can it be you!’—for they had sat at work together, many a day, at Mr. Omer's.”

           “I recollect her now!” cried I, recalling one of the two girls I had seen when I first went there. “I recollect her quite well!”

           “Martha Endell,” said Ham. “Two or three year older than Em'ly, but was at the school with her.”

           “I never heard her name,” said I. “I didn't mean to interrupt you.”

           “For the matter o' that, Mas'r Davy,” replied Ham, “all's told a'most in them words, ‘Em'ly, Em'ly, for Christ's sake have a woman's heart towards me. I was once like you!’ She wanted to speak to Em'ly. Em'ly couldn't speak to her theer, for her loving uncle was come home, and he wouldn't



page 117 —no, Mas'r Davy,” said Ham, with great earnestness, “he couldn't, kind-naturd, tender-hearted as he is, see them two together, side by side, for all the treasures that's wrecked in the sea.”

           I felt how true this was. I knew it, on the instant, quite as well as Ham.

           “So Em'ly writes in pencil on a bit of paper,” he pursued, “and gives it to her out o' winder to bring here. ‘Show that,’ she says, ‘to my aunt, Mrs. Barkis, and she'll set you down by her fire, for the love of me, till uncle is gone out, and I can come.’ By-and-by she tells me what I tell you, Mas'r Davy, and asks me to bring her. What can I do? She doen't ought to know any such, but I can't deny her, when the tears is on her face.”

           He put his hand into the breast of his shaggy jacket, and took out with great care a pretty little purse.

           “And if I could deny her when the tears was on her face, Mas'r Davy,” said Ham, tenderly adjusting it on the rough palm of his hand, “how could I deny her when she give me this to carry for her—knowing what she brought it for? Such a toy as it is!” said Ham, thoughtfully looking on it. “With such a little money in it, Em'ly my dear!”

           I shook him warmly by the hand when he had put it away again—for that was more satisfactory to me than saying anything—and we walked up and down, for a minute or two, in silence. The door opened then, and Peggotty appeared, beckoning to Ham to come in. I would have kept away, but she came after me, entreating me to come in too. Even then, I would have avoided the room where they all were, but for its being the neat-tiled kitchen I have mentioned more than once. The door opening immediately into it, I found myself among them, before I considered whither I was going.

           The girl—the same I had seen upon the sands—was near



page 118 the fire. She was sitting on the ground, with her head and one arm lying on a chair. I fancied, from the disposition of her figure, that Em'ly had but newly risen from the chair, and that the forlorn head might perhaps have been lying on her lap. I saw but little of the girl's face, over which her hair fell loose and scattered, as if she had been disordering it with her own hands; but I saw that she was young, and of a fair complexion. Peggotty had been crying. So had little Em'ly. Not a word was spoken when we first went in; and the Dutch clock by the dresser seemed, in the silence, to tick twice as loud as usual.

           Em'ly spoke first.

           “Martha wants,” she said to Ham, “to go to London.”

           “Why to London?” returned Ham.

           He stood between them, looking on the prostrate girl with a mixture of compassion for her, and of jealousy of her holding any companionship with her whom he loved so well, which I have always remembered distinctly. They both spoke as if she were ill; in a soft, suppressed tone that was plainly heard, although it hardly rose above a whisper.

           “Better there than here,” said a third voice aloud—Martha's, though she did not move. “No one knows me there. Everybody knows me here.”

           “What will she do there?” inquired Ham.

           She lifted up her head, and looked darkly round at him for a moment; then laid it down again, and curved her right arm about her neck, as a woman in a fever, or in an agony of pain from a shot, might twist herself.

           “She will try to do well,” said little Em'ly. “You don't know what she has said to us. Does he—do they—aunt?”

           Peggotty shook her head compassionately.

           “I'll try,” said Martha, “if you'll help me away. I never can do worse than I have done here. I may do better. Oh!”



page 119 with a dreadful shiver, “take me out of these streets, where the whole town knows me from a child!”

           As Em'ly held out her hand to Ham, I saw him put in it a little canvas bag. She took it, as if she thought it were her purse, and made a step or two forward; but finding her mistake, came back to where he had retired near me, and showed it to him.

           “It's all yourn, Em'ly,” I could hear him say. “I haven't nowt in all the wureld that ain't yourn, my dear. It ain't of no delight to me, except for you!”

           The tears rose freshly in her eyes, but she turned away, and went to Martha. What she gave her, I don't know. I saw her stooping over her, and putting money in her bosom. She whispered something, and asked was that enough? “More than enough,” the other said, and took her hand and kissed it.

           Then Martha arose, and gathering her shawl about her, covering her face with it, and weeping aloud, went slowly to the door. She stopped a moment before going out, as if she would have uttered something or turned back; but no word passed her lips. Making the same low, dreary, wretched moaning in her shawl, she went away.

           As the door closed, little Em'ly looked at us three in a hurried manner, and then hid her face in her hands, and fell to sobbing.

           “Doen't Em'ly!” said Ham, tapping her gently on the shoulder. “Doen't, my dear! You doen't ought to cry so, pretty!”

           “Oh, Ham!” she exclaimed, still weeping pitifully, “I am not as good a girl as I ought to be! I know I have not the thankful heart, sometimes, I ought to have!”

           “Yes, yes, you have, I'm sure,” said Ham.

           “No! no! no!” cried little Em'ly, sobbing, and shaking her



page 120 head. “I am not as good a girl as I ought to be. Not near! not near!”

           And still she cried, as if her heart would break.

           “I try your love too much. I know I do!” she sobbed. “I'm often cross to you, and changeable with you, when I ought to be far different. You are never so to me. Why am I ever so to you, when I should think of nothing but how to be grateful, and to make you happy!”

           “You always make me so,” said Ham, “my dear! I am happy in the sight of you. I am happy, all day long, in the thoughts of you.”

           “Ah! that's not enough!” she cried. “That is because you are good; not because I am! Oh, my dear, it might have been a better fortune for you, if you had been fond of some one else—of some one steadier and much worthier than me, who was all bound up in you, and never vain and changeable like me!”

           “Poor little tender-heart,” said Ham, in a low voice. “Martha has overset her, altogether.”

           “Please, aunt,” sobbed Em'ly, “come here, and let me lay my head upon you. Oh, I am very miserable to-night, aunt! Oh, I am not as good a girl as I ought to be. I am not, I know!”

           Peggotty had hastened to the chair before the fire. Em'ly, with her arms around her neck, kneeled by her, looking up most earnestly into her face.

           “Oh, pray, aunt, try to help me! Ham, dear, try to help me! Mr. David, for the sake of old times, do, please, try to help me! I want to be a better girl than I am. I want to feel a hundred times more thankful than I do. I want to feel more, what a blessed thing it is to be the wife of a good man, and to lead a peaceful life. Oh me, oh me! Oh, my heart, my heart!”

           She dropped her face on my old nurse's breast, and, ceasing this supplication, which in its agony and grief was half a woman's,



page 121 half a child's, as all her manner was (being, in that, more natural, and better suited to her beauty, as I thought, than any other manner could have been), wept silently, while my old nurse hushed her like an infant.

           She got calmer by degrees, and then we soothed her; now talking encouragingly, and now jesting a little with her, until she began to raise her head and speak to us. So we got on, until she was able to smile, and then to laugh, and then to sit up, half ashamed; while Peggotty recalled her stray ringlets, dried her eyes, and made her neat again, lest her uncle should wonder, when she got home, why his darling had been crying.

           I saw her do, that night, what I had never seen her do before. I saw her innocently kiss her chosen husband on the cheek, and creep close to his bluff form as if it were her best support. When they went away together, in the waning moonlight, and I looked after them, comparing their departure in my mind with Martha's, I saw that she held his arm with both her hands, and still kept close to him.



page 122

CHAPTER VII.
I corroborate Mr. Dick, and choose a profession.

           WHEN I awoke in the morning I thought very much of little Em'ly, and her emotion last night, after Martha had left. I felt as if I had come into the knowledge of those domestic weaknesses and tendernesses in a sacred confidence, and that to disclose them, even to Steerforth, would be wrong. I had no gentler feeling towards any one than towards the pretty creature who had been my playmate, and whom I have always been persuaded, and shall always be persuaded, to my dying day, I then devotedly loved. The repetition to any ears—even to Steerforth's,—of what she had been unable to repress when her heart lay open to me by an accident, I felt would be a rough deed, unworthy of myself, unworthy of the light of our pure childhood, which I always saw encircling her head. I made a resolution, therefore, to keep it in my own breast; and there it gave her image a new grace.

           While we were at breakfast, a letter was delivered to me from my aunt. As it contained matter on which I thought Steerforth could advise me as well as any one, and on which I knew I should be delighted to consult him, I resolved to make it a subject of discussion on our journey home. For the present we had enough to do, in taking leave of all our friends. Mr. Barkis was far from being the last among them, in his regret at our departure; and I believe would even have opened the box again, and sacrificed another guinea, if it would have kept us eight-and-forty hours in Yarmouth. Peggotty, and all her family, were full of grief at our going. The whole



page 123 house of Omer and Joram turned out to bid us good bye; and there were so many seafaring volunteers in attendance on Steerforth, when our portmanteaus went to the coach, that if we had had the baggage of a regiment with us, we should hardly have wanted porters to carry it. In a word, we departed to the regret and admiration of all concerned, and left a great many people very sorry behind us.

           “Do you stay long here, Littimer?” said I, as he stood waiting to see the coach start.

           “No, Sir,” he replied; “probably not very long, Sir.”

           “He can hardly say just now,” observed Steerforth, carelessly. “He knows what he has to do, and he'll do it.”

           “That I am sure he will,” said I.

           Littimer touched his hat in acknowledgment of my good opinion, and I felt about eight years old. He touched it once more, wishing us a good journey; and we left him standing on the pavement, as respectable a mystery as any pyramid in Egypt.

           For some little time we held no conversation, Steerforth being unusually silent, and I being sufficiently engaged in wondering, within myself, when I should see the old places again, and what new changes might happen to me or them in the meanwhile. At length Steerforth, becoming gay and talkative in a moment, as he could become anything he liked at any moment, pulled me by the arm:

           “Find a voice, David. What about the letter you were speaking of at breakfast?”

           “Oh!” said I, taking it out of my pocket. “It's from my aunt.”

           “And what does she say, requiring consideration!”

           “Why, she reminds me, Steerforth,” said I, “that I came out on this expedition to look about me, and to think a little.”

           “Which, of course, you have done?”



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           “Indeed I can't say I have, particularly. To tell you the truth, I am afraid I had forgotten it.”

           “Well! look about you now, and make up for your negligence,” said Steerforth. “Look to the right, and you'll see a flat country, with a good deal of marsh in it; look to the left, and you'll see the same. Look to the front, and you'll find no difference; look to the rear, and there it is still.”

           I laughed, and replied that I saw no suitable profession in the whole prospect; which was perhaps to be attributed to its flatness.

           “What says our aunt on the subject?” inquired Steerforth, glancing at the letter in my hand. “Does she suggest anything?”

           “Why, yes,” said I. “She asks me, here, if I think I should like to be a proctor? What do you think of it?”

           “Well, I don't know,” replied Steerforth, coolly. “You may as well do that as anything else, I suppose.”

           I could not help laughing again, at his balancing all callings and professions so equally; and I told him so.

           “What is a proctor, Steerforth?” said I.

           “Why, he is a sort of monkish attorney,” replied Steerforth. “He is, to some faded courts held in Doctors' Commons—a lazy old nook near St. Paul's Churchyard—what solicitors are to the courts of law and equity. He is a functionary whose existence, in the natural course of things, would have terminated about two hundred years ago. I can tell you best what he is, by telling you what Doctors' Commons is. It's a little out-of-the-way place, where they administer what is called ecclesiastical law, and play all kinds of tricks with obsolete old monsters of acts of Parliament, which three-fourths of the world know nothing about, and the other fourth supposes to have been dug up, in a fossil state, in the days of the Edwards. It's a place that has an ancient monopoly in suits



page 125 about people's wills and people's marriages, and disputes among ships and boats.”

           “Nonsense, Steerforth!” I exclaimed. “You don't mean to say that there is any affinity between nautical matters and ecclesiastical matters?”

           “I don't, indeed, my dear boy,” he returned; “but I mean to say that they are managed and decided by the same set of people, down in that same Doctors' Commons. You shall go there one day, and find them blundering through half the nautical terms in Young's Dictionary, apropos of the ‘Nancy’ having run down the ‘Sarah Jane,’ or Mr. Peggotty and the Yarmouth boatmen having put off in a gale of wind with an anchor and cable to the ‘Nelson’ Indiaman in distress; and you shall go there another day, and find them deep in the evidence, pro and con, respecting a clergyman who has misbehaved himself; and you shall find the judge in the nautical case, the advocate in the clergyman case, or contrariwise. They are like actors: now a man's a judge, and now he is not a judge; now he's one thing, now he's another; now he's something else, change and change about; but it's always a very pleasant profitable little affair of private theatricals, presented to an uncommonly select audience.”

           “But advocates and proctors are not one and the same?” said I, a little puzzled. “Are they?”

           “No,” returned Steerforth, “the advocates are civilians—men who have taken a doctor's degree at college—which is the first reason of my knowing anything about it. The proctors employ the advocates. Both get very comfortable fees, and altogether they make a mighty snug little party. On the whole, I would recommend you to take to Doctors' Commons kindly, David. They plume themselves on their gentility there, I can tell you, if that's any satisfaction.”

           I made allowance for Steerforth's light way of treating the



page 126 subject, and, considering it with reference to the staid air of gravity and antiquity which I associated with that “lazy old nook near St. Paul's Churchyard,” did not feel indisposed towards my aunt's suggestion; which she left to my free decision, making no scruple of telling me that it had occurred to her, on her lately visiting her own proctor in Doctors' Commons for the purpose of settling her will in my favour.

           “That's a laudable proceeding on the part of our aunt, at all events,” said Steerforth, when I mentioned it; “and one deserving of all encouragement. Daisy, my advice is that you take kindly to Doctors' Commons.”

           I quite made up my mind to do so. I then told Steerforth that my aunt was in town awaiting me (as I found from her letter), and that she had taken lodgings for a week at a kind of private hotel in Lincoln's Inn Fields, where there was a stone staircase, and a convenient door in the roof; my aunt being firmly persuaded that every house in London was going to be burnt down every night.

           We achieved the rest of our journey pleasantly, sometimes recurring to Doctors' Commons, and anticipating the distant days when I should be a proctor there, which Steerforth pictured in a variety of humorous and whimsical lights, that made us both merry. When we came to our journey's end, he went home, engaging to call upon me next day but one; and I drove to Lincoln's Inn Fields, where I found my aunt up, and waiting supper.

           If I had been round the world since we parted, we could hardly have been better pleased to meet again. My aunt cried outright as she embraced me; and said, pretending to laugh, that if my poor mother had been alive, that silly little creature would have shed tears, she had no doubt.

           “So you have left Mr. Dick behind, aunt?” said I. “I am sorry for that. Ah, Janet, how do you do?”



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           As Janet curtsied, hoping I was well, I observed my aunt's visage lengthen very much.

           “I am sorry for it, too,” said my aunt, rubbing her nose. “I have had no peace of mind, Trot, since I have been here.”

           Before I could ask why, she told me.

           “I am convinced,” said my aunt; laying her hand with melancholy firmness on the table, “that Dick's character is not a character to keep the donkies off. I am confident he wants strength of purpose. I ought to have left Janet at home, instead, and then my mind might perhaps have been at ease. If ever there was a donkey trespassing on my green,” said my aunt, with emphasis, “there was one this afternoon at four o'clock. A cold feeling came over me from head to foot, and I know it was a donkey!”

           I tried to comfort her on this point, but she rejected consolation.

           “It was a donkey,” said my aunt; “and it was the one with the stumpy tail which that Murdering sister of a woman rode, when she came to my house.” This had been, ever since, the only name my aunt knew for Miss Murdstone. “If there is any donkey in Dover, whose audacity it is harder to me to bear than another's, that,” said my aunt, striking the table, “is the animal!”

           Janet ventured to suggest that my aunt might be disturbing herself unnecessarily, and that she believed the donkey in question was then engaged in the sand and gravel line of business, and was not available for purposes of trespass. But my aunt wouldn't hear of it.

           Supper was comfortably served and hot, though my aunt's rooms were very high up—whether that she might have more stone stairs for her money, or might be nearer to the door in the roof, I don't know—and consisted of



page 128 a roast fowl, a steak, and some vegetables, to all of which I did ample justice, and which were all excellent. But my aunt had her own ideas concerning London provision, and ate but little.

           “I suppose this unfortunate fowl was born and brought up in a cellar,” said my aunt, “and never took the air except on a hackney coach-stand. I hope the steak may be beef, but I don't believe it. Nothing's genuine in the place, in my opinion, but the dirt.”

           “Don't you think the fowl may have come out of the country, aunt?” I hinted.

           “Certainly not,” returned my aunt. “It would be no pleasure to a London tradesman to sell anything which was what he pretended it was.”

           I did not venture to controvert this opinion, but I made a good supper, which it greatly satisfied her to see me do. When the table was cleared, Janet assisted her to arrange her hair, to put on her nightcap, which was of a smarter construction than usual (“in case of fire,” my aunt said), and to fold her gown back over her knees, these being her usual preparations for warming herself before going to bed. I then made her, according to certain established regulations from which no deviation, however slight, could ever be permitted, a glass of hot white wine and water, and a slice of toast cut into long thin strips. With these accompaniments we were left alone to finish the evening, my aunt sitting opposite to me drinking her wine and water; soaking her strips of toast in it, one by one, before eating them; and looking benignantly on me, from among the borders of her nightcap.

           “Well, Trot,” she began, “what do you think of the proctor plan? Or have you not begun to think about it yet?”

           “I have thought a good deal about it, my dear aunt, and



page 129 I have talked a good deal about it with Steerforth. I like it very much indeed. I like it exceedingly.

           “Come!” said my aunt. “That's cheering!”

           “I have only one difficulty, aunt.”

           “Say what it is, Trot,” she returned.

           “Why, I want to ask, aunt, as this seems, from what I understand, to be a limited profession, whether my entrance into it would not be very expensive?”

           “It will cost,” returned my aunt, “to article you, just a thousand pounds.”

           “Now, my dear aunt,” said I, drawing my chair nearer, “I am uneasy in my mind about that. It's a large sum of money. You have expended a great deal on my education, and have always been as liberal to me in all things, as it was possible to be. You have been the soul of generosity. Surely there are some ways in which I might begin life with hardly any outlay, and yet begin with a good hope of getting on by resolution and exertion. Are you sure that it would not be better to try that course? Are you certain that you can afford to part with so much money, and that it is right it should be so expended? I only ask you, my second mother, to consider. Are you certain?”

           My aunt finished eating the piece of toast on which she was then engaged, looking me full in the face all the while; and then setting her glass on the chimney-piece, and folding her hands upon her folded skirts, replied as follows:

           “Trot, my child, if I have any object in life, it is to provide for your being a good, a sensible, and a happy man. I am bent upon it—so is Dick. I should like some people that I know to hear Dick's conversation on the subject. Its sagacity is wonderful. But no one knows the resources of that man's intellect, except myself!”



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           She stopped for a moment to take my hand between hers, and went on:

           “It's in vain, Trot, to recall the past, unless it works some influence upon the present. Perhaps I might have been better friends with your poor father. Perhaps I might have been better friends with that poor child your mother, even after your sister Betsey Trotwood disappointed me. When you came to me, a little runaway boy, all dusty and wayworn, perhaps I thought so. From that time until now, Trot, you have ever been a credit to me and a pride and pleasure. I have no other claim upon my means; at least”—here to my surprise she hesitated, and was confused—“no, I have no other claim upon my means—and you are my adopted child. Only be a loving child to me in my age, and bear with my whims and fancies; and you will do more for an old woman whose prime of life was not so happy or conciliating as it might have been, than ever that old woman did for you.”

           It was the first time I had heard my aunt refer to her past history. There was a magnanimity in her quiet way of doing so, and of dismissing it, which would have exalted her in my respect and affection, if any thing could.

           “All is agreed and understood between us now, Trot,” said my aunt, “and we need talk of this no more. Give me a kiss, and we'll go to the Commons after breakfast tomorrow.”

           We had a long chat by the fire before we went to bed. I slept in a room on the same floor with my aunt's, and was a little disturbed in the course of the night by her knocking at my door, as often as she was agitated by a distant sound of hackney-coaches or market-carts, and inquiring “if I heard the engines?” But towards morning she slept better, and suffered me to do so too.



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           At about mid-day, we set out for the offices of Messrs. Spenlow and Jorkins in Doctors' Commons. My aunt, who had this other general opinion in reference to London, that every man she saw was a pickpocket, gave me her purse to carry for her, which had ten guineas in it and some silver.

           We made a pause at the toy-shop in Fleet-street, to see the giants of Saint Dunstan's strike upon the bells—we had timed our going, so as to catch them at it, at twelve o'clock—and then went on towards Ludgate Hill, and St. Paul's Churchyard. We were crossing to the former place, when I found that my aunt greatly accelerated her speed, and looked frightened. I observed, at the same time, that a lowering ill-dressed man who had stopped and stared at us in passing, a little before, was coming so close after us, as to brush against her.

           “Trot! My dear Trot!” cried my aunt, in a terrified whisper, and pressing my arm. “I don't know what I am to do.”

           “Don't be alarmed,” said I. “There's nothing to be afraid of. Step into a shop, and I'll soon get rid of this fellow.”

           “No, no, child!” she returned. “Don't speak to him for the world. I entreat, I order you!”

           “Good Heaven, aunt!” said I. “He is nothing but a sturdy beggar.”

           “You don't know what he is!” replied my aunt. “You don't know who he is! You don't know what you say!”

           We had stopped in an empty doorway, while this was passing, and he had stopped too.

           “Don't look at him!” said my aunt, as I turned my head indignantly, “but get me a coach, my dear, and wait for me in St. Paul's Churchyard.”



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           “Wait for you?” I repeated.

           “Yes,” rejoined my aunt, “I must go alone. I must go with him.”

           “With him, aunt? This man?”

           “I am in my senses,” she replied, “and I tell you I must. Get me a coach!”

           However much astonished I might be, I was sensible that I had no right to refuse compliance with such a peremptory command. I hurried away a few paces, and called a hackney chariot which was passing empty. Almost before I could let down the steps, my aunt sprang in, I don't know how, and the man followed. She waved her hand to me to go away, so earnestly, that, all confounded as I was, I turned from them at once. In doing so I heard her say to the coachman, “Drive anywhere! Drive straight on!” and presently the chariot passed me, going up the hill.

           What Mr. Dick had told me, and what I had supposed to be a delusion of his, now came into my mind. I could not doubt that this person was the person of whom he had made such mysterious mention, though what the nature of his hold upon my aunt could possibly be, I was quite unable to imagine. After half an hour's cooling in the churchyard, I saw the chariot coming back. The driver stopped beside me, and my aunt was sitting in it alone.

           She had not yet sufficiently recovered from her agitation to be quite prepared for the visit we had to make. She desired me to get into the chariot, and to tell the coachman to drive slowly up and down a little while. She said no more, except, “My dear child, never ask me what it was, and don't refer to it,” until she had perfectly regained her composure, when she told me she was quite herself now, and we might get out. On her giving me her purse, to pay the driver, I



page 133 found that all the guineas were gone, and only the loose silver remained.

           Doctors' Commons was approached by a little low archway. Before we had taken many paces down the street beyond it, the noise of the city seemed to melt, as if by magic, into a softened distance. A few dull courts, and narrow ways, brought us to the sky-lighted offices of Spenlow and Jorkins; in the vestibule of which temple, accessible to pilgrims without the ceremony of knocking, three or four clerks were at work as copyists. One of these, a little dry man, sitting by himself, who wore a stiff brown wig that looked as if it were made of gingerbread, rose to receive my aunt, and show us into Mr. Spenlow's room.

           “Mr. Spenlow's in Court, Ma'am,” said the dry man; “it's an Arches day; but it's close by, and I'll send for him directly.”

           As we were left to look about us while Mr. Spenlow was feched, I availed myself of the opportunity. The furniture of the room was old-fashioned and dusty; and the green baize on the top of the writing-table had lost all its colour, and was as with ered and pale as an old pauper. There were a great many bundles of papers on it, some indorsed as Allegations, and some (to my surprise) as Libels, and some as being in the Consistory Court, and some in the Arches Court, and some in the Prerogative Court, and some in the Admiralty Court, and some in the Delegates' Court; giving me occasion to wonder much, how many Courts there might be in the gross, and how long it would take to understand them all. Besides these, there were sundry immense manuscript Books of Evidence taken on affidavit, strongly bound, and tied together in massive sets, a set to each cause, as if every cause were a history in ten or twenty volumes. All this looked tolerably expensive, I thought, and gave me an agreeable notion of a proctor's



page 134 business. I was casting my eyes with increasing complacency over these and many similar objects, when hasty footsteps were heard in the room outside, and Mr. Spenlow, in a black gown trimmed with white fur, came hurrying in, taking off his hat as he came.

           He was a little light-haired gentleman, with undeniable boots, and the stiffest of white cravats and shirt-collars. He was buttoned up, mighty trim and tight, and must have taken a great deal of pains with his whiskers, which were accurately curled. His gold watch-chain was so massive, that a fancy came across me, that he ought to have a sinewy golden arm, to draw it out with, like those which are put up over the gold-beaters' shops. He was got up with such care, and was so stiff, that he could hardly bend himself; being obliged, when he glanced at some papers on his desk, after sitting down in his chair, to move his whole body, from the bottom of his spine, like Punch.

           I had previously been presented by my aunt, and had been courteously received. He now said:

           “And so, Mr. Copperfield, you think of entering into our profession? I casually mentioned to Miss Trotwood, when I had the pleasure of an interview with her the other day,”—with another inclination of his body—Punch again—“that there was a vacancy here. Miss Trotwood was good enough to mention that she had a nephew who was her peculiar care, and for whom she was seeking to provide genteelly in life. That nephew, I believe, I have now the pleasure of”—Punch again.

           I bowed my acknowledgments, and said, my aunt had mentioned to me that there was that opening, and that I believed I should like it very much. That I was strongly inclined to like it, and had taken immediately to the proposal. That I could not absolutely pledge myself to like it, until I



page 135 knew something more about it. That although it was little else than a matter of form, I presumed I should have an opportunity of trying how I liked it, before I bound myself to it irrevocably.

           “Oh surely! surely!” said Mr. Spenlow. “We always, in this house, propose a month—an initiatory month. I should be happy, myself, to propose two months—three—an indefinite period, in fact—but I have a partner. Mr. Jorkins.”

           “And the premium, Sir,” I returned, “is a thousand pounds?”

           “And the premium, Stamp included, is a thousand pounds,” said Mr. Spenlow. “As I have mentioned to Miss Trotwood, I am actuated by no mercenary considerations; few men are less so, I believe; but Mr. Jorkins has his opinions on these subjects, and I am bound to respect Mr. Jorkins's opinions. Mr. Jorkins thinks a thousand pounds too little, in short.”

           “I suppose, Sir,” said I, still desiring to spare my aunt, “that it is not the custom here, if an articled clerk were particularly useful, and made himself a perfect master of his profession—” I could not help blushing, this looked so like praising myself—“I suppose it is not the custom, in the later years of his time, to allow him any—”

           Mr. Spenlow, by a great effort, just lifted his head far enough out of his cravat to shake it, and answered, anticipating the word “salary:”

           “No. I will not say what consideration I might give to that point myself, Mr. Copperfield, if I were unfettered. Mr. Jorkins is immovable.”

           I was quite dismayed by the idea of this terrible Jorkins. But I found out afterwards that he was a mild man, of a heavy temperament, whose place in the business was to keep himself in the back-ground, and be constantly exhibited by name as



page 136 the most obdurate and ruthless of men. If a clerk wanted his salary raised, Mr. Jorkins wouldn't listen to such a proposition. If a client were slow to settle his bill of costs, Mr. Jorkins was resolved to have it paid; and however painful these things might be (and always were) to the feelings of Mr. Spenlow, Mr. Jorkins would have his bond. The heart and hand of the good angel Spenlow would have been always open, but for the restraining demon Jorkins. As I have grown older, I think I have had experience of some other houses doing business on the principle of Spenlow and Jorkins!

           It was settled that I should begin my month's probation as soon as I pleased, and that my aunt need neither remain in town nor return at its expiration, as the articles of agreement, of which I was to be the subject, could easily be sent to her at home for her signature. When we had got so far, Mr. Spenlow offered to take me into Court then and there, and show me what sort of place it was. As I was willing enough to know, we went out with this object, leaving my aunt behind; who would trust herself, she said, in no such place, and who, I think, regarded all Courts of Law as a sort of powder-mills that might blow up at any time.

           Mr. Spenlow conducted me through a paved courtyard formed of grave brick houses, which I inferred, from the Doctors' names upon the doors, to be the official abiding-places of the learned advocates of whom Steerforth had told me; and into a large dull room, not unlike a chapel to my thinking, on the left hand. The upper part of this room was fenced off from the rest; and there, on the two sides of a raised platform of the horse-shoe form, sitting on easy old-fashioned dining-room chairs, were sundry gentlemen in red gowns and grey wigs, whom I found to be the Doctors aforesaid. Blinking over a little desk like a pulpit-desk, in the



page 137 curve of the horse-shoe, was an old gentleman, whom, if I had seen him in an aviary, I should certainly have taken for an owl, but who I learned was the presiding judge. In the space within the horse-shoe, lower than these, that is to say, on about the level of the floor, were sundry other gentlemen, of Mr. Spenlow's rank, and dressed like him in black gowns with white fur upon them, sitting at a long green table. Their cravats were in general stiff, I thought, and their looks haughty; but in this last respect I presently conceived I had done them an injustice, for when two or three of them had to rise and answer a question of the presiding dignitary, I never saw anything more sheepish. The public, represented by a boy with a comforter, and a shabby-genteel man secretly eating crumbs out of his coat pockets, was warming itself at a stove in the centre of the Court. The languid stillness of the place was only broken by the chirping of this fire and by the voice of one of the Doctors, who was wandering slowly through a perfect library of evidence, and stopping to put up, from time to time, at little roadside inns of argument on the journey. Altogether, I have never, on any occasion, made one at such a cosey, dosey, old-fashioned, time-forgotten, sleepy-headed little family-party in all my life; and I felt it would be quite a soothing opiate to belong to it in any character—except perhaps as a suitor.

           Very well satisfied with the dreamy nature of this retreat, I informed Mr. Spenlow that I had seen enough for that time, and we rejoined my aunt; in company with whom I presently departed from the Commons, feeling very young when I went out of Spenlow and Jorkins's, on account of the clerks poking one another with their pens to point me out.

           We arrived at Lincoln's Inn Fields without any new adventures, except encountering an unlucky donkey in a costermonger's cart, who suggested painful associations to my aunt.



page 138 We had another long talk about my plans, when we were safely housed; and as I knew she was anxious to get home, and, between fire, food, and pickpockets, could never be considered at her ease for half-an-hour in London, I urged her not to be uncomfortable on my account, but to leave me to take care of myself.

           “I have not been here a week to-morrow, without considering that too, my dear,” she returned. “There is a furnished little set of chambers to be let in the Adelphi, Trot, which ought to suit you to a marvel.”

           With this brief introduction, she produced from her pocket an advertisement, carefully cut out of a newspaper, setting forth that in Buckingham Street in the Adelphi there was to be let, furnished, with a view of the river, a singularly desirable, and compact set of chambers, forming a genteel residence for a young gentleman, a member of one of the Inns of Court, or otherwise, with immediate possession. Terms moderate, and could be taken for a month only if required.

           “Why, this is the very thing, aunt!” said I, flushed with the possible dignity of living in chambers.

           “Then come,” replied my aunt, immediately resuming the bonnet she had a minute before laid aside. “We'll go and look at 'em.”

           Away we went. The advertisement directed us to apply to Mrs. Crupp on the premises, and we rung the area bell, which we supposed to communicate with Mrs. Crupp. It was not until we had rung three or four times that we could prevail on Mrs. Crupp to communicate with us, but at last she appeared, being a stout lady with a flounce of flannel petticoat below a nankeen gown.

           “Let us see these chambers of yours, if you please, Ma'am,” said my aunt.



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           “For this gentleman?” said Mrs. Crupp, feeling in her pocket for her keys.

           “Yes, for my nephew,” said my aunt.

           “And a sweet set they is for sich!” said Mrs. Crupp.

           So we went up-stairs.

           They were on the top of the house—a great point with my aunt, being near the fire-escape—and consisted of a little half-blind entry where you could see hardly anything, a little stone-blind pantry where you could see nothing at all, a sitting-room, and a bed-room. The furniture was rather faded, but quite good enough for me; and, sure enough, the river was outside the windows.

           As I was delighted with the place, my aunt and Mrs. Crupp withdrew into the pantry to discuss the terms, while I remained on the sitting-room sofa, hardly daring to think it possible that I could be destined to live in such a noble residence. After a single combat of some duration they returned, and I saw, to my joy, both in Mrs. Crupp's countenance and in my aunt's, that the deed was done.

           “Is it the last occupant's furniture?” inquired my aunt.

           “Yes it is, Ma'am,” said Mrs. Crupp.

           “What's become of him?” asked my aunt.

           Mrs. Crupp was taken with a troublesome cough, in the midst of which she articulated with much difficulty. “He was took ill here, Ma'am, and—ugh! ugh! ugh! dear me!—and he died.”

           “Hey! What did he die of?” asked my aunt.

           “Well, Ma'am, he died of drink,” said Mrs. Crupp in confidence. “And smoke.”

           “Smoke? You don't mean chimneys?” said my aunt.

           “No, Ma'am,” returned Mrs. Crupp. “Cigars and pipes.”

           “That's not catching, Trot, at any rate,” remarked my aunt, turning to me.



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           “No, indeed,” said I.

           In short, my aunt, seeing how enraptured I was with the premises, took them for a month, with leave to remain for twelve months when that time was out. Mrs. Crupp was to find linen, and to cook; every other necessary was already provided; and Mrs. Crupp expressly intimated that she should always yearn towards me as a son. I was to take possession the day after to-morrow, and Mrs. Crupp said thank Heaven she had now found summun she could care for!

           On our way back, my aunt informed me how she confidently trusted that the life I was now to lead would make me firm and self-reliant, which was all I wanted. She repeated this several times next day, in the intervals of our arranging for the transmission of my clothes and books from Mr. Wickfield's; relative to which, and to all my late holiday, I wrote a long letter to Agnes, of which my aunt took charge, as she was to leave on the succeeding day. Not to lengthen these particulars, I need only add, that she made a handsome provision for all my possible wants during my month of trial; that Steerforth, to my great disappointment and hers too, did not make his appearance before she went away; that I saw her safely seated in the Dover coach, exulting in the coming discomfiture of the vagrant donkeys, with Janet at her side; and that when the coach was gone, I turned my face to the Adelphi, pondering on the old days when I used to roam about its subterranean arches, and on the happy changes which had brought me to the surface.



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CHAPTER VIII.
My first dissipation.

           IT was a wonderfully fine thing to have that lofty castle to myself, and to feel, when I shut my outer door, like Robinson Crusoe, when he had got into his fortification, and pulled his ladder up after him. It was a wonderfully fine thing to walk about town with the key of my house in my pocket, and to know that I could ask any fellow to come home, and make quite sure of its being inconvenient to nobody, if it were not so to me. It was a wonderfully fine thing to let myself in and out, and to come and go without a word to any one, and to ring Mrs. Crupp up, gasping, from the depths of the earth, when I wanted her—and when she was disposed to come. All this, I say, was wonderfully fine; but I must say, too, that there were times when it was very dreary.

           It was fine in the morning, particularly in the fine mornings. It looked a very fresh, free life, by daylight: still fresher, and more free, by sunlight. But as the day declined, the life seemed to go down too. I don't know how it was; it seldom looked well by candle-light. I wanted somebody to talk to, then. I missed Agnes. I found a tremendous blank, in the place of that smiling repository of my confidence. Mrs. Crupp appeared to be a long way off. I thought about my predecessor, who had died of drink and smoke; and I could have wished he had been so good as to live, and not bother me with his decease.

           After two days and nights, I felt as if I had lived there for a year, and yet I was not an hour older, but was quite as much tormented by my own youthfulness as ever.



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           Steerforth not yet appearing, which induced me to apprehend that he must be ill, I left the Commons early on the third day, and walked out to Highgate. Mrs. Steerforth was very glad to see me, and said that he had gone away with one of his Oxford friends to see another who lived near St. Albans, but that she expected him to return to-morrow. I was so fond of him, that I felt quite jealous of his Oxford friends.

           As she pressed me to stay to dinner, I remained, and I believe we talked about nothing but him all day. I told her how much the people liked him at Yarmouth, and what a delightful companion he had been. Miss Dartle was full of hints and mysterious questions, but took a great interest in all our proceedings there, and said, “Was it really, though?” and so forth, so often, that she got everything out of me she wanted to know. Her appearance was exactly what I have described it, when I first saw her; but the society of the two ladies was so agreeable, and came so natural to me, that I felt myself falling a little in love with her. I could not help thinking, several times in the course of the evening, and particularly when I walked home at night, what delightful company she would be in Buckingham Street.

           I was taking my coffee and roll in the morning, before going to the Commons—and I may observe in this place that it is surprising how much coffee Mrs. Crupp used, and how weak it was, considering—when Steerforth himself walked in, to my unbounded joy.

           “My dear Steerforth,” cried I, “I began to think I should never see you again!”

           “I was carried off, by force of arms,” said Steerforth, “the very next morning after I got home. Why, Daisy, what a rare old bachelor you are here!”

           I showed him over the establishment, not omitting the pantry, with no little pride, and he commended it highly.



page 143 “I tell you what, old boy,” he added, “I shall make quite a town-house of this place, unless you give me notice to quit.”

           This was a delightful hearing. I told him if he waited for that, he would have to wait till doomsday.

           “But you shall have some breakfast!” said I, with my hand on the bell-rope, “and Mrs. Crupp shall make you some fresh coffee, and I'll toast you some bacon in a bachelor's Dutch-oven that I have got here.”

           “No, no!” said Steerforth. “Don't ring! I can't! I am going to breakfast with one of these fellows who is at the Piazza Hotel, in Covent Garden.”

           “But you'll come back to dinner?” said I.

           “I can't, upon my life. There's nothing I should like better, but I must remain with these two fellows. We are all three off together to-morrow morning.”

           “Then bring them here to dinner,” I returned. “Do you think they would come?”

           “Oh! they would come fast enough,” said Steerforth; “but we should inconvenience you. You had better come and dine with us somewhere.”

           I would not by any means consent to this, for it occurred to me that I really ought to have a little housewarming, and that there never could be a better opportunity. I had a new pride in my rooms after his approval of them, and burned with a desire to develop their utmost resources. I therefore made him promise positively in the names of his two friends, and we appointed six o'clock as the dinner-hour.

           When he was gone, I rang for Mrs. Crupp, and acquainted her with my desperate design. Mrs. Crupp said, in the first place, of course it was well known she couldn't be expected to wait, but she knew a handy young man, who she thought could be prevailed upon to do it, and whose terms would be



page 144 five shillings, and what I pleased. I said, certainly we would have him. Next, Mrs. Crupp said it was clear she couldn't be in two places at once (which I felt to be reasonable), and that “a young gal” stationed in the pantry with a bed-room candle, there never to desist from washing plates, would be indispensable. I said, what would be the expense of this young female, and Mrs. Crupp said she supposed eighteen-pence would neither make me nor break me. I said I supposed not; and that was settled. Then Mrs. Crupp said, Now about the dinner.

           It was a remarkable instance of want of forethought on the part of the ironmonger who had made Mrs. Crupp's kitchen fire-place, that it was capable of cooking nothing but chops and mashed potatoes. As to a fish-kittle, Mrs. Crupp said, well! would I only come and look at the range. She couldn't say fairer than that. Would I come and look at it? As I should not have been much the wiser if I had looked at it, I declined, and said, “Never mind fish.” But Mrs. Crupp said, Don't say that; oysters was in, and why not them? So that was settled. Mrs. Crupp then said what she would recommend would be this. A pair of hot roast fowls—from the pastry-cook's; a dish of stewed beef, with vegetables—from the pastry-cook's; two little corner things, as a raised pie and a dish of kidneys—from the pastry-cook's; a tart, and (if I liked) a shape of jelly—from the pastry-cook's. This, Mrs. Crupp said, would leave her at full liberty to concentrate her mind on the potatoes, and to serve up the cheese and celery as she could wish to see it done.

           I acted on Mrs. Crupp's opinion, and gave the order at the pastry-cook's myself. Walking along the Strand, afterwards, and observing a hard mottled substance in the window of a ham and beef shop, which resembled marble, but was labelled “Mock Turtle,” I went in and bought a slab of it, which I have



page 145 since seen reason to believe would have sufficed for fifteen people. This preparation, Mrs. Crupp, after some difficulty, consented to warm up; and it shrunk so much in a liquid state, that we found it what Steerforth called “rather a tight fit” for four.

           These preparations happily completed, I bought a little dessert in Covent Garden Market, and gave a rather extensive order at a retail wine-merchant's in that vicinity. When I came home in the afternoon, and saw the bottles drawn up in a square on the pantry-floor, they looked so numerous (though there were two missing, which made Mrs. Crupp very uncomfortable), that I was absolutely frightened at them.

           One of Steerforth's friends was named Grainger, and the other Markham. They were both very gay and lively fellows; Grainger, something older than Steerforth; Markham, youthful-looking, and I should say not more than twenty. I observed that the latter always spoke of himself indefinitely, as “a man,” and seldom or never in the first person singular.

           “A man might get on very well here, Mr. Copperfield,” said Markham—meaning himself.

           “It's not a bad situation,” said I, “and the rooms are really commodious.”

           “I hope you have both brought appetites with you?” said Steerforth.

           “Upon my honour,” returned Markham, “town seems to sharpen a man's appetite, A man is hungry all day long. A man is perpetually eating.”

           Being a little embarrassed at first, and feeling much too young to preside, I made Steerforth take the head of the table when dinner was announced, and seated myself opposite to him. Everything was very good; we did not spare the wine; and he exerted himself so brilliantly to make the thing pass off well, that there was no pause in our festivity. I was not quite



page 146 such good company during dinner, as I could have wished to be, for my chair was opposite the door, and my attention was distracted by observing that the handy young man went out of the room very often, and that his shadow always presented itself, immediately afterwards, on the wall of the entry, with a bottle at its mouth. The “young gal” likewise occasioned me some uneasiness: not so much by neglecting to wash the plates, as by breaking them. For being of an inquisitive disposition, and unable to confine herself (as her positive instructions were) to the pantry, she was constantly peering in at us, and constantly imagining herself detected; in which belief, she several times retired upon the plates (with which she had carefully paved the floor), and did a great deal of destruction.

           These, however, were small drawbacks, and easily forgotten when the cloth was cleared, and the dessert put on the table; at which period of the entertainment the handy young man was discovered to be speechless. Giving him private directions to seek the society of Mrs. Crupp, and to remove the “young gal” to the basement also, I abandoned myself to enjoyment.

           I began, by being singularly cheerful and light-hearted; all sorts of half-forgotten things to talk about, came rushing into my mind, and made me hold forth in a most unwonted manner. I laughed heartily at my own jokes, and everybody else's; called Steerforth to order for not passing the wine; made several engagements to go to Oxford; announced that I meant to have a dinner party exactly like that, once a week until further notice; and madly took so much snuff out of Grainger's box, that I was obliged to go into the pantry, and have a private fit of sneezing ten minutes long.

           I went on, by passing the wine faster and faster yet, and continually starting up with a corkscrew to open more wine, long before any was needed. I proposed Steerforth's health.



page 147 I said he was my dearest friend, the protector of my boyhood, and the companion of my prime. I said I was delighted to propose his health. I said I owed him more obligations than I could ever repay, and held him in a higher admiration than I could ever express. I finished by saying, “I'll give you Steerforth! God bless him! Hurrah!” We gave him three times three, and another, and a good one to finish with. I broke my glass in going round the table to shake hands with him, and I said (in two words) “Steerforthyou'retheguidingstarofmyexist ence.”

           I went on, by finding suddenly that somebody was in the middle of a song. Markham was the singer, and he sang “When the heart of a man is depressed with care.” He said, when he had sung it, he would give us “Woman!” I took objection to that, and I couldn't allow it. I said it was not a respectful way of proposing the toast, and I would never permit that toast to be drunk in my house otherwise than as “The Ladies!” I was very high with him, mainly I think because I saw Steerforth and Grainger laughing at me—or at him—or at both of us. He said a man was not to be dictated to. I said a man was. He said a man was not to be insulted, then. I said he was right there—never under my roof, where the Lares were sacred, and the laws of hospitality paramount. He said it was no derogation from a man's dignity to confess that I was a devilish good fellow. I instantly proposed his health.

           Somebody was smoking. We were all smoking. I was smoking, and trying to suppress a rising tendency to shudder. Steerforth had made a speech about me, in the course of which I had been affected almost to tears. I returned thanks, and hoped the present company would dine with me to-morrow, and the day after—each day at five o'clock, that we might enjoy the pleasures of conversation and society through a long evening. I felt called upon to propose an individual. I would



page 148 give them my aunt. Miss Betsey Trotwood, the best of her sex!

           Somebody was leaning out of my bed-room window, refreshing his forehead against the cool stone of the parapet, and feeling the air upon his face. It was myself. I was addressing myself as “Copperfield,” and saying, “Why did you try to smoke? You might have known you couldn't do it.” Now, somebody was unsteadily contemplating his features in the looking-glass. That was I too. I was very pale in the looking-glass; my eyes had a vacant appearance; and my hair—only my hair, nothing else—looked drunk.

           Somebody said to me, “Let us go to the theatre, Copperfield!” There was no bed-room before me, but again the jingling table covered with glasses; the lamp; Grainger on my right hand, Markham on my left, and Steerforth opposite—all sitting in a mist, and a long way off. The theatre? To be sure. The very thing. Come along! But they must excuse me if I saw everybody out first, and turned the lamp off—in case of fire.

           Owing to some confusion in the dark, the door was gone. I was feeling for it in the window-curtains, when Steerforth, laughing, took me by the arm and led me out. We went down-stairs, one behind another. Near the bottom, somebody fell, and rolled down. Somebody else said it was Copperfield. I was angry at that false report, until, finding myself on my back in the passage, I began to think there might be some foundation for it.

           A very foggy night, with great rings round the lamps in the streets! There was an indistinct talk of its being wet. I considered it frosty. Steerforth dusted me under a lamp-post, and put my hat into shape, which somebody produced from somewhere in a most extraordinary manner, for I hadn't had it



page 149 on before. Steerforth then said, “You are all right, Copper-field, are you not?” and I told him, “Neverberrer.”

           A man, sitting in a pigeon-hole-place, looked out of the fog, and took money from somebody, inquiring if I was one of the gentlemen paid for, and appearing rather doubtful (as I remember in the glimpse I had of him) whether to take the money for me or not. Shortly afterwards, we were very high up in a very hot theatre, looking down into a large pit, that seemed to me to smoke; the people with whom it was crammed were so indistinct. There was a great stage, too, looking very clean and smooth after the streets; and there were people upon it, talking about something or other, but not at all intelligibly. There was an abundance of bright lights, and there was music, and there were ladies down in the boxes, and I don't know what more. The whole building looked to me, as if it were learning to swim; it conducted itself in such an unaccountable manner, when I tried to steady it.

           On somebody's motion, we resolved to go down-stairs to the dress-boxes, where the ladies were. A gentleman lounging, full dressed, on a sofa, with an opera-glass in his hand, passed before my view, and also my own figure at full length in a glass. Then I was being ushered into one of these boxes, and found myself saying something as I sat down, and people about me crying “Silence!” to somebody, and ladies casting indignant glances at me, and—what! yes!—Agnes, sitting on the seat before me, in the same box, with a lady and gentleman beside her, whom I didn't know. I see her face now, better than I did then I dare say, with its indelible look of regret and wonder turned upon me.

           “Agnes!” I said, thickly, “Lorblessmer! Agnes!”

           “Hush! Pray!” she answered, I could not conceive why. “You disturb the company. Look at the stage!”

           I tried, on her injunction, to fix it, and to hear something



page 150 of what was going on there, but quite in vain. I looked at her again by-and-by, and saw her shrink into her corner, and put her gloved hand to her forehead.

           “Agnes!” I said. “I'm afraid you're norwell.”

           “Yes, yes. Do not mind me, Trotwood,” she returned. “Listen! Are you going away soon?”

           “Amigoarawaysoo?” I repeated.

           “Yes.”

           I had a stupid intention of replying that I was going to wait, to hand her down-stairs. I suppose I expressed it, somehow; for after she had looked at me attentively for a little while, she appeared to understand, and replied in a low tone:

           “I know you will do as I ask you, if I tell you I am very earnest in it. Go away now, Trotwood, for my sake, and ask your friends to take you home.”

           She had so far improved me, for the time, that though I was angry with her, I felt ashamed, and with a short “Goori!” (which I intended for “Good night!”) got up and went away. They followed, and I stepped at once out of the box-door into my bed-room, where only Steerforth was with me, helping me to undress, and where I was by turns telling him that Agnes was my sister, and adjuring him to bring the corkscrew, that I might open another bottle of wine.

           How somebody, lying in my bed, lay saying and doing all this over again, at cross purposes, in a feverish dream all night—the bed a rocking sea that was never still! How, as that somebody slowly settled down into myself, did I begin to parch, and feel as if my outer covering of skin were a hard board; my tongue the bottom of an empty kettle, furred with long service, and burning up over a slow fire; the palms of my hands, hot plates of metal which no ice could cool!

           But the agony of mind, the remorse, and shame I felt, when I became conscious next day! My horror of having committed



page 151 a thousand offences I had forgotten, and which nothing could ever expiate—my recollection of that indelible look which Agnes had given me—the torturing impossibility of communicating with her, not knowing, Beast that I was, how she came to be in London, or where she stayed—my disgust of the very sight of the room where the revel had been held—my racking head—the smell of smoke, the sight of glasses, the impossibility of going out, or even getting up! Oh, what a day it was!

           Oh, what an evening, when I sat down by my fire to a basin of mutton broth, dimpled all over with fat, and thought I was going the way of my predecessor, and should succeed to his dismal story as well as to his chambers, and had half a mind to rush express to Dover and reveal all! What an evening, when Mrs. Crupp, coming in to take away the broth-basin, produced one kidney on a cheese-plate as the entire remains of yesterday's feast, and I was really inclined to fall upon her nankeen breast, and say, in heartfelt penitence, “Oh, Mrs. Crupp, Mrs. Crupp, never mind the broken meats! I am very miserable!”—only that I doubted, even at that pass, if Mrs. Crupp were quite the sort of woman to confide in!



page 152

CHAPTER IX.
Good and bad angels.

           I was going out at my door on the morning after that deplorable day of headache, sickness, and repentance, with an odd confusion in my mind relative to the date of my dinner-party, as if a body of Titans had taken an enormous lever and pushed the day before yesterday some months back, when I saw a ticket-porter coming up-stairs, with a letter in his hand. He was taking his time about his errand, then; but when he saw me on the top of the staircase, looking at him over the bannisters, he swung into a trot, and came up panting as if he had run himself into a state of exhaustion.

           “T. Copperfield, Esquire,” said the ticket-porter, touching his hat with his little cane.

           I could scarcely lay claim to the name: I was so disturbed by the conviction that the letter came from Agnes. However, I told him I was T. Copperfield, Esquire, and he believed it, and gave me the letter, which he said required an answer. I shut him out on the landing to wait for the answer, and went into my chambers again, in such a nervous state that I was fain to lay the letter down on my breakfast-table, and familiarise myself with the outside of it a little, before I could resolve to break the seal.

           I found, when I did open it, that it was a very kind note, containing no reference to my condition at the theatre. All it said, was, “My dear Trotwood. I am staying at the house of papa's agent, Mr. Waterbrook, in Ely-place, Holborn. Will you come and see me to-day, at any time you like to appoint? Ever yours affectionately, AGNES.”



page 153

           It took me such a long time to write an answer at all to my satisfaction, that I don't know what the ticket-porter can have thought, unless he thought I was learning to write. I must have written half a dozen answers at least. I began one, “How can I ever hope, my dear Agnes, to efface from your remembrance the disgusting impression”—there I didn't like it, and then I tore it up. I began another, “Shakespeare has observed, my dear Agnes, how strange it is that a man should put an enemy into his mouth”—that reminded me of Markham, and it got no farther. I even tried poetry. I began one note, in a six-syllable line, “Oh do not remember”—but that associated itself with the fifth of November, and became an absurdity. After many attempts, I wrote, “My dear Agnes. Your letter is like you, and what could I say of it that would be higher praise than that? I will come at four o'clock. Affectionately and sorrowfully, T. C.” With this missive (which I was in twenty minds at once about recalling, as soon as it was out of my hands), the ticket-porter at last departed.

           If the day were half as tremendous to any other professional gentleman in Doctors' Commons as it was to me, I sincerely believe he made some expiation for his share in that rotten old ecclesiastical cheese. Although I left the office at half-past three, and was prowling about the place of appointment within a few minutes afterwards, the appointed time was exceeded by a full quarter of an hour, according to the clock of St. Andrew's, Holborn, before I could muster up sufficient desperation to pull the private bell-handle let into the lefthand door-post of Mr. Waterbrook's house.

           The professional business of Mr. Waterbrook's establishment was done on the ground-floor, and the genteel business (of which there was a good deal) in the upper part of the



page 154 building. I was shown into a pretty but rather close drawingroom, and there sat Agnes, netting a purse.

           She looked so quiet and good, and reminded me so strongly of my airy fresh school days at Canterbury, and the sodden, smoky, stupid wretch I had been the other night, that, nobody being by, I yielded to my self-reproach and shame, and—in short, made a fool of myself. I cannot deny that I shed tears. To this hour I am undecided whether it was upon the whole the wisest thing I could have done, or the most ridiculous.

           “If it had been any one but you, Agnes,” said I, turning away my head, “I should not have minded it half so much. But that it should have been you who saw me! I almost wish I had been dead, first.”

           She put her hand—its touch was like no other hand—upon my arm for a moment; and I felt so befriended and comforted, that I could not help moving it to my lips, and gratefully kissing it.

           “Sit down,” said Agnes, cheerfully. “Don't be unhappy, Trotwood. If you cannot confidently trust me, whom will you trust?”

           “Ah, Agnes!” I returned. “You are my good Angel!”

           She smiled rather sadly, I thought, and shook her head.

           “Yes, Agnes, my good Angel! Always my good Angel!”

           “If I were, indeed, Trotwood,” she returned, “there is one thing that I should set my heart on very much.”

           I looked at her inquiringly; but already with a foreknowledge of her meaning.

           “On warning you,” said Agnes, with a steady glance, “against your bad Angel.”

           “My dear Agnes,” I began, “if you mean Steerforth—”

           “I do, Trotwood,” she returned.

           “Then, Agnes, you wrong him very much. He my bad



page 155 Angel, or anyone's! He, anything but a guide, a support, and a friend to me! My dear Agnes! Now, is it not unjust, and unlike you, to judge him from what you saw of me the other night?”

           “I do not judge him from what I saw of you the other night,” she quietly replied.

           “From what, then?”

           “From many things—trifles in themselves, but they do not seem to me to be so, when they are put together. I judge him, partly from your account of him, Trotwood, and your character, and the influence he has over you.”

           There was always something in her modest voice that seemed to touch a chord within me, answering to that sound alone. It was always earnest; but when it was very earnest, as it was now, there was a thrill in it that quite subdued me. I sat looking at her as she cast her eyes down on her work; I sat seeming still to listen to her; and Steerforth, in spite of all my attachment to him, darkened in that tone.

           “It is very bold in me,” said Agnes, looking up again, “who have lived in such seclusion, and can know so little of the world, to give you my advice so confidently, or even to have this strong opinion. But I know in what it is engendered, Trotwood,—in how true a remembrance of our having grown up together, and in how true an interest in all relating to you. It is that which makes me bold. I am certain that what I say is right. I am quite sure it is. I feel as if it were some one else speaking to you, and not I, when I caution you that you have made a dangerous friend.”

           Again I looked at her, again I listened to her after she was silent, and again his image, though it was still fixed in my heart, darkened.

           “I am not so unreasonable as to expect,” said Agnes, resuming her usual tone, after a little while, “that you will,



page 156 or that you can, at once, change any sentiment that has become a conviction to you; least of all a sentiment that is rooted in your trusting disposition. You ought not hastily to do that. I only ask you, Trotwood, if you ever think of me—I mean” with a quiet smile, for I was going to interrupt her, and she knew why “as often as you think of me—to think of what I have said. Do you forgive me for all this?”

           “I will forgive you, Agnes,” I replied, “when you come to do Steerforth justice, and to like him as well as I do.”

           “Not until then?” said Agnes.

           I saw a passing shadow on her face when I made this mention of him, but she returned my smile, and we were again as unreserved in our mutual confidence as of old.

           “And when, Agnes,” said I, “will you forgive me the other night?”

           “When I recall it,” said Agnes.

           She would have dismissed the subject so, but I was too full of it to allow that, and insisted on telling her how it happened that I had disgraced myself, and what chain of accidental circumstances had had the theatre for its final link. It was a great relief to me to do this, and to enlarge on the obligation that I owed to Steerforth for his care of me when I was unable to take care of myself.

           “You must not forget,” said Agnes, calmly changing the conversation as soon as I had concluded, “that you are always to tell me, not only when you fall into trouble, but when you fall in love. Who has succeeded to Miss Larkins, Trotwood?”

           “No one, Agnes.”

           “Some one, Trotwood,” said Agnes, laughing, and holding up her finger.



page 157

           “No, Agnes, upon my word! There is a lady, certainly, at Mrs. Steerforth's house, who is very clever, and whom I like to talk to—Miss Dartle—but I don't adore her.”

           Agnes laughed again at her own penetration, and told me that if I were faithful to her in my confidence she thought she should keep a little register of my violent attachments, with the date, duration, and termination of each, like the table of the reigns of the kings and queens, in the History of England. Then she asked me if I had seen Uriah.

           “Uriah Heep?” said I. “No. Is he in London?”

           “He comes to the office down-stairs, every day,” returned Agnes. “He was in London a week before me. I am afraid on disagreeable business, Trotwood.”

           “On some business that makes you uneasy, Agnes, I see,” said I. “What can that be?”

           Agnes laid aside her work, and replied, folding her hands upon one another, and looking pensively at me out of those beautiful soft eyes of hers:

           “I believe he is going to enter into partnership with papa.”

           “What? Uriah? That mean, fawning fellow, worm himself into such promotion?” I cried, indignantly. “Have you made no remonstrance about it, Agnes? Consider what a connexion it is likely to be. You must speak out. You must not allow your father to take such a mad step. You must prevent it, Agnes, while there's time.”

           Still looking at me, Agnes shook her head while I was speaking, with a faint smile at my warmth: and then replied:

           “You remember our last conversation about papa? It was not long after that—not more than two or three days—when he gave me the first intimation of what I



page 158 tell you. It was sad to see him struggling between his desire to represent it to me as a matter of choice on his part, and his inability to conceal that it was forced upon him. I felt very sorry.”

           “Forced upon him, Agnes! Who forces it upon him?”

           “Uriah,” she replied, after a moment's hesitation, “has made himself indispensable to papa. He is subtle and watchful. He has mastered papa's weaknesses, fostered them, and taken advantage of them, until—to say all that I mean in a word, Trotwood, until papa is afraid of him.”

           There was more that she might have said; more that she knew, or that she suspected; I clearly saw. I could not give her pain by asking what it was, for I knew that she withheld it from me, to spare her father. It had long been going on to this, I was sensible: yes, I could not but feel, on the least reflection, that it had been going on to this for a long time. I remained silent.

           “His ascendancy over papa,” said Agnes, “is very great. He professes humility and gratitude—with truth, perhaps: I hope so—but his position is really one of power, and I fear he makes a hard use of his power.”

           I said he was a hound, which, at the moment, was a great satisfaction to me.

           “At the time I speak of, as the time when papa spoke to me,” pursued Agnes, “he had told papa that he was going away; that he was very sorry, and unwilling to leave, but that he had better prospects. Papa was very much depressed then, and more bowed down by care than ever you or I have seen him; but he seemed relieved by this expedient of the partnership, though at the same time he seemed hurt by it and ashamed of it.”

           “And how did you receive it, Agnes?”

           “I did, Trotwood,” she replied, “what I hope was right.



page 159 Feeling sure that it was necessary for papa's peace that the sacrifice should be made, I entreated him to make it. I said it would lighten the load of his life—I hope it will!—and that it would give me increased opportunities of being his companion. Oh, Trotwood!” cried Agnes, putting her hands before her face, as her tears started on it, “I almost feel as if I had been papa's enemy, instead of his loving child. For I know how he has altered, in his devotion to me. I know how he has narrowed the circle of his sympathies and duties, in the concentration of his whole mind upon me. I know what a multitude of things he has shut out for my sake, and how his anxious thoughts of me have shadowed his life, and weakened his strength and energy, by turning them always upon one idea. If I could ever set this right! If I could ever work out his restoration, as I have so innocently been the cause of his decline!”

           I had never before seen Agnes cry. I had seen tears in her eyes when I had brought new honours home from school, and I had seen them there when we last spoke about her father, and I had seen her turn her gentle head aside when we took leave of one another; but I had never seen her grieve like this. It made me so sorry that I could only say, in a foolish, helpless manner, “Pray, Agnes, don't! Don't, my dear sister!”

           But Agnes was too superior to me in character and purpose, as I know well now, whatever I might know or not know then, to be long in need of my entreaties. The beautiful, calm manner, which makes her so different in my remembrance from everybody else, came back again, as if a cloud had passed from a serene sky.

           “We are not likely to remain alone much longer,” said Agnes, “and while I have an opportunity, let me earnestly entreat you, Trotwood, to be friendly to Uriah. Don't



page 160 repel him. Don't resent (as I think you have a general disposition to do) what may be uncongenial to you in him. He may not deserve it, for we know no certain ill of him. In any case, think first of papa and me!”

           Agnes had no time to say more, for the room-door opened, and Mrs. Waterbrook, who was a large lady—or who wore a large dress: I don't exactly know which, for I don't know which was dress and which was lady—came sailing in. I had a dim recollection of having seen her at the theatre, as if I had seen her in a pale magic lantern; but she appeared to remember me perfectly, and still to suspect me of being in a state of intoxication.

           Finding by degrees, however, that I was sober, and (I hope) that I was a modest young gentleman, Mrs. Waterbrook softened towards me considerably, and inquired, firstly, if I went much into the parks, and secondly, if I went much into society. On my replying to both these questions in the negative, it occurred to me that I fell again in her good opinion; but she concealed the fact gracefully, and invited me to dinner next day. I accepted the invitation, and took my leave; making a call on Uriah in the office as I went out, and leaving a card for him in his absence.

           When I went to dinner next day, and, on the street-door being opened, plunged in a vapour-bath of haunch of mutton, I divined that I was not the only guest; for I immediately identified the ticket-porter in disguise, assisting the family servant, and waiting at the foot of the stairs to carry up my name. He looked, to the best of his ability, when he asked me for it confidentially, as if he had never seen me before; but well did I know him, and well did he know me. Conscience made cowards of us both.

           I found Mr. Waterbrook to be a middle aged gentleman,



page 161 with a short throat, and a good deal of shirt-collar, who only wanted a black nose to be the portrait of a pug-dog. He told me he was happy to have the honour of making my acquaintance; and when I had paid my homage to Mrs. Waterbrook, presented me, with much ceremony, to a very awful lady in a black velvet dress, and a great black velvet hat, whom I remember as looking like a near relation of Hamlet's—say his aunt.

           Mrs. Henry Spiker was this lady's name; and her husband was there too; so cold a man, that his head, instead of being grey, seemed to be sprinkled with hoar-frost. Immense deference was shown to the Henry Spikers, male and female; which Agnes told me was on account of Mr. Henry Spiker being solicitor to something or to somebody, I forget what or which, remotely connected with the Treasury.

           I found Uriah Heep among the company, in a suit of black, and in deep humility. He told me, when I shook hands with him, that he was proud to be noticed by me, and that he really felt obliged to me for my condescension. I could have wished he had been less obliged to me, for he hovered about me in his gratitude all the rest of the evening; and whenever I said a word to Agnes, was sure, with his shadowless eyes and cadaverous face, to be looking gauntly down upon us from behind.

           There were other guests—all iced for the occasion, as it struck me, like the wine. But, there was one who attracted my attention before he came in, on account of my hearing him announced as Mr. Traddles! My mind flew back to Salem House; and could it be Tommy, I thought, who used to draw the skeletons!

           I looked for Mr. Traddles with unusual interest. He was a sober, steady-looking young man of retiring manners, with



page 162 a comic head of hair, and eyes that were rather wide open; and he got into an obscure corner so soon, that I had some difficulty in making him out. At length I had a good view of him, and either my vision deceived me, or it was the old unfortunate Tommy.

           I made my way to Mr. Waterbrook, and said, that I believed I had the pleasure of seeing an old school-fellow there.

           “Indeed?” said Mr. Waterbrook, surprised. “You are too young to have been at school with Mr. Henry Spiker?”

           “Oh, I don't mean him!” I returned. “I mean the gentleman named Traddles.”

           “Oh! Aye, age! Indeed!” said my host, with much diminished interest. “Possibly.”

           “If it's really the same person,” said I, glancing towards him, “it was at a place called Salem House where we were together, and he was an excellent fellow.”

           “Oh yes. Traddles is a good fellow,” returned my host, nodding his head with an air of toleration. “Traddles is quite a good fellow.”

           “It's a curious coincidence,” said I.

           “It is really,” returned my host, “quite a coincidence, that Traddles should be here at all: as Traddles was only invited this morning, when the place at table, intended to be occupied by Mrs. Henry Spiker's brother, became vacant, in consequence of his indisposition. A very gentlemanly man, Mrs. Henry Spiker's brother, Mr. Copperfield.”

           I murmured an assent, which was full of feeling, considering that I knew nothing at all about him; and I inquired what Mr. Traddles was by profession.

           “Traddles,” returned Mr. Waterbrook, “is a young man reading for the bar. Yes. He is quite a good fellow—nobody's enemy but his own.”



page 163

           “Is he his own enemy?” said I, sorry to hear this.

           “Well,” returned Mr. Waterbrook, pursing up his mouth, and playing with his watch-chain, in a comfortable, prosperous sort of way. “I should say he was one of those men who stand in their own light. Yes, I should say he would never, for example, be worth five hundred pound. Traddles was recommended to me, by a professional friend. Oh yes. Yes. He has a kind of talent, for drawing briefs, and stating a case in writing, plainly. I am able to throw something in Traddles's way, in the course of the year; something—for him—considerable. Oh yes. Yes.”

           I was much impressed by the extremely comfortable and satisfied manner, in which Mr. Waterbrook delivered himself of this little word “Yes,” every now and then. There was wonderful expression in it. It completely conveyed the idea of a man who had been born, not to say with a silver spoon, but with a scaling-ladder, and had gone on mounting all the heights of life one after another, until now he looked, from the top of the fortifications, with the eye of a philosopher and a patron, on the people down in the trenches.

           My reflections on this theme were still in progress when dinner was announced. Mr. Waterbrook went down with Hamlet's aunt. Mr. Henry Spiker took Mrs. Waterbrook. Agnes, whom I should have liked to take myself, was given to a simpering fellow with weak legs. Uriah, Traddles, and I, as the junior part of the company, went down last, how we could. I was not so vexed at losing Agnes as I might have been since it gave me an opportunity of making myself known to Traddles on the stairs, who greeted me with great fervour: while Uriah writhed with such obtrusive satisfaction and self-abasement, that I could gladly have pitched him over the bannisters.

           Traddles and I were separated at table, being billeted in



page 164 two remote corners: he in the glare of a red velvet lady; I, in the gloom of Hamlet's aunt. The dinner was very long, and the conversation was about the Aristocracy—and Blood. Mrs. Waterbrook repeatedly told us, that if she had a weakness, it was Blood.

           It occurred to me several times that we should have got on better, if we had not been quite so genteel. We were so exceedingly genteel, that our scope was very limited. A Mr. and Mrs. Gulpidge were of the party, who had something to do at second-hand (at least, Mr. Gulpidge had) with the law business of the Bank; and what with the Bank, and what with the Treasury, we were as exclusive as the Court Circular. To mend the matter, Hamlet's aunt had the family failing of indulging in soliloquy, and held forth in a desultory manner, by herself, on every topic that was introduced. These were few enough, to be sure; but as we always fell back upon Blood, she has as wide a field for abstract speculation as her nephew himself.

           We might have been a party of Ogres, the conversation assumed such a sanguine complexion.

           “I confess I am of Mrs. Waterbrook's opinion,” said Mr. Waterbrook, with his wine-glass at his eye. “Other things are all very well in their way, but give me Blood!”

           “Oh! There is nothing,” observed Hamlet's aunt, “so satisfactory to one! There is nothing that is so much one's beau-ideal of—of all that sort of thing, speaking generally. There are some low minds (not many, I am happy to believe, but there are some) that would prefer to do what I should call bow down before idols. Positively Idols! Before services, intellect, and so on. But these are intangible points. Blood is not so. We see Blood in a nose, and we know it. We meet with it in a chin, and we say, ‘There it is! That's Blood!’



page 165 It is an actual matter of fact. We point it out. It admits of no doubt.”

           The simpering fellow with the weak legs, who had taken Agnes down, stated the question more decisively yet, I thought.

           “Oh, you know, deuce take it,” said this gentleman, looking round the board with an imbecile smile, “we can't forego Blood, you know. We must have Blood, you know. Some young fellows, you know, may be a little behind their station, perhaps, in point of education and behaviour, and may go a little wrong, you know, and get themselves and other people into a variety of fixes—and all that—but deuce take it, it's delightful to reflect that they've got Blood in 'em! Myself, I'd rather at any time be knocked down by a man who had got Blood in him, than I'd be picked up by a man who hadn't!”

           This sentiment, as compressing the general question into a nutshell, gave the utmost satisfaction, and brought the gentleman into great notice until the ladies retired. After that, I observed that Mr. Gulpidge and Mr. Henry Spiker, who had hitherto been very distant, entered into a defensive alliance against us, the common enemy, and exchanged a mysterious dialogue across the table for our defeat and overthrow.

           “That affair of the first bond for four thausand five hundred pounds has not taken the course that was expected, Gulpidge,” said Mr. Henry Spiker.

           “Do you mean the D. of A.'s?” said Mr. Spiker.

           “The C. of B.'s?” said Mr. Gulpidge.

           Mr. Spiker raised his eye-brows, and looked much concerned.

           “When the question was referred to Lord—I needn't name him,” said Mr. Gulpidge, checking himself—



page 166

           “I understand,” said Mr. Spiker, “N.”

           Mr. Gulpidge darkly nodded—“was referred to him, his answer was, ‘Money, or no release.’ ”

           “Lord bless my soul!” cried Mr. Spiker.

           “ ‘Money, or no release,’ ” repeated Mr. Gulpidge firmly. “The next in reversion—you understand me?”

           “K.” said Mr. Spiker, with an ominous look.

           “—K. then positively refused to sign. He was attended at New-market for that purpose, and he point-blank refused to do it.”

           Mr. Spiker was so interested, that he became quite stony.

           “So the matter rests at this hour,” said Mr. Gulpidge, throwing himself back in his chair. “Our friend Waterbrook will excuse me if I forbear to explain myself generally, on account of the magnitude of the interests involved.”

           Mr. Waterbrook was only too happy, as it appeared to me, to have such interests, and such names, even hinted at, across his table. He assumed an expression of gloomy intelligence (though I am persuaded he knew no more about the discussion than I did), and highly approved of the discretion that had been observed. Mr. Spiker, after the receipt of such a confidence, naturally desired to favour his friend with a confidence of his own; therefore the foregoing dialogue was succeeded by another, in which it was Mr. Gulpidge's turn to be surprised, and that by another in which the surprise came round to Mr. Spiker's turn again, and so on, turn and turn about. All this time we, the outsiders, remained oppressed by the tremendous interests involved in the conversation; and our host regarded us with pride, as the victims of a salutary awe and astonishment.

           I was very glad indeed to get up-stairs to Agnes, and to talk with her in a corner, and to introduce Traddles to her, who was shy, but agreeable, and the same good-natured creature



page 167 still. As he was obliged to leave early, on account of going away next morning for a month, I had not nearly so much conversation with him as I could have wished; but we exchanged addresses, and promised ourselves the pleasure of another meeting when he should come back to town. He was greatly interested to hear that I knew Steerforth, and spoke of him with such warmth that I made him tell Agnes what he thought of him. But Agnes only looked at me the while, and very slightly shook her head when only I observed her.

           As she was not among people with whom I believed she could be very much at home, I was almost glad to hear that she was going away within a few days, though I was sorry at the prospect of parting from her again so soon. This caused me to remain until all the company were gone. Conversing with her, and hearing her sing, was such a delightful reminder to me of my happy life in the grave old house she had made so beautiful, that I could have remained there half the night; but, having no excuse for staying any longer, when the lights of Mr. Waterbrook's society were all snuffed out, I took my leave very much against my inclination. I felt then, more than ever, that she was my better Angel; and if I thought of her sweet face and placid smile, as though they had shone on me from some removed being, like an Angel, I hope I thought no harm.

           I have said that the company were all gone; but I ought to have excepted Uriah, whom I don't include in that denomination, and who had never ceased to hover near us. He was close behind me when I went down-stairs. He was close beside me, when I walked away from the house, slowly fitting his long skeleton fingers into the still longer fingers of a great Guy Fawkes pair of gloves.

           It was in no disposition for Uriah's company, but in remembrance of the entreaty Agnes had made to me, that I asked



page 168 him if he would come home to my rooms, and have some coffee.

           “Oh, really, Master Copperfield,” he rejoined,—“I beg your pardon, Mister Copperfield, but the other comes so natural,—I don't like that you should put a constraint upon yourself to ask a numble person like me to your ouse.”

           “There is no constraint in the case,” said I. “Will you come?”

           “I should like to, very much,” replied Uriah, with a writhe.

           “Well, then, come along!” said I.

           I could not help being rather short with him, but he appeared not to mind it. We went the nearest way, without conversing much upon the road; and he was so humble in respect of those scarecrow gloves, that he was still putting them on, and seemed to have made no advance in that labour, when we got to my place.

           I led him up the dark stairs, to prevent his knocking his head against anything, and really his damp cold hand felt so like a frog in mine, that I was tempted to drop it and run away. Agnes and hospitality prevailed, however, and I conducted him to my fireside. When I lighted my candles, he fell into meek transports with the room that was revealed to him; and when I heated the coffee in an unassuming block-tin vessel, in which Mrs. Crupp delighted to prepare it (chiefly, I believe, because it was not intended for the purpose, being a shavingpot, and because there was a patent invention of great price mouldering away in the pantry), he professed so much emotion, that I could joyfully have scalded him.

           “Oh, really, Master Copperfield,—I mean Mister Copperfield,” said Uriah, “to see you waiting upon me is what I never could have expected! But, one way and another, so many things happen to me which I never could have expected, I am



page 169 sure, in my umble station, that it seems to rain blessings on my ed. You have heard something, I des-say, of a change in my expectations, Master Copperfield,—I should say, Mister Copperfield?”

           As he sat on my sofa, with his long knees drawn up under his coffee-cup, his hat and gloves upon the ground close to him, his spoon going softly round and round, his shadowless red eyes, which looked as if they had scorched their lashes off, turned towards me without looking at me, the disagreeable dints I have formerly described in his nostrils coming and going with his breath, and a snaky undulation prevading his frame from his chin to his boots, I decided in my own mind that I disliked him intensely. It made me very uncomfortable to have him for a guest, for I was young then, and unused to disguise what I so strongly felt.

           “You have heard something, I des-say, of a change in my expectations, Master Copperfield,—I should say, Mister Copperfield?” observed Uriah.

           “Yes,” said I, “something.”

           “Ah! I thought Miss Agnes would know of it!” he quietly returned. “I'm glad to find Miss Agnes knows of it. Oh, thank you, Master—Mister Copperfield!”

           I could have thrown my bootjack at him (it lay ready on the rug), for having entrapped me into the disclosure of anything concerning Agnes, however immaterial. But I only drank my coffee.

           “What a prophet you have shown yourself, Mister Copperfield!” pursued Uriah. “Dear me, what a prophet you have proved yourself to be! Don't you remember saying to me once, that perhaps I should be a partner in Mr. Wickfield's business, and perhaps it might be Wickfield and Heep! You may not recollect it; but when a person is umble, Master Copperfield, a person treasures such things up!”



page 170

           “I recollect talking about it,” said I, “though I certainly did not think it very likely then.”

           “Oh! who would have thought it likely, Mister Copperfield!” returned Uriah, enthusiastically, “I am sure I didn't myself. I recollect saying with my own lips that I was much too umble. So I considered myself really and truly.”

           He sat, with that carved grin on his face, looking at the fire, as I looked at him.

           “But the umblest persons, Master Copperfield,” he presently resumed, “may be the instruments of good. I am glad to think I have been the instrument of good to Mr. Wickfield, and that I may be more so. Oh what a worthy man he is, Mister Copperfield, but how imprudent he has been!”

           “I am sorry to hear it,” said I. I could not help adding, rather pointedly, “on all accounts.”

           “Decidedly so, Mister Copperfield,” replied Uriah. “On all accounts. Miss Agnes's above all! You don't remember your own eloquent expressions, Master Copperfield; but I remember how you said one day that everybody must admire her, and how I thanked you for it! You have forgot that, I have no doubt, Master Copperfield?”

           “No,” said I, drily.

           “Oh how glad I am, you have not!” exclaimed Uriah. “To think that you should be the first to kindle the sparks of ambition in my umble breast, and that you've not forgot it! Oh!—Would you excuse me asking for a cup more coffee?”

           Something in the emphasis he laid upon the kindling of those sparks, and something in the glance he directed at me as he said it, had made me start as if I had seen him illuminated by a blaze of light. Recalled by his request, preferred in quite another tone of voice, I did the honours of the shaving-pot; but I did them with an unsteadiness of hand, a sudden sense of being no match for him, and a perplexed suspicious anxiety as



page 171 to what he might be going to say next, which I felt could not escape his observation.

           He said nothing at all. He stirred his coffee round and round, he sipped it, he felt his chin softly with his grisly hand, he looked at the fire, he looked about the room, he gasped rather than smiled at me, he writhed and undulated about, in his deferential servility, he stirred and sipped again, but he left the renewal of the conversation to me.

           “So, Mr. Wickfield,” said I, at last, “who is worth five hundred of you—or me;” for my life, I think I could not have helped dividing that part of the sentence with an awkward jerk; “has been imprudent, has he, Mr. Heep?”

           “Oh very imprudent indeed, Master Copperfield,” returned Uriah, sighing modestly. “Oh very much so! But I wish you'd call me Uriah, if you please. It's like old times.”

           “Well! Uriah,” said I, bolting it out with some difficulty.

           “Thank you!” he returned, with fervour. “Thank you, Master Copperfield! It's like the blowing of old breezes or the ringing of old bellses to hear you say Uriah. I beg your pardon. Was I making any observation?”

           “About Mr. Wickfield,” I suggested.

           “Oh! Yes, truly,” said Uriah. “Ah! Great imprudence, Master Copperfield, It's a topic that I wouldn't touch upon, to any soul but you. Even to you I can only touch upon it, and no more. If any one else had been in my place during the last few years, by this time he would have had Mr. Wickfield (oh, what a worthy man he is, Master Copperfield, too!) under his thumb. Un—der—his thumb,” said Uriah, very slowly, as he stretched out his cruel-looking hand above my table, and pressed his own thumb down upon it, until it shook, and shook the room.

           If I had been obliged to look at him with his splay foot on



page 172 Mr. Wickfield's head, I think I could scarcely have hated him more.

           “Oh dear, yes, Master Copperfield,” he proceeded, in a soft voice, most remarkably contrasting with the action of his thumb, which did not diminish its hard pressure in the least degree, “there's no doubt of it. There would have been loss, disgrace, I don't know what all. Mr. Wickfield knows it. I am the umble instrument of umbly serving him, and he puts me on an eminence I hardly could have hoped to reach. How thankful should I be!” With his face turned towards me, as he finished, but without looking at me, he took his crooked thumb off the spot where he had planted it, and slowly and thoughtfully scraped his lank jaw with it, as if he were shaving himself.

           I recollect well how indignantly my heart beat, as I saw his crafty face, with the appropriately red light of the fire upon it, preparing for something else.

           “Master Copperfield,” he began—“but am I keeping you up?”

           “You are not keeping me up. I generally go to bed late.”

           “Thank you, Master Copperfield! I have risen from my umble station since first you used to address me, it is true; but I am umble still. I hope I never shall be otherwise than umble. You will not think the worse of my umbleness, if I make a little confidence to you, Master Copperfield? Will you?”

           “Oh, no,” said I, with an effort.

           “Thank you!” He took out his pocket-handkerchief, and began wiping the palms of his hands. “Miss Agnes, Master Copperfield—”

           “Well, Uriah?”

           “Oh, how pleasant to be called Uriah, spontaneously!” he cried; and gave himself a jerk, like a convulsive fish. “You



page 173 thought her looking very beautiful to-night, Master Copperfield?”

           “I thought her looking as she always does: superior, in all respects, to every one around her,” I returned.

           “Oh, thank you! It's so true!” he cried. “Oh, thank you very much for that!”

           “Not at all,” I said, loftily. “There is no reason why you should thank me.”

           “Why that, Master Copperfield,” said Uriah, “is, in fact, the confidence that I am going to take the liberty of reposing. Umble as I am,” he wiped his hands harder, and looked at them and at the fire by turns, “umble as my mother is, and lowly as our poor but honest roof has ever been, the image of Miss Agnes (I don't mind trusting you with my secret, Master Copperfield, for I have always overflowed towards you since the first moment I had the pleasure of beholding you in a poney-shay) has been in my breast for years. Oh, Master Copperfield, with what a pure affection do I love the ground my Agnes walks on!”

           I believe I had a delirious idea of seizing the red-hot poker out of the fire, and running him through with it. It went from me with a shock, like a ball fired from a rifle: but the image of Agnes, outraged by so much as a thought of this red-headed animal's, remained in my mind when I looked at him, sitting all awry as if his mean soul griped his body, and made me giddy. He seemed to swell and grow before my eyes; the room seemed full of the echoes of his voice; and the strange feeling (to which, perhaps, no one is quite a stranger) that all this had occurred before, at some indefinite time, and that I knew what he was going to say next, took possession of me.

           A timely observation of the sense of power that there was in his face, did more to bring back to my remembrance the entreaty of Agnes, in its full force, than any effort I could



page 174 have made. I asked him, with a better appearance of composure than I could have thought possible a minute before, whether he had made his feelings known to Agnes.

           “Oh, no, Master Copperfield!” he returned; “oh dear, no! Not to any one but you. You see I am only just emerging from my lowly station. I rest a good deal of hope on her observing how useful I am to her father (for I trust to be very useful to him, indeed, Master Copperfield), and how I smooth the way for him, and keep him straight. She's so much attached to her father, Master Copperfield (oh what a lovely thing it is in a daughter!), that I think she may come, on his account, to be kind to me.”

           I fathomed the depth of the rascal's whole scheme, and understood why he laid it bare.

           “If you'll have the goodness to keep my secret, Master Copperfield,” he pursued, “and not, in general, to go against me, I shall take it as a particular favour. You wouldn't wish to make unpleasantness. I know what a friendly heart you've got; but having only known me on my umble footing (on my umblest, I should say, for I am very umble still), you might, unbeknown, go against me rather, with my Agnes. I call her mine, you see, Master Copperfield. There's a song that says, ‘I'd crowns resign, to call her mine!’ I hope to do it, one of these days.”

           Dear Agnes! So much too loving and too good for any one that I could think of, was it possible that she was reserved to be the wife of such a wretch as this!

           “There's no hurry at present, you know, Master Copperfield,” Uriah proceeded, in his slimy way, as I sat gazing at him, with this thought in my mind. “My Agnes is very young still; and mother and me will have to work our way upards, and make a good many new arrangements, before it would be quite convenient. So I shall have time gradually



page 175 to make her familiar with my hopes, as opportunities offer. Oh, I'm so much obliged to you for this confidence! Oh, it's such a relief, you can't think, to know that you understand our situation, and are certain (as you wouldn't wish to make unpleasantness in the family) not to go against me!”

           He took the hand which I dared not withhold, and having given it a damp squeeze, referred to his pale-faced watch.

           “Dear me!” he said, “it's past one. The moments slip away so, in the confidence of old times, Master Copperfield, that it's almost half-past one!”

           I answered that I had thought it was later. Not that I had really thought so, but because my conversational powers were effectually scattered.

           “Dear me!” he said, considering. “The ouse that I am stopping at—a sort of a private hotel and boarding ouse, Master Copperfield, near the New River ed—will have gone to bed these two hours.”

           “I am sorry,” I returned, “that there is only one bed here, and that I—”

           “Oh, don't think of mentioning beds, Master Copperfield!” he rejoined ecstatically, drawing up one leg. “But would you have any objections to my laying down before the fire?”

           “If it comes to that,” I said, “pray take my bed, and I'll lie down before the fire.”

           His repudiation of this offer was almost shrill enough, in the excess of its surprise and humility, to have penetrated to the ears of Mrs. Crupp, then sleeping, I suppose, in a distant chamber, situated at about the level of low water mark, soothed in her slumbers by the ticking of an incorrigible clock, to which she always referred me when we had any little difference on the score of punctuality, and which was never less than three quarters of an hour too slow, and had



page 176 always been put right in the morning by the best authorities. As no arguments I could urge, in my bewildered condition, had the least effect upon his modesty in inducing him to accept my bed-room, I was obliged to make the best arrangements I could, for his repose before the fire. The mattress of the sofa (which was a great deal too short for his lank figure), the sofa pillows, a blanket, the table-cover, a clean breakfast-cloth, and a great coat, made him a bed and covering, for which he was more than thankful. Having lent him a nightcap, which he put on at once, and in which he made such an awful figure that I have never worn one since, I left him to his rest.

           I never shall forget that night. I never shall forget how I turned and tumbled; how I wearied myself with thinking about Agnes and this creature; how I considered what could I do, and what ought I to do; how I could come to no other conclusion than that the best course for her peace, was to do nothing, and to keep to myself what I had heard. If I went to sleep for a few moments, the image of Agnes with her tender eyes, and of her father looking fondly on her, as I had so often seen him look, arose before me with appealing faces, and filled me with vague terrors. When I awoke, the recollection that Uriah was lying in the next room sat heavy on me like a waking night-mare; and oppressed me with a leaden dread, as if I had had some meaner quality of devil for a lodger.

           The poker got into my dozing thoughts besides, and wouldn't come out. I thought, between sleeping and waking, that it was still red hot, and I had snatched it out of the fire, and run him through the body. I was so haunted at last by the idea, though I knew there was nothing in it, that I stole into the next room to look at him. There I saw him, lying on his back, with his legs extending to I don't know where,



page 177 gurglings taking place in his throat, stoppages in his nose, and his mouth open like a post-office. He was so much worse in reality than in my distempered fancy, that afterwards I was attracted to him in very repulsion, and could not help wandering in and out every half hour or so, and taking another look at him. Still, the long, long night seemed heavy and hopeless as ever, and no promise of day was in the murky sky.

           When I saw him going down stairs early in the morning (for, thank Heaven! he would not stay to breakfast), it appeared to me as if the night was going away in his person. When I went out to the Commons, I charged Mrs. Crupp with particular directions to leave the windows open, that my sitting-room might be aired, and purged of his presence.



page 178

CHAPTER X.
I fall into captivity.

           I SAW no more of Uriah Heep, until the day when Agnes left town. I was at the coach-office to take leave of her and see her go; and there was he, returning to Canterbury by the same conveyance. It was some small satisfaction to me to observe his spare, short-waisted, high-shouldered, mulberry-coloured great-coat perched up, in company with an umbrella like a small tent, on the edge of the back seat on the roof, while Agnes was, of course, inside; but what I underwent in my efforts to be friendly with him, while Agnes looked on, perhaps deserved that little recompense. At the coach-window, as at the dinner-party, he hovered about us without a moment's intermission, like a great vulture: gorging himself on every syllable that I said to Agnes, or Agnes said to me.

           In the state of trouble into which his disclosure by my fire had thrown me, I had thought very much of the words Agnes had used in reference to the partnership. “I did what I hope was right. Feeling sure that it was necessary for papa's peace that the sacrifice should be made, I entreated him to make it.” A miserable foreboding that she would yield to, and sustain herself by, the same feeling in reference to any sacrifice for his sake, had oppressed me ever since. I knew how she loved him. I knew what the devotion of her nature was. I knew from her own lips that she regarded herself as the innocent cause of his errors, and as owing him a great debt she ardently desired to pay. I had no consolation in seeing how different she was from this detestable Rufus with the mulberry-coloured



page 179 great-coat, for I felt that in the very difference between them, in the self-denial of her pure soul and the sordid baseness of his, the greatest danger lay. All this, doubtless, he knew thoroughly, and had, in his cunning, considered well.

           Yet, I was so certain that the prospect of such a sacrifice afar off, must destroy the happiness of Agnes; and I was so sure, from her manner, of its being unseen by her then, and having cast no shadow on her yet; that I could as soon have injured her, as given her any warning of what impended. Thus it was that we parted without explanation: she waving her hand and smiling farewell from the coach-window; her evil genius writhing on the roof, as if he had her in his clutches and triumphed.

           I could not get over this farewell glimpse of them for a long time. When Agnes wrote to tell me of her safe arrival, I was as miserable as when I saw her going away. Whenever I fell into a thoughtful state, this subject was sure to present itself, and all my uneasiness was sure to be redoubled. Hardly a night passed without my dreaming of it. It became a part of my life, and as inseparable from my life as my own head.

           I had ample leisure to refine upon my uneasiness: for Steerforth was at Oxford, as he wrote to me, and when I was not at the Commons, I was very much alone. I believe I had at this time some lurking distrust of Steerforth. I wrote to him most affectionately in reply to his, but I think I was glad, upon the whole, that he could not come to London just then. I suspect the truth to be, that the influence of Agnes was upon me, undisturbed by the sight of him; and that it was the more powerful with me, because she had so large a share in my thoughts and interest.

           In the meantime, days and weeks slipped away. I was articled to Spenlow and Jorkins. I had ninety pounds a year (exclusive of my house-rent and sundry collateral matters)



page 180 from my aunt. My rooms were engaged for twelve months certain: and though I still found them dreary of an evening, and the evenings long, I could settle down into a state of equable low spirits, and resign myself to coffee; which I seem, on looking back, to have taken by the gallon at about this period of my existence. At about this time, too, I made three discoveries: first, that Mrs. Crupp was a martyr to a curious disorder called “the spazzums,” which was generally accompanied with inflammation of the nose, and required to be constantly treated with peppermint; secondly, that something peculiar in the temperature of my pantry, made the brandy-bottles burst; thirdly, that I was alone in the world, and much given to record that circumstance in fragments of English versification.

           On the day when I was articled, no festivity took place, beyond my having sandwiches and sherry into the office for the clerks, and going alone to the theatre at night. I went to see “The Stranger” as a Doctors' Commons sort of play, and was so dreadfully cut up, that I hardly knew myself in my own glass when I got home. Mr. Spenlow remarked, on this occasion, when we concluded our business, that he should have been happy to have seen me at his house at Norwood to celebrate our becoming connected, but for his domestic arrangements being in some disorder, on account of the expected return of his daughter from finishing her education at Paris. But, he intimated that when she came home he should hope to have the pleasure of entertaining me. I knew that he was a widower with one daughter, and expressed my acknowledgments.

           Mr. Spenlow was as good as his word. In a week or two, he referred to this engagement, and said, that if I would do him the favour to come down next Saturday, and stay till Monday, he would be extremely happy. Of course I said I would



page 181 do him the favour; and he was to drive me down in his phaeton, and to bring me back.

           When the day arrived, my very carpet-bag was an object of veneration to the stipendiary clerks, to whom the house at Norwood was a sacred mystery. One of them informed me that he had heard that Mr. Spenlow ate entirely off plate and china; and another hinted at champagne being constantly on draught, after the usual custom of table beer. The old clerk with the wig, whose name was Mr. Tiffey, had been down on business several times in the course of his career, and had on each occasion penetrated to the breakfast-parlour. He described it as an apartment of the most sumptuous nature, and said that he had drunk brown East India sherry there, of a quality so precious as to make a man wink.

           We had an adjourned cause in the Consistory that day—about excommunicating a baker who had been objecting in a vestry to a paving-rate—and as the evidence was just twice the length of Robinson Crusoe, according to a calculation I made, it was rather late in the day before we finished. However, we got him excommunicated for six weeks, and sentenced in no end of costs; and then the baker's proctor, and the judge, and the advocates on both sides (who were all nearly related), went out of town together, and Mr. Spenlow and I drove away in the phaeton.

           The phaeton was a very handsome affair; the horses arched their necks and lifted up their legs as if they knew they belonged to Doctors' Commons. There was a good deal of competition in the Commons on all points of display, and it turned out some very choice equipages then; though I always have considered, and always shall consider, that in my time the great article of competition there was starch: which I think was worn among the proctors to as great an extent as it is in the nature of man to bear.

           We were very pleasant, going down, and Mr. Spenlow



page 182 gave me some hints in reference to my profession. He said it was the genteelest profession in the world, and must on no account be confounded with the profession of a solicitor: being quite another sort of thing, infinitely more exclusive, less mechanical, and more profitable. We took things much more easily in the Commons than they could be taken anywhere else, he observed, and that set us, as a privileged class, apart. He said it was impossible to conceal the disagreeable fact, that we were chiefly employed by solicitors; but he gave me to understand that they were an inferior race of men, universally looked down upon by all proctors of any pretensions.

           I asked Mr. Spenlow what he considered the best sort of professional business? He replied, that a good case of a disputed will, where there was a neat little estate of thirty or forty thousand pounds, was, perhaps, the best of all. In such a case, he said, not only were there very pretty pickings in the way of argnments at every stage of the proceedings, and mountains upon mountains of evidence on interrogatory and counter-interrogatory (to say nothing of an appeal lying, first to the Delegates, and then to the Lords); but, the costs being pretty sure to come out of the estate at last, both sides went at it in a lively and spirited manner, and expense was no consideration. Then, he launched into a general eulogium on the Commons. What was to be particularly admired (he said) in the Commons, was its compactness. It was the most conveniently organised place in the world. It was the complete idea of snugness. It lay in a nut-shell. For example: You brought a divorce case, or a restitution case, into the Consistory. Very good. You tried it in the Consistory. You made a quiet little round game of it, among a family group, and you played it out at leisure. Suppose you were not satisfied with the Consistory, what did you



page 183 do then? Why, you went into the Arches. What was the Arches? The same court. in the same room, with the same bar, and the same practitioners, but another judge, for there the Consistory judge could plead any court-day as an advocate. Well, you played your round game out again. Still you were not satisfied. Very good. What did you do then? Why, you went to the Delegates. Who were the Delegates? Why, the Ecclesiastical Delegates were the advocates without any business, who had looked on at the round game when it was playing in both courts, and had seen the cards shuffled, and cut, and played, and had talked to all the players about it, and now came fresh, as judges, to settle the matter to the satisfaction of everybody! Discontented people might talk of corruption in the Commons, closenesss in the Commons, and the necessity of reforming the Commons, said Mr. Spenlow solemnly, in conclusion; but when the price of wheat per bushel had been highest, the Commons had been busiest; and a man might lay his hand upon his heart, and say this to the whole world,—“Touch the Commons, and down comes the country!”

           I listened to all this with attention; and though, I must say, I had my doubts whether the country was quite as much obliged to the Commons as Mr. Spenlow made out, I respectfully deferred to his opinion. That about the price of wheat per bushel, I modestly felt was too much for my strength, and quite settled the question. I have never, to this hour, got the better of that bushel of wheat. It has re-appeared to annihilate me, all through my life, in connexion with all kinds of subjects. I don't know now, exactly, what it has to do with me, or what right it has to crush me, on an infinite variety of occasions; but whenever I see my old friend the bushel brought in by the head and shoulders (as he always is, I observe), I give up a subject for lost.

           This is a digression. I was not the man to touch the Commons,



page 184 and bring down the country. I submissively expressed, by my silence, my acquiescence in all I had heard from my superior in years and knowledge; and we talked about “The Stranger” and the Drama, and the pair of horses, until we came to Mr. Spenlow's gate.

           There was a lovely garden to Mr. Spenlow's house; and though that was not the best time of the year for seeing a garden, it was so beautifully kept, that I was quite enchanted. There was a charming lawn, there were clusters of trees, and there were perspective walks that I could just distinguish in the dark, arched over with trellis-work, on which shrubs and flowers grew in the growing season. “Here Miss Spenlow walks by herself,” I thought. “Dear me!”

           We went into the house, which was cheerfully lighted up, and into a hall where there were all sorts of hats, caps, greatcoats, plaids, gloves, whips, and walking-sticks. “Where is Miss Dora?” said Mr. Spenlow to the servant. “Dora!” I thought. “What a beautiful name!”

           We turned into a room near at hand (I think it was the identical breakfast-room, made memorable by the brown East Indian Sherry), and I heard a voice say, “Mr. Copperfield, my daughter Dora, and my daughter Dora's confidential friend!” It was, no doubt, Mr. Spenlow's voice, but I didn't know it, and I didn't care whose it was. All was over in a moment. I had fulfilled my destiny. I was a captive and a slave. I loved Dora Spenlow to distraction!

           She was more than human to me. She was a Fairy, a Sylph, I don't know what she was—any thing that no one ever saw, and every thing that every body ever wanted. I was swallowed up in an abyss of love in an instant. There was no pausing on the brink; no looking down, or looking back; I was gone, headlong, before I had sense to say a word to her.

           “I,” observed a well-remembered voice, when I had



page 185 bowed and murmured something, “have seen Mr. Copperfield before.”

           The speaker was not Dora. No; the confidential friend. Miss Murdstone!

           I don't think I was much astonished. To the best of my judgment, no capacity of astonishment was left in me. There was nothing worth mentioning in the material world, but Dora Spenlow, to be astonished about. I said, “How do you do, Miss Murdstone? I hope you are well.” She answered, “Very well.” I said, “How is Mr. Murdstone?” She replied, “My brother is robust, I am obliged to you.”

           Mr. Spenlow, who, I suppose, had been surprised to see us recognise each other, then put in his word.

           “I am glad to find,” he said, “Copperfield, that you and Miss Murdstone are already acquainted.”

           “Mr. Copperfield and myself,” said Miss Murdstone, with severe composure, “are connexions. We were once slightly acquainted. It was in his childish days. Circumstances have separated us since. I should not have known him.”

           I replied that I should have known her, any where. Which was true enough.

           “Miss Murdstone has had the goodness,” said Mr. Spenlow to me, “to accept the office—if I may so describe it—of my daughter Dora's confidential friend. My daughter Dora having, unhappily, no mother, Miss Murdstone is obliging enough to become her companion and protector.”

           A passing thought occurred to me that Miss Murdstone, like the pocket instrument called a life-preserver, was not so much designed for purposes of protection as of assault. But as I had none but passing thoughts for any subject save Dora, I glanced at her, directly afterwards, and was thinking



page 186 that I saw, in her prettily pettish manner, that she was not very much inclined to be particularly confidential to her companion and protector, when a bell rang, which Mr. Spenlow said was the first dinner-bell, and so carried me off to dress.

           The idea of dressing one's self, or doing any thing in the way of action, in that state of love, was a little too ridiculous. I could only sit down before my fire, biting the key of my carpet-bag, and think of the captivating, girlish, bright-eyed lovely Dora. What a form she had, what a face she had, what a graceful, variable, enchanting manner!

           The bell rang again so soon that I made mere a scramble of my dressing, instead of the careful operation I could have wished under the circumstances, and went down-stairs. There was some company. Dora was talking to an old gentleman with a grey head. Grey as he was—and a great-grandfather into the bargain, for he said so—I was madly jealous of him.

           What a state of mind I was in! I was jealous of everybody. I couldn't bear the idea of anybody knowing Mr. Spenlow better than I did. It was torturing to me to hear them talk of occurrences in which I had had no share. When a most amiable person, with a highly polished bald head, asked me across the dinner-table, if that were the first occasion of my seeing the grounds, I could have done anything to him that was savage and revengeful.

           I don't remember who was there, except Dora. I have not the least idea what we had for dinner, besides Dora. My impression is, that I dined off Dora, entirely, and sent away half-a-dozen plates untouched. I sat next to her. I talked to her. She had the most delightful little voice, the gayest little laugh, the pleasantest and most fascinating little ways, that ever led a lost youth into hopeless slavery. She was



page 187 rather diminutive altogether. So much the more precious, I thought.

           When she went out of the room with Miss Murdstone (no other ladies were of the party), I fell into a reverie, only disturbed by the cruel apprehension that Miss Murdstone would disparage me to her. The amiable creature with the polished head told me a long story, which I think was about gardening. I think I heard him say, “my gardener,” several times. I seemed to pay the deepest attention to him, but I was wandering in a garden of Eden all the while, with Dora.

           My apprehensions of being disparaged to the object of my engrossing affection were revived when we went into the drawing-room, by the grim and distant aspect of Miss Murdstone. But I was relieved of them in an unexpected manner.

           “David Copperfield,” said Miss Murdstone, beckoning me aside into a window. “A word.”

           I confronted Miss Murdstone alone.

           “David Copperfield,” said Miss Murdstone, “I need not enlarge upon family circumstances. They are not a tempting subject.”

           “Far from it, Ma'am,” I returned.

           “Far from it,” assented Miss Murdstone. “I do not wish to revive the memory of past differences, or of past outrages. I have received outrages from a person—a female I am sorry to say, for the credit of my sex—who is not to be mentioned without scorn and disgust; and therefore I would rather not mention her.”

           I felt very fiery on my aunt's account; but I said it would certainly be better, if Miss Murdstone pleased, not to mention her. I could not hear her disrespectfully mentioned, I added, without expressing my opinion in a decided tone.



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           Miss Murdstone shut her eyes, and disdainfully inclined her head; then, slowly opening her eyes, resumed:

           “David Copperfield, I shall not attempt to disguise the fact, that I formed an unfavourable opinion of you in your childhood. It may have been a mistaken one, or you may have ceased to justify it. That is not in question between us now. I belong to a family remarkable, I believe, for some firmness; and I am not the creature of circumstance or change. I may have my opinion of you. You may have your opinion of me.”

           I inclined my head, in my turn.

           “But it is not necessary,” said Miss Murdstone, “that these opinions should come into collision here. Under existing circumstances, it is as well on all accounts that they should not. As the chances of life have brought us together again, and may bring us together on other occasions, I would say let us meet here as distant acquaintances. Family circumstances are a sufficient reason for our only meeting on that footing, and it is quite unnecessary that either of us should make the other the subject of remark. Do you approve of this?”

           “Miss Murdstone,” I returned, “I think you and Mr. Murdstone used me very cruelly, and treated my mother with great unkindness. I shall always think so, as long as I live. But I quite agree in what you propose.”

           Miss Murdstone shut her eyes again, and bent her head. Then, just touching the back of my hand with the tips of her cold, stiff fingers, she walked away, arranging the little fetters on her wrists and round her neck: which seemed to be the same set, in exactly the same state, as when I had seen her last. These reminded me, in reference to Miss Murdstone's nature, of the fetters over a jail-door; suggesting



page 189 on the outside, to all beholders, what was to be expected within.

           All I know of the rest of the evening is, that I heard the empress of my heart sing enchanted ballads in the French language, generally to the effect that, whatever was the matter, we ought always to dance, Ta ra la, Ta ra la! accompanying herself on a glorified instrument, resembling a guitar. That I was lost in blissful delirium. That I refused refreshment. That my soul recoiled from punch particularly. That when Miss Murdstone took her into custody and led her away, she smiled and gave me her delicious hand. That I caught a view of myself in a mirror, looking perfectly imbecile and idiotic. That I retired to bed in a most maudlin state of mind, and got up in a crisis of feeble infatuation.

           It was a fine morning, and early, and I thought I would go and take a stroll down one of those wire-arched walks, and indulge my passion by dwelling on her image. On my way through the hall, I encountered her little dog, who was called Jip—short for Gipsy. I approached him tenderly, for I loved even him; but he showed his whole set of teeth, got under a chair expressly to snarl, and wouldn't hear of the least familiarity.

           The garden was cool and solitary. I walked about, wondering what my feelings of happiness would be, if I could ever become engaged to this dear wonder. As to marriage, and fortune, and all that, I believe I was almost as innocently undesigning then, as when I loved little Em'ly. To be allowed to call her “Dora,” to write to her, to dote upon and worship her, to have reason to think that when she was with other people she was yet mindful of me, seemed to me the summit of human ambition—I am sure it was the summit of mine. There is no doubt whatever that I



page 190 was a lackadaisical young spooney; but there was a purity of heart in all this still, that prevents my having quite a contemptuous recollection of it, let me laugh as I may.

           I had not been walking long, when I turned a corner, and met her. I tingle again from head to foot as my recollection turns that corner, and my pen shakes in my hand.

           “You—are—out early, Miss Spenlow,” said I.

           “It's so stupid at home,” she replied, “and Miss Murdstone is so absurd! She talks such nonsense about its being necessary for the day to be aired, before I come out. Aired!” (She laughed, here, in the most melodious manner). “On a Sunday morning, when I don't practise, I must do something. So I told papa last night I must come out. Besides, it's the brightest time of the whole day. Don't you think so?”

           I hazarded a bold flight, and said (not without stammering) that it was very bright to me then, though it had been very dark to me a minute before.

           “Do you mean a compliment?” said Dora, “or that the weather has really changed?”

           I stammered worse than before, in replying that I meant no compliment, but the plain truth; though I was not aware of any change having taken place in the weather. It was in the state of my own feelings, I added bashfully: to clench the explanation.

           I never saw such curls—how could I, for there never were such curls!—as those she shook out to hide her blushes. As to the straw hat and blue ribbons which was on the top of the curls, if I could only have hung it up in my room in Buckingham Street, what a priceless possession it would have been!

           “You have just come home from Paris,” said I.



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           “Yes,” said she. “Have you ever been there?”

           “No.”

           “Oh! I hope you'll go soon. You would like it so much!”

           Traces of deep-seated anguish appeared in my countenance. That she should hope I would go, that she should think it possible I could go, was insupportable. I depreciated Paris; I depreciated France. I said I wouldn't leave England, under existing circumstances, for any earthly consideration. Nothing should induce me. In short, she was shaking the curls again, when the little dog came running along the walk to our relief.

           He was mortally jealous of me, and persisted in barking at me. She took him up in her arms—oh my goodness!—and caressed him, but he insisted upon barking still. He wouldn't let me touch him, when I tried; and then she beat him. It increased my sufferings greatly to see the pats she gave him for punishment on the bridge of his blunt nose, while he winked his eyes, and licked her hand, and still growled within himself like a little double-bass. At length he was quiet—well he might be with her dimpled chin upon his head!—and we walked away to look at a greenhouse.

           “You are not very intimate with Miss Murdstone, are you?” said Dora.—“My pet!”

           (The two last words were to the dog. Oh if they had only been to me!)

           “No,” I replied. “Not at all so.”

           “She is a tiresome creature,” said Dora pouting. “I can't think what papa can have been about, when he chose such a vexatious thing to be my companion. Who wants a protector! I am sure I don't want a protector. Jip can protect me a great deal better than Miss Murdstone,—can't you, Jip dear?”



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           He only winked lazily, when she kissed his ball of a head.

           “Papa calls her my confidential friend, but I am sure she is no such thing—is she, Jip? We are not going to confide in any such cross people, Jip and I. We mean to bestow our confidence where we like, and to find out our own friends, instead of having them found out for us—don't we, Jip?”

           Jip made a comfortable noise, in answer, a little like a tea-kettle when it sings. As for me, every word was a new heap of fetters, rivetted above the last.

           “It is very hard, because we have not a kind Mama, that we are to have, instead, a sulky, gloomy old thing like Miss Murdstone, always following us about—isn't it, Jip? Never mind, Jip. We won't be confidential, and we'll make ourselves as happy as we can in spite of her, and we'll teaze her, and not please her,—won't we, Jip?”

           If it had lasted any longer, I think I must have gone down on my knees on the gravel, with the probability before me of grazing them, and of being presently ejected from the premises besides. But, by good fortune the greenhouse was not far off, and these words brought us to it.

           It contained quite a show of beautiful geraniums. We loitered along in front of them, and Dora often stopped to admire this one or that one, and I stopped to admire the same one, and Dora, laughing, held the dog up childishly, to smell the flowers; and if we were not all three in Fairyland, certainly I was. The scent of a geranium leaf, at this day, strikes me with a half comical half serious wonder as to what change has come over me in a moment; and then I see a straw hat and blue ribbons, and a quantity of curls, and a little black dog being held up, in two slender arms, against a bank of blossoms and bright leaves.



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           Miss Murdstone had been looking for us. She found us here; and presented her uncongenial cheek, the little wrinkles in it filled with hair-powder, to Dora to be kissed. Then she took Dora's arm in hers, and marched us in to breakfast as if it were a soldier's funeral.

           How many cups of tea I drank, because Dora made it, I don't know. But, I perfectly remember that I sat swilling tea until my whole nervous system, if I had had any in those days, must have gone by the board. By-and-by we went to church. Miss Murdstone was between Dora and me in the pew; but I heard her sing, and the congregation vanished. A sermon was delivered—about Dora, of course—and I am afraid that is all I know of the service.

           We had a quiet day. No company, a walk, a family dinner of four, and an evening of looking over books and pictures; Miss Murdstone with a homily before her, and her eye upon us, keeping guard vigilantly. Ah! little did Mr. Spenlow imagine, when he sat opposite to me after dinner that day, with his pocket-handkerchief over his head, how fervently I was embracing him, in my fancy, as his son-in-law! Little did he think, when I took leave of him at night, that he had just given his full consent to my being engaged to Dora, and that I was invoking blessings on his head!

           We departed early in the morning, for we had a Salvage case coming on in the Admiralty Court, requiring a rather accurate knowledge of the whole science of navigation, in which (as we couldn't be expected to know much about those matters in the Commons) the judge had entreated two old Trinity Masters, for charity's sake, to come and help him out. Dora was at the breakfast-table to make the tea again, however; and I had the melancholy pleasure of taking off my hat to her in the phaeton, as she stood on the door-step with Jip in her arms.



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           What the Admiralty was to me that day; what nonsense I made of our case in my mind, as I listened to it; how I saw “DORA” engraved upon the blade of the silver oar which they lay upon the table, as the emblem of that high jurisdiction; and how I felt, when Mr. Spenlow went home without me (I had had an insane hope that he might take me back again), as if I were a mariner myself, and the ship to which I belonged had sailed away and left me on a desert island; I shall make no fruitless effort to describe. If that sleepy old court could rouse itself, and present in any visible form the day dreams I have had in it about Dora, it would reveal my truth.

           I don't mean the dreams that I dreamed on that day alone, but day after day, from week to week, and term to term. I went there, not to attend to what was going on, but to think about Dora. If I ever bestowed a thought upon the cases, as they dragged their slow length before me, it was only to wonder, in the matrimonial cases (remembering Dora), how it was that married people could ever be otherwise than happy; and, in the Prerogative cases, to consider, if the money in question had been left to me, what were the foremost steps I should immediately have taken in regard to Dora. Within the first week of my passion, I bought four sumptuous waistcoats—not for myself; I had no pride in them; for Dora—and took to wearing straw-coloured kid gloves in the streets, and laid the foundations of all the corns I have ever had. If the boots I wore at that period could only be produced and compared with the natural size of my feet, they would show what the state of my heart was, in a most affecting manner.

           And yet, wretched cripple as I made myself by this act of homage to Dora, I walked miles daily in the hope of seeing her. Not only was I soon as well known on the Norwood Road as the postmen on that beat, but I pervaded London likewise. I walked about the streets where the best shops for



page 195 ladies were, I haunted the Bazaar like an unquiet spirit, I fagged through the Park again and again, long after I was quite knocked up. Sometimes, at long intervals and on rare occasions, I saw her. Perhaps I saw her glove waved in a carriage window; perhaps I met her, walked with her and Miss Murdstone a little way, and spoke to her. In the latter case I was always very miserable afterwards, to think that I had said nothing to the purpose; or that she had no idea of the extent of my devotion, or that she cared nothing about me. I was always looking out, as may be supposed, for another invitation to Mr. Spenlow's house. I was always being disappointed, for I got none.

           Mrs. Crupp must have been a woman of penetration; for when this attachment was but a few weeks old, and I had not had the courage to write more explicitly even to Agnes, than that I had been to Mr. Spenlow's house, “whose family,” I added, “consists of one daughter;”—I say Mrs. Crupp must have been a woman of penetration, for, even in that early stage, she found it out. She came up to me one evening, when I was very low, to ask (she being then afflicted with the disorder I have mentioned) if I could oblige her with a little tincture of cardamums mixed with rhubard, and flavoured with seven drops of the essence of cloves, which was the best remedy for her complaint;—or, if I had not such a thing by me, with a little brandy, which was the next best. It was not, she remarked, so palatable to her, but it was the next best. As I had never even heard of the first remedy, and always had the second in the closet, I gave Mrs. Crupp a glass of the second, which (that I might have no suspicion of its being devoted to any improper use) she began to take in my presence.

           “Cheer up, Sir,” said Mrs. Crupp, “I can't abear to see you so, Sir, I'm a mother myself.”

           I did not quite perceive the application of this fact to myself,



page 196 but I smiled on Mrs. Crupp, as benignly as was in my power.

           “Come, Sir,” said Mrs. Crupp. “Excuse me. I know what it is, Sir. There's a young lady in the case.”

           “Mrs. Crupp?” I returned, reddening.

           “Oh, bless you! Keep a good heart, Sir!” said Mrs. Crupp, nodding encouragement. “Never say die, Sir! If She don't smile upon you, there's a many as will. You're a young gentleman to be smiled on, Mr. Copperfull, and you must learn your walue, Sir.”

           Mrs. Crupp always called me Mr. Copperfull: firstly, no doubt, because it was not my name; and secondly, I am inclined to think, in some indistinct association with a washing-day.

           “What makes you suppose there is any young lady in the case, Mrs. Crupp?” said I.

           “Mr. Copperfull,” said Mrs. Crupp, with a great deal of feeling, “I'm a mother myself.”

           For some time Mrs. Crupp could only lay her hand upon her nankeen bosom, and fortify herself against returning pain with sips of her medicine. At length she spoke again.

           “When the present set were took for you by your dear aunt, Mr. Copperfull,” said Mrs. Crupp, “my remark were, I had now found summun I could care for. ‘Thank Ev'in!’ were the expression, ‘I have now found summun I can care for!’—You don't eat enough, Sir, nor yet drink.”

           “Is that what you found your supposition on, Mrs. Crupp?” said I.

           “Sir,” said Mrs. Crupp, in a tone approaching to severity, “I've laundressed other young gentlemen besides yourself. A young gentleman may be over-careful of himself, or he may be under-careful of himself. He may brush his hair too regular, or too unregular. He may wear his boots much too



page 197 large for him, or much too small. That is according as the young gentleman has his original character formed. But let him go to which extreme he may, Sir, there's a young lady in both of 'em.”

           Mrs. Crupp shook her head in such a determined manner, that I had not an inch of 'vantage ground left.

           “It was but the gentleman which died here before yourself,” said Mrs. Crupp, “that fell in love—with a barmaid—and had his waistcoats took in directly, though much swelled by drinking.”

           “Mrs. Crupp,” said I, “I must beg you not to connect the young lady in my case with a barmaid, or anything of that sort, if you please.”

           “Mr. Copperfull,” returned Mrs. Crupp, “I'm a mother myself, and not likely. I ask your pardon, Sir, if I intrude. I should never wish to intrude where I were not welcome. But you are a young gentleman, Mr. Copperfull, and my adwice to you is, to cheer up, Sir, to keep a good heart, and to know your own walue. If you was to take to something, Sir,” said Mrs. Crupp, “if you was to take to skittles, now, which is healthy, you might find it divert your mind, and do you good.”

           With these words, Mrs. Crupp, affecting to be very careful of the brandy—which it was all gone—thanked me with a majestic curtsey, and retired. As her figure disappeared into the gloom of the entry, this counsel certainly presented itself to my mind in the light of a slight liberty on Mrs. Crupp's part; but, at the same time, I was content to receive it, in another point of view, as a word to the wise, and a warning in future to keep my secret better.



page 198

CHAPTER XI.
Tommy Traddles.

           IT may have been in consequence of Mrs. Crupp's advice, and, perhaps, for no better reason than because there was a certain similarity in the sound of the words skittles and Traddles, that it came into my head, next day, to go and look after Traddles. The time he had mentioned was more than out, and he lived in a little street near the Veterinary College at Camden Town, which was principally tenanted, as one of our clerks who lived in that direction informed me, by gentlemen students, who bought live donkeys, and made experiments on those quadrupeds in their private apartments. Having obtained from this clerk a direction to the academic grove in question, I set out, the same afternoon, to visit my old school-fellow.

           I found that the street was not as desirable a one as I could have wished it to be, for the sake of Traddles. The inhabitants appeared to have a propensity to throw any little trifles they were not in want of, into the road: which not only made it rank and sloppy, but untidy too, on account of the cabbage-leaves. The refuse was not wholly vegetable either, for I myself saw a shoe, a doubled-up saucepan, a black bonnet, and an umbrella, in various stages of decomposition, as I was looking out for the number I wanted.

           The general air of the place reminded me forcibly of the days when I lived with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. An indescribable character of faded gentility that attached to the house I sought, and made it unlike all the other houses in the



page 199 street—though they were all built on one monotonous pattern, and looked like the early copies of a blundering boy who was learning to make houses, and had not yet got out of his cramped brick and mortar pothooks—reminded me still more of Mr. and Mrs. Micawber. Happening to arrive at the door as it was opened to the afternoon milkman, I was reminded of Mr. and Mrs. Micawber more forcibly yet.

           “Now,” said the milkman to a very youthful servant girl. “Has that there little bill of mine been heerd on?”

           “Oh master says he'll attend to it immediate,” was the reply.

           “Because,” said the milkman, going on as if he had received no answer, and speaking, as I judged from his tone, rather for the edification of somebody within the house, than of the youthful servant—an impression which was strengthened by his manner of glaring down the passage—“Because that there little bill has been running so long, that I begin to believe it's run away altogether, and never won't be heerd of. Now, I'm not a going to stand it, you know!” said the milkman, still throwing his voice into the house, and glaring down the passage.

           As to his dealing in the mild article of milk, by-the-by, there never was a greater anomaly. His deportment would have been fierce in a butcher or a brandy merchant.

           The voice of the youthful servant became faint, but she seemed to me, from the action of her lips, again to murmur that it would be attended to immediate.

           “I tell you what,” said the milkman, looking hard at her for the first time, and taking her by the chin, “are you fond of milk?”

           “Yes, I likes it,” she replied.

           “Good,” said the milkman. “Then you won't have none



page 200 to-morrow. D'ye hear? Not a fragment of milk you won't have to-morrow.”

           I thought she seemed, upon the whole, relieved, by the prospect of having any to-day. The milkman, after shaking his head at her, darkly, released her chin, and with any thing rather than good will opened his can, and deposited the usual quantity in the family jug. This done, he went away, muttering, and uttered the cry of his trade next door, in a vindictive shriek.

           “Does Mr. Traddles live here?” I then inquired.

           A mysterious voice from the end of the passage replied “Yes.” Upon which the youthful servant replied “Yes.”

           “Is he at home?” said I.

           Again the mysterious voice replied in the affirmative, and again the servant echoed it. Upon this, I walked in, and in pursuance of the servant's directions walked up-stairs; conscious, as I passed the back parlour-door, that I was surveyed by a mysterious eye, probably belonging to the mysterious voice.

           When I got to the top of the stairs—the house was only a story high above the ground floor—Traddles was on the landing to meet me. He was delighted to see me, and gave me welcome, with great heartiness, to his little room. It was in the front of the house, and extremely neat, though sparely furnished. It was his only room, I saw; for there was a sofabedstead in it, and his blacking-brushes and blacking were among his books—on the top shelf, behind a dictionary. His table was covered with papers, and he was hard at work in an old coat. I looked at nothing, that I know of, but I saw everything, even to the prospect of a church upon his china inkstand, as I sat down—and this, too, was a faculty confirmed in me in the old Micawber times. Various ingenious arrangements he had made, for the disguise of his chest of drawers, and the accommodation of his boots, his shaving-glass, and so forth, particularly



page 201 impressed themselves upon me, as evidences of the same Traddles who used to make models of elephant's dens in writing paper to put flies in; and to comfort himself, under ill usage, with the memorable works of art I have so often mentioned.

           In a corner of the room was something neatly covered up with a large white cloth. I could not make out what that was.

           “Traddles,” said I, shaking hands with him again, after I had sat down. “I am delighted to see you.”

           “I am delighted to see you, Copperfield,” he returned. “I am very glad indeed to see you. It was because I was thoroughly glad to see you when we met in Ely Place, and was sure you were thoroughly glad to see me, that I gave you this address instead of my address at chambers.”

           “Oh! You have chambers?” said I.

           “Why, I have the fourth of a room and a passage, and the fourth of a clerk,” returned Traddles. “Three others and myself unite to have a set of chambers—to look business-like—and we quarter the clerk too. Half-a-crown a week he costs me.”

           His old simple character and good temper, and something of his old unlucky fortune also, I thought, smiled at me in the smile with which he made this explanation.

           “It's not because I have the least pride, Copperfield, you understand,” said Traddles, “that I don't usually give my address here. It's only on account of those who come to me, who might not like to come here. For myself, I am fighting my way on in the world against difficulties, and it would be ridiculous if I made a pretence of doing any thing else.”

           “You are reading for the bar, Mr. Waterbrook informed me?” said I.

           “Why, yes,” said Traddles, rubbing his hands, slowly over one another, “I am reading for the bar. The fact is, I have



page 202 just begun to keep my terms, after rather a long delay. It's some time since I was articled, but the payment of that hundred pounds was a great pull. A great pull!” said Traddles, with a wince, as if he had had a tooth out.

           “Do you know what I can't help thinking of, Traddles, as I sit here looking at you?” I asked him.

           “No,” said he.

           “That sky-blue suit you used to wear.”

           “Lord, to be sure!” cried Traddles, laughing. “Tight in the arms and legs, you know? Dear me! Well! Those were happy times, weren't they?”

           “I think our schoolmaster might have made them happier, without doing any harm to any of us, I acknowledge,” I returned.

           “Perhaps he might,” said Traddles. “But dear me, there was a good deal of fun going on. Do you remember the nights in the bed-room? When we used to have the suppers? And when you used to tell the stories? Ha, ha, ha! And do you remember when I got caned for crying about Mr. Mell? Old Creakle! I should like to see him again, too!”

           “He was a brute to you, Traddles,” said I, indignantly; for his good humour made me feel as if I had seen him beaten but yesterday.

           “Do you think so?” returned Traddles. “Really? Perhaps he was, rather. But it's all over, a long while. Old Creakle!”

           “You were brought up by an uncle, then?” said I.

           “Of course I was!” said Traddles. “The one I was always going to write to. And always didn't, eh! Ha, ha, ha! Yes, I had an uncle then. He died soon after I left school.”

           “Indeed!”

           “Yes. He was a retired—what do you call it!—draper



page 203 —cloth-merchant—and had made me his heir. But he didn't like me when I grew up.”

           “Do you really mean that?” said I. He was so composed, that I fancied he must have some other meaning.

           “O dear yes, Copperfield! I mean it,” replied Traddles. “It was an unfortunate thing, but he didn't like me at all. He said I wasn't at all what he expected, and so he married his housekeeper.”

           “And what did you do?” I asked.

           “I didn't do anything in particular,” said Traddles. “I lived with them, waiting to be put out in the world, until his goat unfortunately flew to his stomach—and so he died, and so she married a young man, and so I wasn't provided for.”

           “Did you get nothing, Traddles, after all?”

           “Oh dear yes!” said Traddles. “I got fifty pounds. I had never been brought up to any profession, and at first I was at a loss what to do for myself. However, I began, with the assistance of the son of a professional man, who had been to Salem House—Yawler, with his nose on one side. Do you recollect him?”

           No. He had not been there with me; all the noses were straight, in my day.

           “It don't matter,” said Traddles. “I began, by means of his assistance, to copy law writings. That didn't answer very well; and then I began to state cases for them, and make abstracts, and do that sort of work. For I am a plodding kind of fellow, Copperfield, and had learnt the way of doing such things pithily. Well! That put it in my head to enter myself as a law student; and that ran away with all that was left of the fifty pounds. Yawler recommended me to one or two other offices, however—Mr. Waterbrook's for one—and I got a good many jobs. I was fortunate enough, too, to become acquainted with a person in the publishing way, who was getting



page 204 up an Encyclopædia, and he set me to work; and, indeed” (glancing at his table), “I am at work for him at this minute. I am not a bad compiler, Copperfield,” said Traddles, preserving the same air of cheerful confidence in all he said, “but I have no invention at all; not a particle. I suppose there never was a young man with less originality than I have.”

           As Traddles seemed to expect that I should assent to this as a matter of course, I nodded; and he went on, with the same sprightly patience—I can find no better expression—as before.

           “So, by little and little, and not living high, I managed to scrape up the hundred pounds at last,” said Traddles; “and thank Heaven that's paid—though it was—though it certainly was,” said Traddles, wincing again as if he had had another tooth out, “a pull. I am living by the sort of work I have mentioned, still, and I hope, one of these days, to get connected with some newspaper: which would almost be the making of my fortune. Now, Copperfield, you are so exactly what you used to be, with that agreeable face, and it's so pleasant to see you, that I sha'n't conceal anything. Therefore you must know that I am engaged.”

           Engaged! Oh Dora!

           “She is a curate's daughter,” said Traddles; “one of ten, down in Devonshire. Yes!” For he saw me glance, involuntarily, at the prospect on the inkstand. “That's the church! You come round here, to the left, out of this gate,” tracing his finger along the inkstand, “and exactly where I hold this pen, there stands the house—facing, you understand, towards the church.”

           The delight with which he entered into these particulars, did not fully present itself to me until afterwards; for my selfish thoughts were making a ground-plan of Mr. Spenlow's house and garden at the same moment.



page 205

           “She is such a dear girl!” said Traddles; “a little older than me, but the dearest girl! I told you I was going out of town? I have been down there. I walked there, and I walked back, and I had the most delightful time! I dare say ours is likely to be a rather long engagement, but our motto is ‘Wait and hope!’ We always say that. ‘Wait and hope,’ we always say. And she would wait, Copperfield, till she was sixty—any age you can mention—for me!”

           Traddles rose from his chair, and, with a triumphant smile, put his hand upon the white cloth I had observed.

           “However,” he said, “it's not that we haven't made a beginning towards housekeeping. No, no; we have begun. We must get on by degrees, but we have begun. Here,” drawing the cloth off with great pride and care, “are two pieces of furniture to commence with. This flower-pot and stand, she bought herself. You put that in a parlour-window,” said Traddles, falling a little back from it to survey it with the greater admiration, “with a plant in it, and—and there you are! This little round table with the marble top (it's two feet ten in circumference), I bought. You want to lay a book down, you know, or somebody comes to see you or your wife, and wants a place to stand a cup of tea upon, and—and there you are again!” said Traddles. “It's an admirable piece of workmanship—firm as a rock!”

           I praised them both, highly, and Traddles replaced the covering as carefully as he had removed it.

           “It's not a great deal towards the furnishing,” said Traddles, “but it's something. The table-cloths and pillow-cases, and articles of that kind, are what discourage me most, Copperfield. So does the iron-mongery—candle-boxes, and gridirons, and that sort of necessaries—because those things tell, and mount up. However, ‘wait and hope!’ And I assure you she's the dearest girl!”



page 206

           “I am quite certain of it,” said I.

           “In the mean time,” said Traddles, coming back to his chair; “and this is the end of my prosing about myself, I get on as well as I can. I don't make much, but I don't spend much. In general, I board with the people down-stairs, who are very agreeable people indeed. Both Mr. and Mrs. Micawber have seen a good deal of life, and are excellent company.”

           “My dear Traddles!” I quickly exclaimed. “What are you talking about!”

           Traddles looked at me, as if he wondered what I was talking about.

           “Mr. and Mrs. Micawber!” I repeated. “Why, I am intimately acquainted with them!”

           An opportune double knock at the door, which I knew well from old experience in Windsor Terrace, and which nobody but Mr. Micawber could ever have knocked at that door, resolved any doubt in my mind as to their being my old friends. I begged Traddles to ask his landlord to walk up. Traddles accordingly did so, over the bannister; and Mr. Micawber, not a bit changed—his tights, his stick, his shirt-collar, and his eye-glass, all the same as ever—came into the room with a genteel and youthful air.

           “I beg your pardon, Mr. Traddles,” said Mr. Micawber, with the old roll in his voice, as he checked himself in humming a soft tune. “I was not aware that there was any individual, alien to this tenement, in your sanctum.”

           Mr. Micawber slightly bowed to me, and pulled up his shirt-collar.

           “How do you do, Mr. Micawber?” said I.

           “Sir,” said Mr. Micawber, “you are exceedingly obliging. I am in statu quo.

           “And Mrs. Micawber?” I pursued.



page 207

           “Sir,” said Mr. Micawber, “she is also, thank God, in statu quo.

           “And the children, Mr. Micawber?”

           “Sir,” said Mr. Micawber, “I rejoice to reply that they are, likewise, in the enjoyment of salubrity.”

           All this time, Mr. Micawber had not known me in the least, though he had stood face to face with me. But, now, seeing me smile, he examined my features with more attention, fell back, cried, “Is it possible! Have I the pleasure of again beholding Copperfield!” and shook me by both hands with the utmost fervour.

           “Good Heaven, Mr. Traddles!” said Mr. Micawber, “to think that I should find you acquainted with the friend of my youth, the companion of earlier days! My dear!” calling over the bannisters to Mrs. Micawber, while Traddles looked (with reason) not a little amazed at this description of me. “Here is a gentleman in Mr. Traddles's apartment, whom he wishes to have the pleasure of presenting to you, my love!”

           Mr. Micawber immediately reappeared, and shook hands with me again.

           “And how is our good friend the Doctor, Copperfield?' said Mr. Micawber, “and all the circle at Canterbury?”

           “I have none but good accounts of them,” said I.

           “I am most delighted to hear it,” said Mr. Micawber. “It was at Canterbury where we last met. Within the shadow, I may figuratively say, of that religious edifice, immortalized by Chaucer, which was anciently the resort of Pilgrims from the remotest corners of—in short,” said Mr. Micawber, “in the immediate neighbourhood of the Cathedral.”

           I replied that it was. Mr. Micawber continued talking as volubly as he could; but not, I thought, without showing, by some marks of concern in his countenance, that he was sensible of sounds in the next room, as of Mrs. Micawber



page 208 washing her hands, and hurriedly opening and shutting drawers that were uneasy in their action.

           “You find us, Copperfield,” said Mr. Micawber, with one eye on Traddles, “at present established, on what may be designated as a small and unassuming scale; but, you are aware that I have, in the course of my career, surmounted difficulties, and conquered obstacles. You are no stranger to the fact, that there have been periods of my life, when it has been requisite that I should pause, until certain expected events should turn up; when it has been necessary that I should fall back, before making what I trust I shall not be accused of presumption in terming—a spring. The present is one of those momentous stages in the life of man. You find me, fallen back, for a spring; and I have every reason to believe that a vigorous leap will shortly be the result.”

           I was expressing my satisfaction, when Mrs. Micawber came in; a little more slatternly than she used to be, or so she seemed now, to my unaccustomed eyes, but still with some preparation of herself for company, and with a pair of brown gloves on.

           “My dear,” said Mr. Micawber, leading her towards me. “Here is a gentleman of the name of Copperfield, who wishes to renew his acquaintance with you.”

           It would have been better, as it turned out, to have led gently up to his announcement, for Mrs. Micawber, being in a delicate state of health, was overcome by it, and was taken so unwell, that Mr. Micawber was obliged, in great trepidation, to run down to the water-butt in the back yard, and draw a basinful to lave her brow with. She presently revived, however, and was really pleased to see me. We had half-an-hour's talk, all together; and I asked her about the twins, who, she said, were “grown great creatures;” and after



page 209 Master and Miss Micawber, whom she described as “absolute giants,” but they were not produced on that occasion.

           Mr. Micawber was very anxious that I should stay to dinner. I should not have been averse to do so, but that I imagined I detected trouble, and calculation relative to the extent of the cold meat, in Mrs. Micawber's eye. I therefore pleaded another engagement; and observing that Mrs. Micawber's spirits were immediately lightened, I resisted all persuasion to forego it.

           But I told Traddles, and Mr. and Mrs. Micawber, that before I could think of leaving, they must appoint a day when they would come and dine with me. The occupations to which Traddles stood pledged, rendered it necessary to fix a somewhat distant one; but an appointment was made for the purpose, that suited us all, and then I took my leave.

           Mr. Micawber, under pretence of showing me a nearer way than that by which I had come, accompanied me to the corner of the street; being anxious (he explained to me) to say a few words to an old friend, in confidence.

           “My dear Copperfield,” said Mr. Micawber, “I need hardly tell you that to have beneath our roof, under existing circumstances, a mind like that which gleams—if I may be allowed the expression—which gleams—in your friend Traddles, is an unspeakable comfort. With a washerwoman, who exposes hard-bake for sale in her parlour-window, dwelling next door, and a Bow-street officer residing over the way, you may imagine that his society is a source of consolation to myself and to Mrs. Micawber. I am at present, my dear Copperfield, engaged in the sale of corn upon commission. It is not an avocation of a remunerative description—in other words it does not pay—and some temporary embarrassments of a pecuniary nature have been the consequence. I am, however, delighted to add that I have now an



page 210 immediate prospect of something turning up (I am not at liberty to say in what direction), which I trust will enable me to provide, permanently, both for myself and for your friend Traddles, in whom I have an unaffected interest. You may, perhaps, be prepared to hear that Mrs. Micawber is in a state of health which renders it not wholly improbable that an addition may be ultimately made to those pledges of affection which—in short, to the infantine group. Mrs. Micawber's family have been so good as to express their dissatisfaction with this state of things. I have merely to observe, that I am not aware it is any business of theirs, and that I repel that exhibition of feeling with scorn, and with defiance!”

           Mr. Micawber then shook hands with me again, and left me.



page 211

CHAPTER XII.
Mr. Micawber's gauntlet

           UNTIL the day arrived on which I was to entertain my newly-found old friends, I lived principally on Dora and coffee. In my love-lorn condition, my appetite languished; and I was glad of it, for I felt as though it would have been an act of perfidy towards Dora to have a natural relish for my dinner. The quantity of walking exercise I took, was not in this respect attended with its usual consequence, as the disappointment counteracted the fresh air. I have my doubts, too, founded on the acute experience acquired at this period of my life, whether a sound enjoyment of animal food can develop itself freely in any human subject who is always in torment from tight boots. I think the extremities require to be at peace before the stomach will conduct itself with vigour.

           On the occasion of this domestic little party, I did not repeat my former extensive preparations. I merely provided a pair of soles, a small leg of mutton, and a pigeon-pie. Mrs. Crupp broke out into rebellion on my first bashful hint in reference to the cooking of the fish and joint, and said, with a dignified sense of injury, “No! No, Sir! You will not ask me sich a thing, for you are better acquainted with me than to suppose me capable of doing what I cannot do with ampial satisfaction to my own feelings!” But, in the end, a compromise was effected; and Mrs. Crupp consented to achieve this feat, on condition that I dined from home for a fortnight afterwards.



page 212

           And here I may remark, that what I underwent from Mrs. Crupp, in consequence of the tyranny she established over me, was dreadful. I never was so much afraid of any one. We made a compromise of everything. If I hesitated, she was taken with that wonderful disorder which was always lying in ambush in her system, ready, at the shortest notice, to prey upon her vitals. If I rang the bell impatiently, after half-a-dozen unavailing modest pulls, and she appeared at last—which was not by any means to be relied upon—she would appear with a reproachful aspect, sink breathless on a chair near the door, lay her hand upon her nankeen bosom, and become so ill, that I was glad, at any sacrifice of brandy or anything else, to get rid of her. If I objected to having my bed made at five o'clock in the afternoon—which I do still think an uncomfortable arrangement—one motion of her hand towards the same nankeen region of wounded sensibility was enough to make me falter an apology. In short, I would have done anything in an honourable way rather than give Mrs. Crupp offence; and she was the terror of my life.

           I bought a second-hand dumb-waiter for this dinner-party, in preference to re-engaging the handy young man; against whom I had conceived a prejudice, in consequence of meeting him in the Strand, one Sunday morning, in a waistcoat remarkably like one of mine, which had been missing since the former occasion. The “young gal” was re-engaged; but on the stipulation that she should only bring in the dishes, and then withdraw to the landing-place, beyond the outer door; where a habit of sniffing she had contracted would be lost upon the guests, and where her retiring on the plates would be a physical impossibility.

           Having laid in the materials for a bowl of punch, to be compounded by Mr. Micawber; having provided a bottle of lavender-water, two wax candles, a paper of mixed pins, and a



page 213 pincushion, to assist Mrs. Micawber in her toilette, at my dressing-table; having also caused the fire in my bed-room to be lighted for Mrs. Micawber's convenience; and having laid the cloth with my own hands, I awaited the result with composure.

           At the appointed time, my three visitors arrived together. Mr. Micawber with more shirt-collar than usual, and a new ribbon to his eye-glass; Mrs. Micawber with her cap in a whitey-brown paper parcel; Traddles carrying the parcel, and supporting Mrs. Micawber on his arm. They were all delighted with my residence. When I conducted Mrs. Micawber to my dressing-table, and she saw the scale on which it was prepared for her, she was in such raptures, that she called Mr. Micawber to come in and look.

           “My dear Copperfield,” said Mr. Micawber, “this is luxurious. This is a way of life which reminds me of the period when I was myself in a state of celibacy, and Mrs. Micawber had not yet been solicited to plight her faith at the Hymeneal altar.”

           “He means, solicited by him, Mr. Copperfield,” said Mrs. Micawber archly. “He cannot answer for others.”

           “My dear,” returned Mr. Micawber with sudden seriousness, “I have no desire to answer for others. I am too well aware that when, in the inscrutable decrees of Fate, you were reserved for me, it is possible you may have been reserved for one, destined, after a protracted struggle, at length to fall a victim to pecuniary involvements of a complicated nature. I understand your allusion, my love. I regret it, but I can bear it.”

           “Micawber!” exclaimed Mrs. Micawber, in tears. “Have I deserved this! I, who never have deserted you; who never will desert you, Micawber!”

           “My love,” said Mr. Micawber, much affected, “you will



page 214 forgive, and our old and tried friend Copperfield will, I am sure, forgive, the momentary laceration of a wounded spirit, made sensitive by a recent collision with the Minion of Power—in other words, with a ribald Turncock attached to the water-works—and will pity, not condemn, its excesses.”

           Mr. Micawber then embraced Mrs. Micawber, and pressed my hand; leaving me to infer from this broken allusion that his domestic supply of water had been cut off that afternoon, in consequence of default in the payment of the company's rates.

           To divert his thoughts from this melancholy subject, I informed Mr. Micawber that I relied upon him for a bowl of punch, and led him to the lemons. His recent despondency, not to say despair, was gone in a moment. I never saw a man so thoroughly enjoy himself amid the fragrance of lemon-peel and sugar, the odour of burning rum, and the steam of boiling water, as Mr. Micawber did that afternoon. It was wonderful to see his face shining at us out of a thin cloud of these delicate fumes, as he stirred, and mixed, and tasted, and looked as if he were making, instead of punch, a fortune for his family down to the latest posterity. As to Mrs. Micawber, I don't know whether it was the effect of the cap, or the lavenderwater, or the pins, or the fire, or the wax candles, but she came out of my room, comparatively speaking, lovely. And the lark was never gayer than that excellent woman.

           I suppose—I never ventured to inquiry, but I suppose—that Mrs. Crupp, after frying the soles, was taken ill. Because we broke down at that point. The leg of mutton came up very red within, and very pale without: besides having a foreign substance of a gritty nature sprinkled over it, as if it had had a fall into the ashes of that remarkable kitchen fire-place. But we were not in a condition to judge of this fact from the appearance of the gravy, forasmuch as the “young gal” had



page 215 dropped it all upon the stairs—where it remained, by-the-by, in a long train, until it was worn out. The pigeon-pie was not bad, but it was a delusive pie: the crust being like a disappointing head, phrenologically speaking: full of lumps and bumps, with nothing particular underneath. In short, the banquet was such a failure that I should have been quite unhappy—about the failure, I mean, for I was always unhappy about Dora—if I had not been relieved by the great good-humour of my company, and by a bright suggestion from Mr. Micawber.

           “My dear friend Copperfield,” said Mr. Micawber, “accidents will occur in the best regulated families; and in families not regulated by that pervading influence which sanctifies while it enhances the—a—I would say, in short, by the influence of Woman, in the lofty character of Wife, they may be expected with confidence, and must be borne with philosophy. If you will allow me to take the liberty of remarking that there are few comestibles better, in their way, than a Devil, and that I believe, with a little division of labour, we could accomplish a good one if the young person in attendance could produce a gridiron, I would put it to you, that this little misfortune may be easily repaired.”

           There was a gridiron in the pantry, on which my morning rasher of bacon was cooked. We had it in, in a twinkling, and immediately applied ourselves to carrying Mr. Micawber's idea into effect. The division of labour to which he had referred was this:—Traddles cut the mutton into slices; Mr. Micawber (who could do anything of this sort to perfection) covered them with pepper, mustard, salt, and cayenne; I put them on the gridiron, turned them with a fork, and took them off, under Mr. Micawber's directions; and Mrs. Micawber heated, and continually stirred, some mushroom ketchup in a little saucepan. When we had slices enough done to begin



page 216 upon, we fell-to, with our sleeves still tucked up at the wrists, more slices sputtering and blazing on the fire, and our attention divided between the mutton on our plates, and the mutton then preparing.

           What with the novelty of this cookery, the excellence of it, the bustle of it, the frequent starting up to look after it, the frequent sitting down to dispose of it as the crisp slices came off the gridiron hot and hot, the being so busy, so flushed with the fire, so amused, and in the midst of such a tempting noise and savour, we reduced the leg of mutton to the bone. My own appetite came back miraculously. I am ashamed to record it, but I really believe I forgot Dora for a little while. I am satisfied that Mr. and Mrs. Micawber could not have enjoyed the feast more if they had sold a bed to provide it. Traddles laughed as heartily, almost the whole time, as he ate and worked. Indeed we all did, all at once; and I dare say there never was a greater success.

           We were at the height of our enjoyment, and were all busily engaged, in our several departments, endeavouring to bring the last batch of slices to a state of perfection that should crown the feast, when I was aware of a strange presence in the room, and my eyes encountered those of the staid Littimer, standing hat in hand before me.

           “What's the matter!” I involuntarily asked.

           “I beg your pardon, Sir, I was directed to come in. Is my master not here, Sir?”

           “No.”

           “Have you not seen him, Sir?”

           “No; don't you come from him?”

           “Not immediately so, Sir.”

           “Did he tell you you would find him here?”



page 217

           “Not exactly so, Sir. But I should think he might be here to-morrow, as he has not been here to-day.”

           “Is he coming up from Oxford?”

           “I beg, Sir,” he returned respectfully, “that you will be seated, and allow me to do this.” With which he took the fork from my unresisting hand, and bent over the gridiron, as if his whole attention were concentrated on it.

           We should not have been much discomposed, I dare say, by the appearance of Steerforth himself, but we became in a moment the meekest of the meek before his respectable serving-man. Mr. Micawber, humming a tune, to show that he was quite at ease, subsided into his chair, with the handle of a hastily-concealed fork sticking out of the bosom of his coat, as if he had stabbed himself. Mrs. Micawber put on her brown gloves, and assumed a genteel languor. Traddles ran his greasy hands through his hair, and stood it bolt upright, and stared in confusion at the table-cloth. As for me, I was a mere infant at the head of my own table; and hardly ventured to glance at the respectable phenomenon, who had come from Heaven knows where, to put my establishment to rights.

           Meanwhile he took the mutton off the gridiron, and gravely handed it round. We all took some, but our appreciation of it was gone, and we merely made a show of eating it. As we severally pushed away our plates, he noiselessly removed them, and set on the cheese. He took that off, too, when it was done with; cleared the table; piled everything on the dumb-waiter; gave us our wine-glasses; and, of his own accord, wheeled the dumb-waiter into the pantry. All this was done in a perfect manner, and he never raised his eyes from what he was about. Yet, his very elbows, when he had his back towards me, seemed to teem with the expression of his fixed opinion that I was extremely young.

           “Can I do anything more, Sir?”



page 218

           I thanked him and said, No; but would he take no dinner himself?

           “None, I am obliged to you, Sir.”

           “Is Mr. Steerforth coming from Oxford?”

           “I beg your pardon, Sir?”

           “Is Mr. Steerforth coming from Oxford?”

           “I should imagine that he might be here to-morrow, Sir. I rather thought he might have been here to-day, Sir. The mistake is mine, no doubt, Sir.”

           “If you should see him first—” said I.

           “If you'll excuse me, Sir, I don't think I shall see him first.”

           “In case you do,” said I, “pray say that I am sorry he was not here to-day, as an old school-fellow of his was here.”

           “Indeed, Sir!” and he divided a bow between me and Traddles, with a glance at the latter.

           He was moving softly to the door, when, in a forlorn hope of saying something naturally—which I never could, to this man—I said:

           “Oh! Littimer!”

           “Sir!”

           “Did you remain long at Yarmouth, that time?”

           “Not particularly so, Sir.”

           “You saw the boat completed?”

           “Yes, Sir. I remained behind on purpose to see the boat completed.”

           “I know!” He raised his eyes to mine respectfully. “Mr. Steerforth has not seen it yet, I suppose?”

           “I really can't say, Sir. I think—but I really can't say, Sir. I wish you good night, Sir.”

           He comprehended everybody present, in the respectful bow with which he followed these words, and disappeared. My visitors seemed to breathe more freely when he was gone;



page 219 but my own relief was very great, for besides the constraint, arising from that extraordinary sense of being at a disadvantage which I always had in this man's presence, my conscience had embarrassed me with whispers that I had mistrusted his master, and I could not repress a vague uneasy dread that he might find it out. How was it, having so little in reality to conceal, that I always did feel as if this man were finding me out?

           Mr. Micawber roused me from this reflection, which was blended with a certain remorseful apprehension of seeing Steerforth himself, by bestowing many encomiums on the absent Littimer as a most respectable fellow, and a thoroughly admirable servant. Mr. Micawber, I may remark, had taken his full share of the general bow, and had received it with infinite condescension.

           “But punch, my dear Copperfield,” said Mr. Micawber, tasting it, “like time and tide, waits for no man. Ah! it is at the present moment in high flavour. My love, will you give me your opinion?”

           Mrs. Micawber pronounced it excellent.

           “Then I will drink,” said Mr. Micawber, “if my friend Copperfield will permit me to take that social liberty, to the days when my friend Copperfield and myself were younger, and fought our way in the world side by side. I may say, of myself and Copperfield, in words we have sung together before now, that

           We twa' hae run about the braes

           And pu'd the gowans fine

—in a figurative point of view—on several occasions. I am not exactly aware,” said Mr. Micawber, with the old roll in his voice, and the old indescribable air of saying something genteel, “what gowans may be, but I have no doubt that Copperfield

page 220 and myself would frequently have taken a pull at them, if it had been feasible.”

           Mr. Micawber, at the then present moment, took a pull at his punch. So we all did: Traddles evidently lost in wondering at what distant time Mr. Micawber and I could possibly have been comrades in the battle of the world.

           “Ahem!” said Mr. Micawber, clearing his throat, and warming with the punch and with the fire. “My dear, another glass?”

           Mrs. Micawber said it must be very little, but we couldn't allow that, so it was a glassful.

           “As we are quite confidential here, Mr. Copperfield,” said Mrs. Micawber, sipping her punch, “Mr. Traddles being a part of our domesticity, I should much like to have your opinion on Mr. Micawber's prospects. For corn,” said Mrs. Micawber argumentatively, “as I have repeatedly said to Mr. Micawber, may be gentlemanly, but it is not remunerative. Commission to the extent of two and ninepence in a fortnight cannot, however limited our ideas, be considered remunerative.”

           We were all agreed upon that.

           “Then,” said Mrs. Micawber, who prided herself on taking a clear view of things, and keeping Mr. Micawber straight by her woman's wisdom, when he might otherwise go a little crooked, “then I ask myself this question. If corn is not to be relied upon, what is? Are coals to be relied upon? Not at all. We have turned our attention to that experiment, on the suggestion of my family, and we find it fallacious.”

           Mr. Micawber, leaning back in his chair with his hands in his pockets, eyed us aside, and nodded his head, as much as to say that the case was very clearly put.

           “The articles of corn and coals,” said Mrs. Micawber, still more argumentatively, “being equally out of the question,



page 221 Mr. Copperfield, I naturally look round the world, and say, ‘What is there in which a person of Mr. Micawber's talent is likely to succeed?’ And I exclude the doing anything on commission, because commission is not a certainty. What is best suited to a person of Mr. Micawber's peculiar temperament, is, I am convinced, a certainty.”

           Traddles and I both expressed, by a feeling murmur, that this great discovery was no doubt true of Mr. Micawber, and that it did him much credit.

           “I will not conceal from you, my dear Mr. Copperfield,” said Mrs. Micawber, “that I have long felt the Brewing business to be particularly adapted to Mr. Micawber. Look at Barclay and Perkins! Look at Truman, Hanbury, and Buxton! It is on that extensive footing that Mr. Micawber, I know from my own knowledge of him, is calculated to shine; and the profits, I am told, are e-NOR—mous! But if Mr. Micawber cannot get into those firms—which decline to answer his letters, when he offers his services even in an inferiour capacity—what is the use of dwelling upon that idea? None. I may have a conviction that Mr. Micawber's manners”—

           “Hem! Really, my dear,” interposed Mr. Micawber.

           “My love, be silent,” said Mrs. Micawber, laying her brown glove on his hand. “I may have a conviction, Mr. Copperfield, that Mr. Micawber's manners peculiarly qualify him for the Banking business. I may argue within myself, that if I had a deposit at a banking-house, the manners of Mr. Micawber, as representing that banking-house, would inspire confidence, and must extend the connexion. But if the various banking-houses refuse to avail themselves of Mr. Micawber's abilities, or receive the offer of them with contumely, what is the use of dwelling upon that idea? None. As to originating a banking-business, I may know



page 222 that there are members of my family who, if they chose to place their money in Mr. Micawber's hands, might found an establishment of that description. But if they do not choose to place their money in Mr. Micawber's hands—which they don't—what is the use of that? Again I contend that we are no farther advanced than we were before.”

           I shook my head, and said, “Not a bit.” Traddles also shook his head, and said, “Not a bit.”

           “What do I deduce from this?” Mrs. Micawber went on to say, still with the same air of putting a case lucidly. “What is the conclusion, my dear Mr. Copperfield, to which I am irresistibly brought? Am I wrong in saying, it is clear that we must live?”

           I answered, “Not at all!” and Traddles answered, “Not at all!” and I found myself afterwards sagely adding, alone, that a person must either live or die.

           “Just so,” returned Mrs. Micawber. “It is precisely that. And the fact is, my dear Mr. Copperfield, that we can not live without something widely different from existing circumstances shortly turning up. Now I am convinced, myself, and this I have pointed out to Mr. Micawber several times of late, that things cannot be expected to turn up of themselves. We must, in a measure, assist to turn them up. I may be wrong, but I have formed that opinion.”

           Both Traddles and I applauded it highly.

           “Very well,” said Mrs. Micawber. “Then what do I recommend? Here is Mr. Micawber, with a variety of qualifications—with great talent—”

           “Really, my love,” said Mr. Micawber.

           “Pray, my dear, allow me to conclude. Here is Mr. Micawber, with a variety of qualifications, with great talent—I should say, with genius, but that may be the partiality of a wife—”



page 223

           Traddles and I both murmured “No.”

           “And here is Mr. Micawber without any suitable position or employment. Where does that responsibility rest? Clearly on society. Then I would make a fact so disgraceful known, and boldly challenge society to set it right. It appears to me, my dear Mr. Copperfield,” said Mrs. Micawber, forcibly, “that what Mr. Micawber has to do, is to throw down the gauntlet to society, and say, in effect, ‘Show me who will take that up. Let the party immediately step forward.’ ”

           I ventured to ask Mrs. Micawber how this was to be done.

           “By advertising,” said Mrs. Micawber—“in all the papers. It appears to me, that what Mr. Micawber has to do, in justice to himself, in justice to his family, and I will even go so far as to say in justice to society, by which he has been hitherto overlooked, is to advertise in all the papers; to describe himself plainly as so and so, with such and such qualifications, and to put it thus: ‘Now employ me, on remunerative terms, and address, post-paid, to W. M., Post Office, Camden Town.’ ”

           “This idea of Mrs. Micawber's, my dear Copperfield,” said Mr. Micawber, making his shirt-collar meet in front of his chin, and glancing at me sideways, “is, in fact, the Leap to which I alluded, when I last had the pleasure of seeing you.”

           “Advertising is rather expensive,” I remarked, dubiously.

           “Exactly so!” said Mrs. Micawber, preserving the same logical air. “Quite true, my dear Mr. Copperfield! I have made the identical observation to Mr. Micawber. It is for that reason especially, that I think Mr. Micawber ought (as I have already said, in justice to himself, in justice to his



page 224 family, and in justice to society) to raise a certain sum of money—on a bill.”

           Mr. Micawber, leaning back in his chair, trifled with his eye-glass, and cast his eyes up at the ceiling; but I thought him observant of Traddles too, who was looking at the fire.

           “If no member of my family,” said Mrs. Micawber, “is possessed of sufficient natural feeling to negotiate that bill—I believe there is a better business-term to express what I mean—”

           Mr. Micawber, with his eyes still cast up at the ceiling, suggested “Discount.”

           “To discount that bill,” said Mrs. Micawber, “then my opinion is, that Mr. Micawber should go into the City, should take that bill into the Money Market, and should dispose of it for what he can get. If the individuals in the Money Market oblige Mr. Micawber to sustain a great sacrifice, that is between themselves and their consciences. I view it, steadily, as an investment. I recommend Mr. Micawber, my dear Mr. Copperfield, to do the same; to regard it as an investment which is sure of return, and to make up his mind to any sacrifice.”

           I felt, but I am sure I don't know why, that this was self-denying and devoted in Mrs. Micawber, and I uttered a murmur to that effect. Traddles, who took his tone from me, did likewise, still looking at the fire.

           “I will not,” said Mrs. Micawber, finishing her punch, and gathering her scarf about her shoulders, preparatory to her withdrawal to my bed-room: “I will not protract these remarks on the subject of Mr. Micawber's pecuniary affairs. At your fireside, my dear Mr. Copperfield, and in the presence of Mr. Traddles, who, though not so old a friend, is quite one of ourselves, I could not refrain from making you



page 225 acquainted with the course I advise Mr. Micawber to take. I feel that the time is arrived when Mr. Micawber should exert himself and—I will add—assert himself, and it appears to me that these are the means. I am aware that I am merely a female, and that a masculine judgment is usually considered more competent to the discussion of such questions; still I must not forget that, when I lived at home with my papa and mama, my papa was in the habit of saying, ‘Emma's form is fragile, but her grasp of a subject is inferior to none.’ That my papa was too partial, I well know; but that he was an observer of character in some degree, my duty and my reason equally forbid me to doubt.”

           With these words, and resisting our entreaties that she would grace the remaining circulation of the punch with her presence, Mrs. Micawber retired to my bed-room. And really I felt that she was a noble woman—the sort of woman who might have been a Roman matron, and done all manner of heroic things, in times of public trouble.

           In the fervour of this impression, I congratulated Mr. Micawber on the treasure he possessed. So did Traddles. Mr. Micawber extended his hand to each of us in succession, and then covered his face with his pocket-handkerchief, which I think had more snuff upon it than he was aware of. He then returned to the punch, in the highest state of exhilaration.

           He was full of eloquence. He gave us to understand that in our children we lived again, and that, under the pressure of pecuniary difficulties, any accession to their number was doubly welcome. He said that Mrs. Micawber had latterly had her doubts on this point, but that he had dispelled them, and reassured her. As to her family, they were totally unworthy of her, and their sentiments were utterly in different to him, and they might—I quote his own expression—go to the Devil.



page 226

           Mr. Micawber then delivered a warm eulogy on Traddles. He said Traddles's was a character, to the steady virtues of which he (Mr. Micawber) could lay no claim, but which, he thanked Heaven, he could admire. He feelingly alluded to the young lady, unknown, whom Traddles had honoured with his affection, and who had reciprocated that affection by honouring and blessing Traddles with her affection. Mr. Micawber pledged her. So did I. Traddles thanked us both, by saying, with a simplicity and honesty I had sense enough to be quite charmed with, “I am very much obliged to you indeed. And I do assure you, she's the dearest girl!—”

           Mr. Micawber took an early opportunity, after that, of hinting, with the utmost delicacy and ceremony, at the state of my affections. Nothing but the serious assurance of his friend Copperfield to the contrary, he observed, could deprive him of the impression that his friend Copperfield loved and was beloved. After feeling very hot and uncomfortable for some time, and after a good deal of blushing, stammering, and denying, I said, having my glass in my hand, “Well! I would give them D.!” which so excited and gratified Mr. Micawber, that he ran with a glass of punch into my bedroom, in order that Mrs. Micawber might drink D., who drank it with enthusiasm, crying from within, in a shrill voice, “Hear, hear! My dear Mr. Copperfield, I am delighted. Hear!” and tapping at the wall, by way of applause.

           Our conversation, afterwards, took a more worldly turn; Mr. Micawber telling us that he found Camden Town inconvenient, and that the first thing he contemplated doing, when the advertisement should have been the cause of something satisfactory turning up, was to move. He mentioned a terrace at the western end of Oxford Street, fronting Hyde



page 227 Park, on which he had always had his eye, but which he did not expect to attain immediately, as it would require a large establishment. There would probably be an interval, he explained, in which he should content himself with the upper part of a house, over some respectable place of business,—say in Piccadilly,—which would be a cheerful situation for Mrs. Micawber; and where, by throwing out a bow window, or carrying up the roof another story, or making some little alteration of that sort, they might live, comfortably and reputably, for a few years. Whatever was reserved for him, he expressly said, or wherever his abode might be, we might rely on this—there would always be a room for Traddles, and a knife and fork for me. We acknowledged his kindness; and he begged us to forgive his having launched into these practical and business-like details, and to excuse it as natural in one who was making entirely new arrangements in life.

           Mrs. Micawber, tapping at the wall again, to know if tea were ready, broke up this particular phase of our friendly conversation. She made tea for us in a most agreeable manner; and, whenever I went near her, in handing about the tea-cups and bread-and-butter, asked me, in a whisper, whether D. was fair, or dark, or whether she was short, or tall: or something of that kind; which I think I liked. After tea, we discussed a variety of topics before the fire; and Mrs. Micawber was good enough to sing us (in a small, thin, flat voice, which I remember to have considered, when I first knew her, the very table-beer of acoustics) the favourite ballads of “The Dashing White Serjeant,” and “Little Tafflin.” For both of these songs Mrs. Micawber had been famous when she lived at home with her papa and mama. Mr. Micawber told us, that when he heard her sing the first one, on the first occasion of his seeing her beneath the



page 228 parental roof, she had attracted his attention in an extraordinary degree; but that when it came to Little Tafflin, he had resolved to win that woman or perish in the attempt.

           It was between ten and eleven o'clock when Mrs. Micawber rose to replace her cap in the whity-brown paper parcel, and to put on her bonnet. Mr. Micawber took the opportunity of Traddles putting on his great coat, to slip a letter into my hand, with a whispered request that I would read it at my leisure. I also took the opportunity of my holding a candle over the bannisters to light them down, when Mr. Micawber was going first, leading Mrs. Micawber, and Traddles was following with the cap, to detain Traddles for a moment on the top of the stairs.

           “Traddles,” said I, “Mr. Micawber don't mean any harm, poor fellow; but, if I were you, I wouldn't lend him anything.”

           “My dear Copperfield,” returned Traddles, smiling, “I haven't got anything to lend.”

           “You have got a name, you know,” said I.

           “Oh! You call that something to lend?” returned Traddles, with a thoughtful look.

           “Certainly.”

           “Oh!” said Traddles. “Yes, to be sure! I am very much obliged to you, Copperfield; but—I am afraid I have lent him that already.”

           “For the bill that is to be a certain investment?” I inquired.

           “No,” said Traddles. “Not for that one. This is the first I have heard of that one. I have been thinking that he will most likely propose that one, on the way home. Mine's another.”

           “I hope there will be nothing wrong about it,” said I.

           “I hope not,” said Traddles. “I should think not, though,



page 229 because he told me, only the other day, that it was provided for. That was Mr. Micawber's expression. ‘Provided for.’”

           Mr. Micawber looking up at this juncture to where we were standing, I had only time to repeat my caution. Traddles thanked me, and descended. But I was much afraid, when I observed the good-natured manner in which he went down with the cap in his hand, and gave Mrs. Micawber his arm, that he would be carried into the Money Market neck and heels.

           I returned to my fireside, and was musing, half gravely and half laughing, on the character of Mr. Micawber and the old relations between us, when I heard a quick step ascending the stairs. At first, I thought it was Traddles' coming back for something Mrs. Micawber had left behind; but as the step approached, I knew it, and felt my heart beat high, and the blood rush to my face, for it was Steerforth's.

           I was never unmindful of Agnes, and she never left that sanctuary in my thoughts—if I may call it so—where I had placed her from the first. But when he entered, and stood before me with his hand out, the darkness that had fallen on him changed to light, and I felt confounded and ashamed of having doubted one I loved so heartily. I loved her none the less; I thought of her as the same benignant, gentle angel in my life; I reproached myself, not her, with having done him an injury; and I would have made him any atonement if I had known what to make, and how to make it.

           “Why, Daisy, old boy, dumb-foundered!” laughed Steerforth, shaking my hand heartily, and throwing it gaily away. “Have I detected you in another feast, you Sybarite! These Doctors' Commons fellows are the gayest men in town, I believe, and beat us sober Oxford people all to nothing!” His bright glance went merrily round the room, as he took



page 230 the seat on the sofa opposite to me, which Mrs. Micawber had recently vacated, and stirred the fire into a blaze.

           “I was so surprised at first,” said I, giving him welcome with all the cordiality I felt, “that I had hardly breath to greet you with, Steerforth.”

           “Well, the sight of me is good for sore eyes, as the Scotch say,” replied Steerforth, “and so is the sight of you, Daisy, in full bloom. How are you, my Bacchanal?”

           “I am very well,” said I; “and not at all Bacchanalian tonight, though I confess to another party of three.”

           “All of whom I met in the street, talking loud in your praise,” returned Steerforth. “Who's our friend in the tights?”

           I gave him the best idea I could, in a few words, of Mr. Micawber. He laughed heartily at my feeble portrait of that gentleman, and said he was a man to know, and he must know him.

           “But who do you suppose our other friend is?” said I in my turn.

           “Heaven knows,” said Steerforth. “Not a bore, I hope? I thought he looked a little like one.”

           “Traddles!” I replied, triumphantly.

           “Who's he?” asked Steerforth, in his careless way.

           “Don't you remember Traddles? Traddles in our room at Salem House?”

           “Oh! That fellow!” said Steerforth, beating a lump of coal on the top of the fire, with the poker. “Is he as soft as ever? And where the deuce did you pick him up?”

           I extolled Traddles in reply, as highly as I could; for I felt that Steerforth rather slighted him. Steerforth, dismissing the subject with a light nod, and a smile, and the remark that he would be glad to see the old fellow too, for he



page 231 had always been an odd fish, inquired if I could give him anything to eat? During most of this short dialogue, when he had not been speaking in a wild vivacious manner, he had sat idly beating on the lump of coal with the poker. I observed that he did the same thing while I was getting out the remains of the pigeon-pie, and so forth.

           “Why, Daisy, here's a supper for a king!” he exclaimed, starting out of his silence with a burst, and taking his seat at the table. “I shall do it justice, for I have come from Yarmouth.”

           “I thought you came from Oxford?” I returned.

           “Not I,” said Steerforth. “I have been seafaring—better employed.”

           “Littimer was here to-day, to inquire for you,” I remarked, “and I understood him that you were at Oxford; though, now I think of it, he certainly did not say so.”

           “Littimer is a greater fool than I thought him, to have been inquiring for me at all,” said Steerforth, jovially pouring out a glass of wine, and drinking to me. “As to understanding him, you are a cleverer fellow than most of us, Daisy, if you can do that.”

           “That's true, indeed,” said I, moving my chair to the table. “So you have been at Yarmouth, Steerforth!” interested to know all about it. “Have you been there long?”

           “No,” he returned. “An escapade of a week or so.”

           “And how are they all? Of course, little Emily is not married yet?”

           “Not yet. Going to be, I believe—in so many weeks, or months, or something or other. I have not seen much of 'em. By-the-by;” he laid down his knife and fork, which he had been using with great diligence, and began feeling in his pockets; “I have a letter for you.”

           “From whom?”



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           “Why, from your old nurse,” he returned, taking some papers out of his breast pocket. “ ‘J. Steerforth, Esquire, debtor, to the Willing Mind;’ that's not it. Patience, and we'll find it presently. Old what's-his-name's in a bad way, and it's about that, I believe.”

           “Barkis, do you mean?”

           “Yes!” still feeling in his pockets, and looking over their contents: “it's all over with poor Barkis, I am afraid. I saw a little apothecary there—surgeon, or whatever he is—who brought your worship into the world. He was mighty learned about the case, to me; but the upshot of his opinion was, that the carrier was making his last journey rather fast.—Put your hand into the breast pocket of my great coat on the chair yonder, and I think you'll find the letter. Is it there?”

           “Here it is!” said I.

           “That's right!”

           It was from Peggotty; something less legible than usual, and brief. It informed me of her husband's hopeless state, and hinted at his being “a little nearer” than heretofore, and consequently more difficult to manage for his own comfort. It said nothing of her weariness and watching, and praised him highly. It was written with a plain, unaffected, homely piety that I know to be genuine, and ended with “my duty to my ever darling”—meaning myself.

           While I deciphered it, Steerforth continued to eat and drink.

           “It's a bad job,” he said, when I had done; “but the sun sets every day, and people die every minute, and we mustn't be scared by the common lot. If we failed to hold our own, because that equal foot at all men's doors was heard knocking somewhere, every object in this world would slip from us. No! Ride on! Rough-shod if need be, smooth-shod if that will do, but ride on! Ride over all obstacles, and win the race!”



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           “And win what race?” said I.

           “The race that one has started in,” said he. “Ride on!” I noticed, I remember, as he paused, looking at me with his handsome head a little thrown back, and his glass raised in his hand, that, though the freshness of the sea-wind was on his face, and it was ruddy, there were traces in it, made since I last saw it, as if he had applied himself to some habitual strain of the fervent energy which, when roused, was so passionately roused within him. I had it in my thoughts to remonstrate with him upon his desperate way of pursuing any fancy that he took—such as this buffetting of rough seas, and braving of hard weather, for example—when my mind glanced off to the immediate subject of our conversation again, and pursued that instead.

           “I tell you what, Steerforth,” said I, “if your high spirits will listen to me”—

           “They are potent spirits, and will do whatever you like,” he answered, moving from the table to the fireside again.

           “Then I tell you what, Steerforth. I think I will go down and see my old nurse. It is not that I can do her any good, or render her any real service; but she is so attached to me that my visit will have as much effect on her, as if I could do both. She will take it so kindly that it will be a comfort and support to her. It is no great effort to make, I am sure, for such a friend as she has been to me. Wouldn't you go a day's journey, if you were in my place?”

           His face was thoughtful, and he sat considering a little before he answered, in a low voice, “Well! Go. You can do no harm.”

           “You have just come back,” said I, “and it would be in vain to ask you to go with me?”

           “Quite,” he returned. “I am for Highgate to-night. I have not seen my mother this long time, and it lies upon my



page 234 conscience, for it's something to be loved as she loves her prodigal son.—Bah! Nonsense!—You mean to go to-morrow, I suppose?” he said, holding me out at arm's length, with a hand on each of my shoulders.

           “Yes, I think so.”

           “Well, then, don't go till next day. I wanted you to come and stay a few days with us. Here I am, on purpose to bid you, and you fly off to Yarmouth!”

           “You are a nice fellow to talk of flying off, Steerforth, who are always running wild on some unknown expedition or other!”

           He looked at me for a moment without speaking, and then rejoined, still holding me as before, and giving me a shake

           “Come! Say the next day, and pass as much of to-morrow as you can with us! Who knows when we may meet again, else? Come! Say the next day! I want you to stand between Rosa Dartle and me, and keep us asunder.”

           “Would you love each other too much, without me?”

           “Yes; or hate,” laughed Steerforth; “no matter which. Come! Say the next day!”

           I said the next day; and he put on his great-coat, and lighted his cigar, and set off to walk home. Finding him in this intention, I put on my own great-coat (but did not light my own cigar, having had enough of that for one while) and walked with him as far as the open road: a dull road, then, at night. He was in great spirits all the way; and when we parted, and I looked after him going so gallantly and airily homeward, I thought of his saying, “Ride on over all obstacles, and win the race!” and wished, for the first time, that he had some worthy race to run.

           I was undressing in my own room, when Mr. Micawber's letter tumbled on the floor. Thus reminded of it, I broke the



page 235 seal and read as follows. It was dated an hour and a half before dinner. I am not sure whether I have mentioned that, when Mr. Micawber was at any particularly desperate crisis, he used a sort of legal phraseology: which he seemed to think equivalent to winding up his affairs.

           “Sir—for I dare not say, my dear Copperfield,

           “It is expedient that I should inform you that the under-signed is Crushed. Some flickering efforts to spare you the premature knowledge of his calamitous position, you may observe in him this day; but hope has sunk beneath the horizon, and the undersigned is Crushed.

           “The present communication is penned within the personal range (I cannot call it the society) of an individual, in a state closely bordering on intoxication, employed by a broker. That individual is in legal possession of the premises, under a distress for rent. His inventory includes, not only the chattels and effects of every description belonging to the undersigned as yearly tenant of this habitation, but also those appertaining to Mr. Thomas Traddles, lodger, a member of the Honourable Society of the Inner Temple.

           “If any drop of gloom were wanting in the overflowing cup, which is now ‘commended’ (in the language of an immortal Writer) to the lips of the undersigned, it would be found in the fact, that a friendly acceptance granted to the undersigned, by the before-mentioned Mr. Thomas Traddles for the sum of £23 4 s.d. is over due, and is NOT provided for. Also, in the fact, that the living responsibilities clinging to the undersigned, will, in the course of nature, be increased by the sum of one more helpless victim; whose miserable appearance may be looked for—in round numbers—at the expiration of a period not exceeding six lunar months from the present date.



page 236

           “After premising thus much, it would be a work of supererogation to add, that dust and ashes are for ever scattered

“On
“The
“Head
“Of

“WILKINS MICAWBER.”

           Poor Traddles! I knew enough of Mr. Micawber by this time, to foresee that he might be expected to recover the blow; but my night's rest was sorely distressed by thoughts of Traddles, and of the curate's daughter, who was one of ten, down in Devonshire, and who was such a dear girl, and who would wait for Traddles (ominous praise!) until she was sixty, or any age that could be mentioned.



page 237

CHAPTER XIII.
I visit Steerforth at his home, again.

           I MENTIONED to Mr. Spenlow in the morning, that I wanted leave of absence for a short time; and as I was not in the receipt of any salary, and consequently was not obnoxious to the implacable Jorkins, there was no difficulty about it. I took that opportunity, with my voice sticking in my throat, and my sight failing as I uttered the words, to express my hope that Miss Spenlow was quite well; to which Mr. Spenlow replied, with no more emotion than if he had been speaking of an ordinary human being, that he was much obliged to me, and she was very well.

           We articled clerks, as germs of the patrician order of proctors, were treated with so much consideration, that I was almost my own master at all times. As I did not care, however, to get to Highgate before one or two o'clock in the day, and as we had another little excommunication case in court that morning, which was called The office of the Judge promoted by Tipkins against Bullock for his soul's correction I passed an hour or two in attendance on it with Mr. Spenlow very agreeably. It arose out of a scuffle between two church wardens, one of whom was alleged to have pushed the other against a pump; the handle of which pump projecting into: school-house, which school-house was under a gable of the church-roof, made the push an ecclesiastical offence. It was an amusing case; and sent me up to Highgate, on the box of the stage-coach, thinking about the Commons, and what Mr. Spenlow had said about touching the Commons and bringing down the country.



page 238

           Mrs. Steerforth was pleased to see me, and so was Rosa Dartle. I was agreeably surprised to find that Littimer was not there, and that we were attended by a modest little parlour-maid, with blue ribbons in her cap, whose eye it was much more pleasant, and much less disconcerting, to catch by accident, than the eye of that respectable man. But what I particularly observed, before I had been half-an-hour in the house, was the close and attentive watch Miss Dartle kept upon me; and the lurking manner in which she seemed to compare my face with Steerforth's, and Steerforth's with mine, and to lie in wait for something to come out between the two. So surely as I looked towards her, did I see that eager visage, with its gaunt black eyes and searching brow, intent on mine; or passing suddenly from mine to Steerforth's; or comprehending both of us at once. In this lynx-like scrutiny she was so far from faltering when she saw I observed it, that at such a time she only fixed her piercing look upon me with a more intent expression still. Blameless as I was, and knew that I was, in reference to any wrong she could possibly suspect me of, I shrunk before her strange eyes, quite unable to endure their hungry lustre.

           All day, she seemed to pervade the whole house. If I talked to Steerforth in his room, I heard her dress rustle in the little gallery outside. When he and I engaged in some of our old exercises on the lawn behind the house, I saw her face pass from window to window, like a wandering light, until it fixed itself in one, and watched us. When we all four went out walking in the afternoon, she closed her thin hand on my arm like a spring, to keep me back, while Steerforth and his mother went on out of hearing: and then spoke to me.

           “You have been a long time,” she said, “without coming here. Is your profession really so engaging and interesting as to absorb your whole attention? I ask because I always



page 239 want to be informed, when I am ignorant. Is it really, though?”

           I replied that I liked it well enough, but that I certainly could not claim so much for it.

           “Oh! I am glad to know that, because I always like to be put right when I am wrong,” said Rosa Dartle. “You mean it is a little dry, perhaps?”

           “Well,” I replied; “perhaps it was a little dry.”

           “Oh! and that's a reason why you want relief and change—excitement, and all that?” said she. “Ah! very true! But isn't it a little—Eh?—for him; I don't mean you?”

           A quick glance of her eye towards the spot where Steerforth was walking, with his mother leaning on his arm, showed me whom she meant; but beyond that, I was quite lost. And I looked so, I have no doubt.

           “Don't it—I don't say that it does, mind I want to know—don't it rather engross him? Don't it make him, perhaps a little more remiss than usual in his visits to his blindly doting—eh?” With another quick glance at them, and such a glance at me as seemed to look into my innermost thoughts.

           “Miss Dartle,” I returned, “pray do not think—”

           “I don't!” she said. “Oh, dear me, don't suppose that I think anything! I am not suspicious. I only ask a question I don't state any opinion. I want to found an opinion on what you tell me. Then, it's not so? Well! I am very glad to know it.”

           “It certainly is not the fact,” said I, perplexed, “that I am accountable for Steerforth's having been away from home longer than usual—if he has been: which I really don't know at this moment, unless I understand it from you. I have not seen him this long while, until last night.”

           “No?”

           “Indeed, Miss Dartle, no!”



page 240

           As she looked full at me, I saw her face grow sharper and paler, and the marks of the old wound lengthen out until it cut through the disfigured lip, and deep into the nether lip, and slanted down the face. There was something positively awful to me in this, and in the brightness of her eyes, as she said, looking fixedly at me:

           “What is he doing?”

           I repeated the words, more to myself than her, being so amazed.

           “What is he doing?” she said, with an eagerness that seemed enough to consume her like a fire. “In what is that man assisting him, who never looks at me without an inscrutable falsehood in his eyes? If you are honourable and faithful, I don't ask you to betray your friend. I ask you only to tell me, is it anger, is it hatred, is it pride, is it restlessness, is it some wild fancy, is it love, what is it, that is leading him?”

           “Miss Dartle,” I returned, “how shall I tell you, so that you will believe me, that I know of nothing in Steerforth different from what there was when I first came here. I can think of nothing. I firmly believe there is nothing. I hardly understand, even, what you mean.”

           As she still looked fixedly at me, a twitching or throbbing, from which I could not dissociate the idea of pain, came into that cruel mark; and lifted up the corner of her lip as if with scorn, or with a pity that despised its object. She put her hand upon it hurriedly—a hand so thin and delicate, that when I had seen her hold it up before the fire to shade her face, I had compared it in my thoughts to fine porcelain—and saying, in a quick, fierce, passionate way, “I swear you to secresy about this!” said not a word more.

           Mrs. Steerforth was particularly happy in her son's society, and Steerforth was, on this occasion, particularly attentive and respectful to her. It was very interesting to me to see



page 241 them together, not only on account of their mutual affection, but because of the strong personal resemblance between them, and the manner in which what was haughty or impetuous in him was softened by age and sex, in her, to a gracious dignity. I thought, more than once, that it was well no serious cause of division had ever come between them; or two such natures—I ought rather to express it, two such shades of the same nature—might have been harder to reconcile than the two extremest opposites in creation. The idea did not originate in my own discernment, I am bound to confess, but in a speech of Rosa Dartle's.

           She said at dinner:

           “Oh, but do tell me, though, somebody, because I have been thinking about it all day, and I want to know.”

           “You want to know what, Rosa?” returned Mrs. Steerforth. “Pray, pray, Rosa, do not be mysterious.”

           “Mysterious!” she cried. “Oh! really? Do you consider me so?”

           “Do I constantly entreat you,” said Mrs. Steerforth, “to speak plainly, in your own natural manner?”

           “Oh! then, this is not my natural manner?” she rejoined. “Now you must really bear with me, because I ask for information. We never know ourselves.”

           “It has become a second nature,” said Mrs. Steerforth, without any displeasure; “but I remember,—and so must you, I think,—when your manner was different, Rosa; when it was not so guarded, and was more trustful.”

           “I am sure you are right,” she returned; “and so it is that bad habits grow upon one! Really? Less guarded and more trustful? How can I, imperceptibly, have changed, I wonder! Well, that's very odd! I must study to regain my former self.”

           “I wish you would,” said Mrs. Steerforth, with a smile.



page 242

           “Oh! I really will, you know!” she answered. “I will learn frankness from—let me see—from James.”

           “You cannot learn frankness, Rosa,” said Mrs. Steerforth, quickly—for there was always some effect of sarcasm in what Rosa Dartle said, though it was said, as this was, in the most unconscious manner in the world—“in a better school.”

           “That I am sure of,” she answered, with uncommon fervour. “If I am sure of anything, of course, you know, I am sure of that.”

           Mrs. Steerforth appeared to me to regret having been a little nettled; for she presently said, in a kind tone:

           “Well, my dear Rosa, we have not heard what it is that you want to be satisfied about?”

           “That I want to be satisfied about?” she replied, with provoking coldness. “Oh! It was only whether people, who are like each other in their moral constitution—is that the phrase?”

           “It's as good a phrase as another,” said Steerforth.

           “Thank you:—whether people, who are like each other in their moral constitution, are in greater danger than people not so circumstanced, supposing any serious cause of variance to arise between them, of being divided angrily and deeply?”

           “I should say yes,” said Steerforth.

           “Should you?” she retorted. “Dear me! Supposing then, for instance,—any unlikely thing will do for a supposition—that you and your mother were to have a serious quarrel.”

           “My dear Rosa,” interposed Mrs. Steerforth, laughing good-naturedly, “suggest some other supposition! James and I know our duty to each other better, I pray Heaven!”

           “Oh!” said Miss Dartle, nodding her head thoughtfully. “To be sure. That would prevent it? Why, of course it would. Ex-actly. Now, I am glad I have been so foolish as to put the case, for it is so very good to know that



page 243 your duty to each other would prevent it! Thank you very much.”

           One other little circumstance connected with Miss Dartle I must not omit; for I had reason to remember it thereafter, when all the irremediable past was rendered plain. During the whole of this day, but especially from this period of it, Steerforth exerted himself with his utmost skill, and that was with his utmost ease, to charm this singular creature into a pleasant and pleased companion. That he should succeed, was no matter of surprise to me. That she should struggle against the fascinating influence of his delightful art—delightful nature I thought it then—did not surprise me either; for I knew that she was sometimes jaundiced and perverse. I saw her features and her manner slowly change; I saw her look at him with growing admiration; I saw her try, more and more faintly, but always angrily, as if she condemned a weakness in herself, to resist the captivating power that he possessed; and finally I saw her sharp glance soften, and her smile become quite gentle, and I ceased to be afraid of her as I had really been all day, and we all sat about the fire, talking and laughing together, with as little reserve as if we had been children.

           Whether it was because we had sat there so long, or because Steerforth was resolved not to lose the advantage he had gained, I do not know; but we did not remain in the dining-room more than five minutes after her departure. “She is playing her harp,” said Steerforth, softly, at the drawing-room door, “and nobody but my mother has heard her do that, I believe, these three years.” He said it with a curious smile, which was gone directly; and we went into the room and found her alone.

           “Don't get up!” said Steerforth (which she had already



page 244 done); “my dear Rosa, don't! Be kind for once, and sing us an Irish song.”

           “What do you care for an Irish song?” she returned.

           “Much!” said Steerforth. “Much more than for any other. Here is Daisy, too, loves music from his soul. Sing us an Irish song, Rosa! and let me sit and listen as I used to do.”

           He did not touch her, or the chair from which she had risen, but sat himself near the harp. She stood beside it for some little while, in a curious way, going through the motion of playing it with her right hand, but not sounding it. At length she sat down, and drew it to her with one sudden action, and played and sang.

           I don't know what it was, in her touch or voice, that made that song the most unearthly I have ever heard in my life, or can imagine. There was something fearful in the reality of it. It was as if it had never been written, or set to music, but sprung out of the passion within her; which found imperfect utterance in the low sounds of her voice, and crouched again when all was still. I was dumb when she leaned beside the harp again, playing it, but not sounding it, with her right hand.

           A minute more, and this had roused me from my trance:—Steerforth had left his seat, and gone to her, and had put his arm laughingly about her, and had said, “Come, Rosa, for the future we will love each other very much!” And she had struck him, and had thrown him off with the fury of a wild cat, and had burst out of the room.

           “What is the matter with Rosa?” said Mrs. Steerforth, coming in.

           “She has been an angel, mother,” returned Steerforth, “for a little while; and has run into the opposite extreme, since, by way of compensation.”



page 245

           “You should be careful not to irritate her, James. Her temper has been soured, remember, and ought not to be tried.”

           Rosa did not come back; and no other mention was made of her, until I went with Steerforth into his room to say Good night. Then he laughed about her, and asked me if I had ever seen such a fierce little piece of incomprehensibility.

           I expressed as much of my astonishment as was then capable of expression, and asked if he could guess what it was that she had taken so much amiss, so suddenly.

           “Oh, Heaven knows,” said Steerforth. “Any thing you like—or nothing! I told you she took every thing, herself included, to a grindstone, and sharpened it. She is an edgetool, and requires great care in dealing with. She is always dangerous. Good night!”

           “Good night!” said I, “my dear Steerforth! I shall be gone before you wake in the morning. Good night!”

           He was unwilling to let me go; and stood, holding me out, with a hand on each of my shoulders, as he had done in my own room.

           “Daisy,” he said, with a smile—“for though that's not the name your Godfathers and Godmothers gave you, it's the name I like best to call you by—and I wish, I wish, I wish, you could give it to me!”

           “Why so I can, if I choose,” said I.

           “Daisy, if anything should ever separate us, you must think of me at my best, old boy. Come! Let us make that bargain. Think of me at my best, if circumstances should ever part us!”

           “You have no best to me, Steerforth,” said I, “and no worst. You are alwas equally loved, and cherished in my heart.”

           So much compunction for having ever wronged him, even by a shapeless thought, did I feel within me, that the confession



page 246 of having done so was rising to my lips. But for the reluctance I had, to betray the confidence of Agnes, but for my uncertainty how to approach the subject with no risk of doing so, it would have reached them before he said, “God bless you, Daisy, and good night!” In my doubt, it did not reach them; and we shook hands, and we parted.

           I was up with the dull dawn, and, having dressed as quietly as I could, looked into his room. He was fast asleep; lying, easily, with his head upon his arm, as I had often seen him lie at school.

           The time came in its season, and that was very soon, when I almost wondered that nothing troubled his repose, as I looked at him. But he slept—let me think of him so again—as I had often seen him sleep at school; and thus, in this silent hour, I left him.

           —Never more, oh God forgive you, Steerforth! to touch that passive hand in love and friendship. Never, never, more!



page 247

CHAPTER XIV.
A loss.

           I GOT down to Yarmouth in the evening, and went to the inn. I knew that Peggotty's spare room—my room—was likely to have occupation enough in a little while, if that great Visitor, before whose presence all the living must give place, were not already in the house; so I betook myself to the inn, and dined there, and engaged my bed.

           It was ten o'clock when I went out. Many of the shops were shut, and the town was dull. When I came to Omer and Joram's, I found the shutters up, but the shop door standing open. As I could obtain a perspective view of Mr. Omer inside, smoking his pipe by the parlour-door, I entered, and asked him how he was.

           “Why, bless my life and soul!” said Mr. Omer, “how do you find yourself? Take a seat.—Smoke not disagreeable, I hope?”

           “By no means,” said I. “I like it—in somebody else's pipe.”

           “What, not in your own, eh?” Mr. Omer returned, laughing. “All the better, Sir. Bad habit for a young man. Take a seat. I smoke, myself, for the asthma.”

           Mr. Omer had made room for me, and placed a chair. He now sat down again, very much out of breath, gasping at his pipe as if it contained a supply of that necessary, without which he must perish.

           “I am sorry to have heard bad news of Mr. Barkis,” said I.



page 248

           Mr. Omer looked at me, with a steady countenance, and shook his head.

           “Do you know how he is to-night?” I asked.

           “The very question I should have put to you, Sir,” returned Mr. Omer, “but on account of delicacy. It's one of the drawbacks of our line of business. When a party's ill, we can't ask how the party is.”

           The difficulty had not occurred to me; though I had had my apprehensions too, when I went in, of hearing the old tune. On its being mentioned, I recognised it, however, and said as much.

           “Yes, yes, you understand,” said Mr. Omer, nodding his head. “We durstn't do it. Bless you, it would be a shock that the generality of parties mightn't recover, to say ‘Omer and Jorams's compliments, and how do you find yourself this morning’—or this afternoon—as it may be.”

           Mr. Omer and I nodded at each other, and Mr. Omer recruited his wind by the aid of his pipe.

           “It's one of the things that cut the trade off from attentions they could often wish to show,” said Mr. Omer. “Take myself. If I have known Barkis a year, to move to as he went by, I have known him forty year. But I can't go and say ‘how is he?’ ”

           I felt it was rather hard on Mr. Omer, and I told him so.

           “I'm not more self-interested, I hope, than another man,” said Mr. Omer. “Look at me! My wind may fail me at any moment, and it ain't likely that, to my own knowledge, I'd be self-interested under such circumstances. I say it ain't likely, in a man who knows his wind will go, when it does go, as if a pair of bellows was cut open; and that man a grandfather,” said Mr. Omer.

           I said, “Not at all.”

           “It ain't that I complain of my line of business,” said Mr.



page 249 Omer. “It ain't that. Some good and some bad goes, no doubt, to all callings. What I wish, is, that parties were brought up stronger-minded.”

           Mr. Omer, with a very complacent and amiable face, took several puffs in silence; and then said, resuming his first point.

           “Accordingly we're obleeged, in ascertaining how Barkis goes on, to limit ourselves to Em'ly. She knows what our real objects are, and she don't have any more alarms or suspicions about us, than if we was so many lambs. Minnie and Joram have just stepped down to the house, in fact (she's there, after hours, helping her aunt a bit), to ask her how he is to-night; and if you was to please to wait till they come back, they'd give you full partic'lers. Will you take something? A glass of srub and water, now? I smoke on srub and water, myself,” said Mr. Omer, taking up his glass, “because it's considered softening to the passages, by which this troublesome breath of mine gets into action. But, Lord bless you,” said Mr. Omer, huskily, “it ain't the passages that's out of order! ‘Give me breath enough,’ says I to my daughter Minnie, ‘and I'll find passages, my dear.’ ”

           He really had no breath to spare, and it was very alarming to see him laugh. When he was again in a condition to be talked to, I thanked him for the proffered refreshment, which I declined, as I had just had dinner; and, observing that I would wait, since he was so good as to invite me, until his daughter and his son-in-law came back, I inquired how little Emily was?

           “Well, Sir,” said Mr. Omer, removing his pipe, that he might rub his chin; “I tell you truly, I shall be glad when her marriage has taken place.”

           “Why so?” I inquired.

           “Well, she's unsettled at present,” said Mr. Omer. “It



page 250 ain't that she's not as pretty as ever, for she's prettier—I do assure you, she is prettier. It ain't that she don't work as well as ever, for she does. She was worth any six, and she is worth any six. But somehow she wants heart. If you understand,” said Mr. Omer, after rubbing his chin again, and smoking a little, “what I mean in a general way by the expression, ‘A long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether, my hearties, hurrah!’ I should say to you, that that was—in a general way—what I miss in Em'ly.”

           Mr. Omer's face and manner went for so much, that I could conscientiously nod my head, as divining his meaning. My quickness of apprehension seemed to please him, and he went on:

           “Now, I consider this is principally on account of her being in an unsettled state, you see. We have talked it over a good deal, her uncle and myself, and her sweetheart and myself, after business; and I consider it is principally on account of her being unsettled. You must always recollect of Em'ly,” said Mr. Omer, shaking his head gently, “that she's a most extraordinary affectionate little thing. The proverb says, ‘You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.’ Well, I don't know about that. I rather think you may, if you begin early in life. She has made a home out of that old boat, Sir, that stone and marble couldn't beat.”

           “I am sure she has!” said I.

           “To see the clinging of that pretty little thing to her uncle,” said Mr. Omer; “to see the way she holds on to him, tighter and tighter, and closer and closer, every day, is to see a sight. Now, you know, there's a struggle going on when that's the case. Why should it be made a longer one than is needful?”

           I listened attentively to the good old fellow, and acquiesced, with all my heart, in what he said.



page 251

           “Therefore, I mentioned to them,” said Mr. Omer, in a comfortable, easy-going tone, “this. I said, ‘Now, don't consider Em'ly nailed down in point of time, at all. Make it your own time. Her services have been more valuable than was supposed; her learning has been quicker than was supposed; Omer and Joram can run their pen through what remains; and she's free when you wish. If she likes to make any little arrangement, afterwards, in the way of doing any little thing for us at home, very well. If she don't, very well still. We're no losers, anyhow.’ For—don't you see,” said Mr. Omer, touching me with his pipe, “it ain't likely that a man so short of breath as myself, and a grandfather too, would go and strain points with a little bit of a blue-eyed blossom, like her?

           “Not at all, I am certain,” said I.

           “Not at all! You're right!” said Mr. Omer. “Well, Sir, her cousin—you know it's a cousin she's going to be married to?”

           “Oh yes,” I replied. “I know him well.”

           “Of course you do,” said Mr. Omer. “Well, Sir! Her cousin being, as it appears, in good work, and well to do, thanked me in a very manly sort of manner for this (conducting himself altogether, I must say, in a way that gives me a high opinion of him), and went and took as comfortable a little house as you or I could wish to clap eyes on. That little house is now furnished, right through, as neat and complete as a doll's parlour; and but for Barkis's illness having taken this bad turn, poor fellow, they would have been man and wife—I dare say, by this time. As it is, there's a postponement.”

           “And Emily, Mr. Omer?” I inquired. “Has she become more settled?”

           “Why that, you know,” he returned, rubbing his double



page 252 chin again, “can't naturally be expected. The prospect of the change and separation, and all that, is, as one may say, close to her and far away from her, both at once. Barkis's death needn't put it off much, but his lingering might. Anyway, it's an uncertain state of matters, you see.”

           “I see,” said I.

           “Consequently,” pursued Mr. Omer, “Em'ly's still a little down, and a little fluttered; perhaps, upon the whole, she's more so than she was. Every day she seems to get fonder and fonder of her uncle, and more loth to part from all of us. A kind word from me brings the tears into her eyes; and if you was to see her with my daughter Minnie's little girl, you'd never forget it. Bless my heart alive!” said Mr. Omer, pondering, “how she loves that child!”

           Having so favourable an opportunity, it occurred to me to ask Mr. Omer, before our conversation should be interupted by the return of his daughter and her husband, whether he knew anything of Martha.

           “Ah!” he rejoined, shaking his head, and looking very much dejected. “No good. A sad story, Sir, however you come to know it. I never thought there was harm in the girl. I wouldn't wish to mention it before my daughter Minnie—for she'd take me up directly—but I never did. None of us ever did.”

           Mr. Omer, hearing his daughter's footstep before I heard it, touched me with his pipe, and shut up one eye, as a caution. She and her husband came in immediately afterwards.

           Their report was, that Mr. Barkis was “as bad as bad could be;” that he was quite unconscious; and that Mr. Chillip had mournfully said in the kitchen, on going away just now, that the College of Physicians, the College of Surgeons, and Apothecaries' Hall, if they were all called in together, couldn't help him. He was past both Colleges, Mr. Chillip said, and the Hall could only poison him.



page 253

           Hearing this, and learning that Mr. Peggotty was there, I determined to go to the house at once. I bade good night to Mr. Omer, and to Mr. and Mrs. Joram; and directed my steps thither, with a solemn feeling, which made Mr. Barkis quite a new and different creature.

           My low tap at the door was answered by Mr. Peggotty. He was not so much surprised to see me as I had expected. I remarked this in Peggotty, too, when she came down; and I have seen it since; and I think, in the expectation of that dread surprise, all other changes and surprises dwindle into nothing.

           I shook hands with Mr. Peggotty, and passed into the kitchen, while he softly closed the door. Little Emily was sitting by the fire, with her hands before her face. Ham was standing near her.

           We spoke in whispers; listening, between whiles, for any sound in the room above. I had not thought of it on the occasion of my last visit, but how strange it was to me now, to miss Mr. Barkis out of the kitchen!

           “This is very kind of you, Mas'r Davy,” said Mr. Peggotty.

           “It is oncommon kind,” said Ham.

           “Em'ly, my dear,” cried Mr. Peggotty. “See here! Here's Mas'r Davy come! What, cheer up, pretty! Not a wured to Mas'r Davy?”

           There was a trembling upon her, that I can see now. The coldness of her hand when I touched it, I can feel yet. Its only sign of animation was to shrink from mine; and then she glided from the chair, and, creeping to the other side of her uncle, bowed herself, silently and trembling still, upon his breast.

           “It's such a loving art,” said Mr. Peggotty, smoothing her rich hair with his great hard hand, “that it can't abear the



page 254 sorrer of this. It's nat'ral in young folk, Mas'r Davy, when they're new to these here trials, and timid, like my little bird,—it's nat'ral.”

           She clung the closer to him, but neither lifted up her face, nor spoke a word.

           “It's getting late, my dear,” said Mr. Peggotty, “and here's Ham come fur to take you home. Theer! Go along with t'other loving art! What, Em'ly? Eh, my pretty?”

           The sound of her voice had not reached me, but he bent his head as if he listened to her, and then said:

           “Let you stay with your uncle? Why, you doen't mean to ask me that! Stay with your uncle, Moppet? When your husband that'll be so soon, is here fur to take you home? Now a person wouldn't think it, fur to see this little thing alongside a rough-weather chap like me,” said Mr. Peggotty, looking round at both of us, with infinite pride; “but the sea ain't more salt in it than she has fondness in her for her uncle—a foolish little Em'ly!”

           “Em'ly's in the right in that, Mas'r Davy!” said Ham. “Lookee here! As Em'ly wishes of it, and as she's hurried and frightened, like, besides, I'll leave her till morning. Let me stay too!”

           “No, no,” said Mr. Peggotty. “You doen't ought—a married man like you—or what's as good—to take and hull away a day's work. And you doen't ought to watch and work both. That won't do. You go home and turn in. You ain't afeerd of Em'ly not being took good care on, I know.”

           Ham yielded to this persuasion, and took his hat to go. Even when he kissed her,—and I never saw him approach her, but I felt that nature had given him the soul of a gentleman,—she seemed to cling closer to her uncle, even to the avoidance of her chosen husband. I shut the door after him, that it might cause no disturbance of the quiet that prevailed; and



page 255 when I turned back, I found Mr. Peggotty still talking to her.

           “Now, I'm a going up-stairs to tell your aunt as Mas'r Davy's here, and that'll cheer her up a bit,” he said. “Sit ye down by the fire, the while, my dear, and warm these mortal cold hands. You doen't need to be so fearsome, and take on so much. What? You'll go along with me?—Well! come along with me—come! If her uncle was turned out of house and home, and forced to lay down in a dyke, Mas'r Davy,” said Mr. Peggotty, with no less pride than before, “it's my belief she'd go along with him, now! But there'll be some one else, soon,—some one else, soon, Em'ly!”

           Afterwards, when I went up-stairs, as I passed the door of my little chamber, which was dark, I had an indistinct impression of her being within it, cast down upon the floor. But, whether it was really she, or whether it was a confusion of the shadows in the room, I don't know now.

           I had leisure to think, before the kitchen-fire, of pretty little Em'ly's dread of death—which, added to what Mr. Omer had told me, I took to be the cause of her being so unlike herself—and I had leisure, before Peggotty came down, even to think more leniently of the weakness of it: as I sat counting the ticking of the clock, and deepening my sense of the solemn hush around me. Peggotty took me in her arms, and blessed and thanked me over and over again for being such a comfort to her (that was what she said) in her distress. She then entreated me to come up-stairs, sobbing that Mr. Barkis had always liked me and admired me; that he had often talked of me, before he fell into a stupor; and that she believed, in case of his coming to himself again, he would brighten up at sight of me, if he could brighten up at any earthly thing.

           The probability of his ever doing so, appeared to me, when I saw him, to be very small. He was lying with his head and



page 256 shoulders out of bed, in an uncomfortable attitude, half resting on the box which had cost him so much pain and trouble. I learned, that, when he was past creeping out of bed to open it, and past assuring himself of its safety by means of the divining rod I had seen him use, he had required to have it placed on the chair at the bed-side, where he had ever since embraced it, night and day. His arm lay on it now. Time and the world were slipping from beneath him, but the box was there; and the last words he had uttered were (in an explanatory tone) “Old clothes!”

           “Barkis, my dear!” said Peggotty, almost cheerfully: bending over him, while her brother and I stood at the bed's foot. “Here's my dear boy—my dear boy, Master Davy, who brought us together, Barkis! That you sent messages by, you know! Won't you speak to Master Davy?”

           He was as mute and senseless as the box, from which his form derived the only expression it had.

           “He's a going out with the tide,” said Mr. Pegotty to me, behind his hand.

           My eyes were dim, and so were Mr. Pegotty's; but I repeated in a whisper, “With the tide?”

           “People can't die, along the coast,” said Mr. Peggotty, “except when the tide's pretty nigh out. They can't be born, unless it's pretty nigh in—not properly born, till flood. He's a going out with the tide. It's ebb at half arter three, slack water half-an-hour. If he lives 'till it turns, he'll hold his own till past the flood, and go out with the next tide.”

           We remained there, watching him, a long time—hours. What mysterious influence my presence had upon him in that state of his senses, I shall not pretend to say; but when he at last began to wander feebly, it is certain he was muttering about driving me to school.

           “He's coming to himself,” said Peggotty.



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           Mr. Peggotty touched me, and whispered with much awe and reverence, “They are both a going out fast.”

           “Barkis, my dear!” said Peggotty.

           “C. P. Barkis,” he cried, faintly. “No better woman anywhere!”

           “Look! Here's Master Davy!” said Peggotty. For he now opened his eyes.

           I was on the point of asking him if he knew me, when he tried to stretch out his arm, and said to me, distinctly, with a pleasant smile:

           “Barkis is willin'!”

           And, it being low water, he went out with the tide.



page 258

CHAPTER XV.
A greater loss.

           IT was not difficult for me, on Peggotty's solicitation, to resolve to stay where I was, until after the remains of the poor carrier should have made their last journey to Blunderstone. She had long ago bought, out of her own savings, a little piece of ground in our old churchyard near the grave “of her sweet girl,” as she always called my mother; and there they were to rest.

           In keeping Peggotty company, and doing all I could for her (little enough at the utmost), I was as grateful, I rejoice to think, as even now I could wish myself to have been. But I am afraid I had a supreme satisfaction, of a personal and professional nature, in taking charge of Mr. Barkis's will, and expounding its contents.

           I may claim the merit of having originated the suggestion that the will should be looked for in the box. After some search, it was found in the box, at the bottom of a horse's nose-bag; wherein (besides hay) there was discovered an old gold watch, with chain and seals, which Mr. Barkis had worn on his wedding-day, and which had never been seen before or since; a silver tobacco-stopper, in the form of a leg; an imitation lemon, full of minute cups and saucers, which I have some idea Mr. Barkis must have purchased to present to me when I was a child, and afterwards found himself unable to part with; eighty-seven guineas and a half, in guineas and half guineas; two hundred and ten pounds, in perfectly clean Bank notes; certain receipts for Bank of England stock; an old horse-shoe,



page 259 a bad shilling, a piece of camphor, and an oyster-shell. From the circumstance of the latter article having been much polished, and displaying prismatic colours on the inside, I conclude that Mr. Barkis had some general ideas about pearls, which never resolved themselves into anything definite.

           For years and years, Mr. Barkis had carried this box, on all his journeys, every day. That it might the better escape notice, he had invented a fiction that it belonged to “Mr. Blackboy,” and was “to be left with Barkis till called for;” a fable he had elaborately written on the lid, in characters now scarcely legible.

           He had hoarded, all these years, I found, to good purpose. His property in money amounted to nearly three thousand pounds. Of this he bequeathed the interest of one thousand to Mr. Peggotty for his life; on his decease, the principal to be equally divided between Peggotty, little Emily, and me, or the survivor or survivors of us, share and share alike. All the rest he died possessed of, he bequeathed to Peggotty; whom he left residuary legatee, and sole executrix of that his last will and testament.

           I felt myself quite a proctor when I read this document aloud with all possible ceremony, and set forth its provisions, any number of times, to those whom they concerned. I began to think there was more in the Commons than I had supposed. I examined the will with the deepest attention, pronounced it perfectly formal in all respects, made a pencil-mark or so in the margin, and thought it rather extraordinary that I knew so much.

           In this abstruse pursuit; in making an account for, Peggotty, of all the property into which she had come; in arranging all the affairs in an orderly manner; and in being her referee and adviser on every point, to our joint delight; I passed the week before the funeral. I did not see little Emily



page 260 in that interval, but they told me she was to be quietly married in a fortnight.

           I did not attend the funeral in character, if I may venture to say so. I mean I was not dressed up in a black cloak and a streamer, to frighten the birds; but I walked over to Blunder-stone early in the morning, and was in the churchyard when it came, attended only by Peggotty and her brother. The mad gentleman looked on, out of my little window; Mr. Chillip's baby wagged its heavy head, and rolled its goggle eyes, at the clergyman, over its nurse's shoulder; Mr. Omer breathed short in the background; no one else was there; and it was very quiet. We walked about the churchyard for an hour, after all was over; and pulled some young leaves from the tree above my mother's grave.

           A dread falls on me here. A cloud is lowering on the distant town, towards which I retraced my solitary steps. I fear to approach it. I cannot bear to think of what did come, upon that memorable night; of what must come again, if I go on.

           It is no worse, because I write of it. It would be no better, if I stopped my most unwilling hand. It is done. Nothing can undo it; nothing can make it otherwise than as it was.

           My old nurse was to go to London with me next day, on the business of the will. Little Emily was passing that day at Mr. Omer's. We were all to meet in the old boat-house that night. Ham would bring Emily at the usual hour. I would walk back at my leisure. The brother and sister would return as they had come, and be expecting us, when the day closed in, at the fireside.

           I parted from them at the wicket-gate, where visionary Straps had rested with Roderick Random's knapsack in the days of yore; and, instead of going straight back, walked a little distance on the road to Lowestoft. Then I turned, and



page 261 walked back towards Yarmouth. I stayed to dine at a decent alehouse, some mile or two from the Ferry I have mentioned before; and thus the day wore away, and it was evening when I reached it. Rain was falling heavily by that time, and it was a wild night; but there was a moon behind the clouds, and it was not dark.

           I was soon within sight of Mr. Peggotty's house, and of the light within it shining through the window. A little floundering across the sand, which was heavy, brought me to the door, and I went in.

           It looked very comfortable, indeed. Mr. Peggotty had smoked his evening pipe, and there were preparations for some supper by-and-by. The fire was bright, the ashes were thrown up, the locker was ready for little Emily in her old place. In her own old place sat Peggotty, once more, looking (but for her dress) as if she had never left it. She had fallen back, already, on the society of the work-box with Saint Paul's upon the lid, the yard-measure in the cottage, and the bit of wax candle: and there they all were, just as if they had never been disturbed. Mrs. Gummidge appeared to be fretting a little, in her old corner; and consequently looked quite natural, too.

           “You're first of the lot, Mas'r Davy!” said Mr. Peggotty, with a happy face. “Doen't keep in that coat, Sir, if it's wet.”

           “Thank you, Mr. Peggotty,” said I, giving him my outer coat to hang up. “It's quite dry.”

           “So't is!” said Mr. Peggotty, feeling my shoulders. “As a chip! Sit ye down, Sir. It ain't o' no use saying welcome to you, but you're welcome, kind and hearty.”

           “Thank you, Mr. Peggotty, I am sure of that. Well, Peggotty!” said I, giving her a kiss. “And how are you, old woman?”

           “Ha, ha!” laughed Mr. Peggotty, sitting down beside us,



page 262 and rubbing his hands in his sense of relief from recent trouble, and in the genuine heartiness of his nature; “there's not a woman in the wureld, Sir—as I tell her—that need to feel more easy in her mind than her! She done her dooty by the departed, and the departed know'd it; and the departed done what was right by her, as she done what was right by the departed; and—and—and it's all right!”

           Mrs. Gummidge groaned.

           “Cheer up, my pretty mawther!” said Mr. Peggotty. (But he shook his head aside at us, evidently sensible of the tendency of the late occurrences to recall the memory of the old one.) “Doen't be down! Cheer up, for your own self, on'y a little bit, and see if a good deal more doen't come nat'ral!”

           “Not to me, Dan'l,” returned Mrs. Gummidge. “Nothink's nat'ral to me but to be lone and lorn.”

           “No, no,” said Mr. Peggotty, soothing her sorrows.

           “Yes, yes, Dan'l!” said Mrs. Gummidge. “I ain't a person to live with them as has had money left. Thinks go too contrairy with me. I had better be a riddance.”

           “Why, how should I ever spend it without you?” said Mr. Peggotty, with an air of serious remonstrance. “What are you a talking on? Doen't I want you more now, than ever I did?”

           “I know'd I was never wanted before!” cried Mrs. Gummidge, with a pitiable whimper, “and now I'm told so! How could I expect to be wanted, being so lone and lorn, and so contrairy!”

           Mr. Peggotty seemed very much shocked at himself for having made a speech capable of this unfeeling construction, but was prevented from replying, by Peggotty's pulling his sleeve, and shaking her head. After looking at Mrs. Gummidge for some moments, in sore distress of mind, he glanced



page 263 at the Dutch clock, rose, snuffed the candle, and put it in the window.

           “Theer!” said Mr. Peggotty, cheerily. “Theer we are, Missis Gummidge!” Mrs. Gummidge slightly groaned. “Lighted up, accordin' to custom! You're a wonderin' what that's fur, Sir! Well, it's fur our little Em'ly. You see, the path ain't over light or cheerful arter dark; and when I'm here at the hour as she's a comin' home, I puts the light in the winder. That, you see,” said Mr. Peggotty, bending over me with great glee, “meets two objects. She says, says Em'ly, ‘Theer's home!’ she says. And likewise, says Em'ly, ‘My uncle's theer!’ Fur if I ain't theer, I never have no light showed.”

           “You're a baby!” said Peggotty; very fond of him for it, if she thought so.

           “Well,” returned Mr. Peggotty, standing with his legs pretty wide apart, and rubbing his hands up and down them in his comfortable satisfaction, as he looked alternately at us and at the fire, “I doen't know but I am. Not, you see, to look at.”

           “Not azackly,” observed Peggotty.

           “No,” laughed Mr. Peggotty, “not to look at, but to—to consider on, you know. I doen't care, bless you! Now I tell you. When I go a looking and looking about that theer pritty house of our Em'ly's, I'm—I'm Gormed,” said Mr. Peggotty, with sudden emphasis—“theer! I can't say more—if I doen't feel as if the littlest things was her, a'most. I takes 'em up and I puts 'em down, and I touches of 'em as delicate as if they was our Em'ly. So't is with her little bonnets and that. I couldn't see one on 'em rough used a purpose—not fur the whole wureld. There's a babby fur you, in the form of a great Sea Porkypine!”



page 264 said Mr. Peggotty, relieving his earnestness with a roar of laughter.

           Peggotty and I both laughed, but not so loud.

           “It's my opinion, you see,” said Mr. Peggotty, with a delighted face, after some further rubbing of his legs, “as this is along of my havin' played with her so much, and made believe as we was Turks, and French, and sharks, and every wariety of forinners—bless you, yes; and lions and whales, and I don't know what all!—when she warn't no higher than my knee. I've got into the way on it, you know. Why, this here candle, now!” said Mr. Peggotty, gleefully holding out his hand towards it, “I know wery well that arter she's married and gone, I shall put that candle theer, just the same as now. I know wery well that when I'm here o' nights (and where else should I live, bless your arts, whatever fortun' I come into!) and she ain't here, or I ain't theer, I shall put the candle in the winder, and sit afore the fire, pretending I'm excepting of her, like I'm a doing now. There's a babby for you,” said Mr. Peggotty, with another roar, “in the form of a Sea Porkypine! Why, at the present minute, when I see the candle sparkle up, I says to myself, ‘She's a looking at it! Em'ly's a coming!’ There's a babby for you, in the form of a Sea Porkypine! Right for all that,” said Mr. Peggotty, stopping in his roar, and smiting his hands together; “fur here she is!”

           It was only Ham. The night should have turned more wet since I came in, for he had a large sou'wester hat on, slouched over his face.

           “Where's Em'ly?” said Mr. Peggotty.

           Ham made a motion with his head, as if she were outside. Mr. Peggotty took the light from the window, trimmed it, put it on the table, and was busily stirring the fire, when Ham, who had not moved, said:



page 265

           “Mas'r Davy, will you come out a minute, and see what Em'ly and me has got to show you?”

           We went out. As I passed him at the door, I saw, to my astonishment and fright, that he was deadly pale. He pushed me hastily into the open air, and closed the door upon us. Only upon us two.

           “Ham! what's the matter!”

           “Mas'r Davy!—” Oh, for his broken heart, how dreadfully he wept!

           I was paralyzed by the sight of such grief. I don't know what I thought, or what I dreaded. I could only look at him.

           “Ham! Poor good fellow! For Heaven's sake tell me what's the matter!”

           “My love, Mas'r Davy—the pride and hope of my art—her that I'd have died for, and would die for now—she's gone!”

           “Gone?”

           “Em'ly's run away! Oh, Mas'r Davy, think how she's run away, when I pray my good and gracious God to kill her (her that is so dear above all things) sooner than let her come to ruin and disgrace!”

           The face he turned up to the troubled sky, the quivering of his clasped hands, the agony of his figure, remain associated with that lonely waste, in my remembrance, to this hour. It is always night there, and he is the only object in the scene.

           “You're a scholar,” he said, hurriedly, “and know what's right and best. What am I to say, in-doors? How am I ever to break it to him, Mas'r Davy?”

           I saw the door move, and instinctively tried to hold the latch on the outside, to gain a moment's time. It was too late. Mr. Peggotty thrust forth his face; and never could



page 266 I forget the change that came upon it when he saw us, if I were to live five hundred years.

           I remember a great wail and cry, and the women hanging about him, and we all standing in the room; I with a paper in my hand, which Ham had given me; Mr. Peggotty, with his vest torn open, his hair wild, his face and lips quite white, and blood trickling down his bosom (it had sprung from his mouth, I think), looking fixedly at me.

           “Read it, Sir,” he said, in a low shivering voice. “Slow, please. I doen't know as I can understand.”

           In the midst of the silence of death, I read thus, from a blotted letter.

           “ ‘When you, who love me so much better than I ever have deserved, even when my mind was innocent, see this, I shall be far away.’ ”

           “I shall be fur away,” he repeated slowly. “Stop! Em'ly fur away. Well!”

           ‘When I leave my dear home—my dear home—oh, my dear home!—in the morning,’

           the letter bore date on the previous night:

           ‘—it will be never to come back, unless he brings me back a lady. This will be found at night, many hours after, instead of me. Oh, if you knew how my heart is torn. If even you, that I have wronged so much, that never can forgive me, could only know what I suffer! I am too wicked to write about myself. Oh, take comfort in thinking that I am so bad. Oh, for mercy's sake, tell uncle that I never loved him half so dear as now. Oh, don't remember how affectionate and kind you have all been to me—don't remember we were ever to be married—but try to think as if I died when I was little, and was buried somewhere. Pray Heaven that I am going away from, have compassion on my uncle! Tell him that I never loved him half so dear. Be his comfort. Love some good girl, that will be what I was once to uncle, and be true to you, and worthy of you, and know no shame but me. God bless all! I'll pray for all, often, on my knees. If he don't bring me back a lady, and I don't pray for my own self, I'll pray for all. My parting love to uncle. My last tears, and my last thanks, for uncle!’ ”



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           That was all.

           He stood, long after I had ceased to read, still looking at me. At length I ventured to take his hand, and to entreat him, as well as I could, to endeavour to get some command of himself. He replied, “I thankee, Sir, I thankee!” without moving.

           Ham spoke to him. Mr. Peggotty was so far sensible of his affliction, that he wrung his hand; but, otherwise, he remained in the same state, and no one dared to disturb him.

           Slowly, at last, he moved his eyes from my face, as if he were waking from a vision, and cast them round the room. Then he said, in a low voice:

           “Who's the man? I want to know his name.”

           Ham glanced at me, and suddenly I felt a shock that struck me back.

           “There's a man suspected,” said Mr. Peggotty. “Who is it?”

           “Mas'r Davy!” implored Ham. “Go out a bit, and let me tell him what I must. You doen't ought to hear it, Sir.”

           I felt the shock again. I sank down in a chair, and tried to utter some reply; but my tongue was fettered, and my sight was weak.

           “I want to know his name!” I heard said, once more.

           “For some time past,” Ham faltered, “there's been a servant about here, at odd times. There's been a gen'lm'n too. Both of'em belonged to one another.”

           Mr. Peggotty stood fixed as before, but now looking at him.

           “The servant,” pursued Ham, “was seen along with—our poor girl—last night. He's been in hiding about here, this week or over. He was thought to have gone, but he was hiding. Doen't stay, Mas'r Davy, doen't!”



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           I felt Peggotty's arm round my neck, but I could not have moved if the house had been about to fall upon me.

           “A strange chay and horses was outside town, this morning, on the Norwich road, a'most afore the day broke,” Ham went on. “The servant went to it, and come from it, and went to it again. When he went to it again, Em'ly was nigh him. The t'other was inside. He's the man.”

           “For the Lord's love,” said Mr. Peggotty, falling back, and putting out his hand, as if to keep off what he dreaded. “Doen't tell me his name's Steerforth!”

           “Mas'r Davy,” exclaimed Ham, in a broken voice, “it ain't no fault of yourn—and I am far from laying of it to you—but his name is Steerforth, and he's a damned villain!”

           Mr. Peggotty uttered no cry, and shed no tear, and moved no more, until he seemed to wake again, all at once, and pulled down his rough coat from its peg in a corner.

           “Bear a hand with this! I'm struck of a heap, and can't do it,” he said, impatiently. “Bear a hand, and help me. Well!” when somebody had done so. “Now give me that theer hat!”

           Ham asked him whither he was going.

           “I'm a going to seek my niece. I'm a going to seek my Em'ly. I'm a going, first, to stave in that theer boat, and sink it where I would have drownded him, as I'm a livin' soul, if I had had one thought of what was in him! As he sat afore me,” he said, wildly, holding out his clenched right hand, “as he sat afore me, face to face, strike me down dead, but I'd have drownded him, and thought it right!—I'm a going to seek my niece.”

           “Where?” cried Ham, interposing himself before the door.

           “Anywhere! I'm a going to seek my niece through the



page 269 wureld. I'm a going to find my poor niece in her shame, and bring her back. No one stop me! I tell you I'm a going to seek my niece!”

           “No, no!” cried Mrs. Gummidge, coming between them, in a fit of crying. “No, no, Dan'l, not as you are now. Seek her in a little while, my lone lorn Dan'l, and that'll be but right; but not as you are now. Sit ye down, and give me your forgiveness for having ever been a worrit to you, Dan'l—what have my contrairies ever been to this!—and let us speak a word about them times when she was first an orphan, and when Ham was too, and when I was a poor widder woman, and you took me in. It'll soften your poor heart, Dan'l,” laying her head upon his shoulder, “and you'll bear your sorrow better; for you know the promise, Dan'l, ‘As you have done it unto one of the least of these, you have done it unto me’; and that can never fail under this roof, that's been our shelter for so many, many year!”

           He was quite passive now; and when I heard him crying, the impulse that had been upon me to go down upon my knees, and ask their pardon for the desolation I had caused, and curse Steerforth, yielded to a better feeling. My overcharged heart found the same relief, and I cried too.



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CHAPTER XVI.
The beginning of a long journey.

           WHAT is natural in me, is natural in many other men, I infer, and so I am not afraid to write that I never had loved Steerforth better than when the ties that bound me to him were broken. In the keen distress of the discovery of his unworthiness, I thought more of all that was brilliant in him, I softened more towards all that was good in him, I did more justice to the qualities that might have made him a man of a noble nature and a great name, than ever I had done in the height of my devotion to him. Deeply as I felt my own unconscious part in his pollution of an honest home, I believe that if I had been brought face to face with him, I could not have uttered one reproach. I should have loved him so well still—though he fascinated me no longer—I should have held in so much tenderness the memory of my affection for him, that I think I should have been as weak as a spirit-wounded child, in all but the entertainment of a thought that we could ever be reunited. That thought I never had. I felt, as he had felt, that all was at an end between us. What his remembrances of me were, I have never known—they were light enough, perhaps, and easily dismissed—but mine of him were as the remembrances of a cherished friend, who was dead.

           Yes, Steerforth, long removed from the scenes of this poor history! My sorrow may bear involuntary witness against you at the Judgment Throne; but my angry thoughts or my reproaches never will, I know!



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           The news of what had happened soon spread through the town; insomuch that as I passed along the streets next morning, I overheard the people speaking of it at their doors. Many were hard upon her, some few were hard upon him, but towards her second father and her lover there was but one sentiment. Among all kinds of people a respect for them in their distress prevailed, which was full of gentleness and delicacy. The seafaring men kept apart, when those two were seen early, walking with slow steps on the beach; and stood in knots, talking compassionately among themselves.

           It was on the beach, close down by the sea, that I found them. It would have been easy to perceive that they had not slept all last night, even if Pegotty had failed to tell me of their still sitting just as I left them, when it was broad day. They looked worn; and I thought Mr. Peggotty's head was bowed in one night more than in all the years I had known him. But they were both as grave and steady as the sea itself: then lying beneath a dark sky, waveless—yet with a heavy roll upon it, as if it breathed in its rest—and touched, on the horizon, with a strip of silvery light from the unseen sun.

           “We have had a mort of talk, Sir,” said Mr. Peggotty to me, when we had all three walked a little while in silence, “of what we ought and doen't ought to do. But we see our course now.”

           I happened to glance at Ham, then looking out to sea upon the distant light, and a frightful thought came into my mind—not that his face was angry, for it was not; I recall nothing but an expression of stern determination in it—that if ever he encountered Steerforth, he would kill him.

           “My dooty here, Sir,” said Mr. Peggotty, “is done. I'm a going to seek my—” he stopped, and went on in a



page 272 firmer voice: “I'm a going to seek her. That's my dooty evermore.”

           He shook his head when I asked him where he would seek her, and inquired if I were going to London to-morrow? I told him I had not gone to-day, fearing to lose the chance of being of any service to him; but that I was ready to go when he would.

           “I'll go along with you, Sir,” he rejoined, “if you're agreeable, to-morrow.”

           We walked again, for a while, in silence.

           “Ham,” he presently resumed, “he'll hold to his present work, and go and live along with my sister. The old boat yonder—”

           “Will you desert the old boat, Mr. Peggotty?” I gently interposed.

           “My station Mas'r Davy,” he returned,” “ain't there no longer; and if ever a boat foundered, since there was darkness on the face of the deep, that one's gone down. But no, Sir, no; I doen't mean as it should be deserted. Fur from that.”

           We walked again for a while, as before, until he explained:

           “My wishes is, Sir, as it shall look, day and night, winter and summer, as it has always looked, since she first know'd it. If ever she should come a wandering back, I wouldn't have the old place seem to cast her off, you understand, but seem to tempt her to draw nigher to't, and to peep in, maybe, like a ghost, out of the wind and rain, through the old winder, at the old seat by the fire. Then, maybe, Mas'r Davy, seein' none but Missis Gummidge there, she might take heart to creep in, trembling; and might come to be laid down in her old bed, and rest her weary head where it was once so gay.”

           I could not speak to him in reply, though I tried.



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           “Every night,” said Mr. Peggotty, “as reg'lar as the night comes, the candle must be stood in its old pane of glass, that if ever she should see it, it may seem to say ‘Come back, my child, come back!’ If ever there's a knock, Ham (partic'ler a soft knock), arter dark, at your aunt's door, doen't you go nigh it. Let it be her—not you—that sees my fallen child!”

           He walked a little in front of us, and kept before us for some minutes. During this interval, I glanced at Ham again, and observing the same expression on his face, and his eyes still directed to the distant light, I touched his arm.

           Twice I called him by his name, in the tone in which I might have tried to rouse a sleeper, before he heeded me. When I at last inquired on what his thoughts were so bent, he replied:

           “On what's afore me, Mas'r Davy; and over yon.”

           “On the life before you, do you mean?” He had pointed confusedly out to sea.

           “Ay, Mas'r Davy. I doen't rightly know how 't is, but from over yon there seemed to me to come—the end of it like;” looking at me as if he were waking, but with the same determined face.

           “What end?” I asked, possessed by my former fear.

           “I doen't know,” he said thoughtfully; “I was calling to mind that the beginning of it all did take place here—and then the end come. But it's gone! Mas'r Davy,” he added; answering, as I think, my look; “you han't no call to be afeerd of me: but I'm kiender muddled; I doen't fare to feel no matters,”—which was as much as to say that he was not himself, and quite confounded.

           Mr. Peggotty stopping for us to join him: we did so, and said no more. The remembrance of this, in connexion with



page 274 my former thought, however, haunted me at intervals, even until the inexorable end came at its appointed time.

           We insensibly approached the old boat, and entered. Mrs. Gummidge, no longer moping in her especial corner, was busy preparing breakfast. She took Mr. Peggotty's hat, and placed his seat for him, and spoke so comfortably and softly, that I hardly knew her.

           “Dan'l, my good man,” said she, “you must eat and drink, and keep up your strength, for without it you'll do nowt. Try, that's a dear soul! And if I disturb you with my clicketten,” she meant her chattering, “tell me so, Dan'l and I won't.”

           When she had served us all, she withdrew to the window, where she sedulously employed herself in repairing some shirts and other clothes belonging to Mr. Peggotty, and neatly folding and packing them in an old oilskin bag, such as sailors carry. Meanwhile, she continued talking, in the same quiet manner:

           “All times and seasons, you know, Dan'l,” said Mrs. Gummidge, “I shall be allus here, and every think will look accordin' to your wishes. I'm a poor scholar, but I shall write to you, odd times, when you're away, and send my letters to Mas'r Davy. Maybe you 'll write to me too, Dan'l, odd times, and tell me how you fare to feel upon your lone lorn journies.”

           “You 'll be a solitary woman heer, I'm afeerd!” said Mr. Peggotty.

           “No, no, Dan'l,” she returned, “I shan't be that. Doen't you mind me. I shall have enough to do to keep a Beein for you” (Mrs. Gummidge meant a home), “again you come back—to keep a Beein here for any that may hap to come back, Dan'l. In the fine time, I shall set outside the door as I



page 275 used to do. If any should come nigh, they shall see the old widder woman true to 'em, a long way off.”

           What a change in Mrs. Gummidge in a little time! She was another woman. She was so devoted, she had such a quick perception of what it would be well to say, and what it would be well to leave unsaid, she was so forgetful of herself, and so regardful of the sorrow about her, that I held her in a sort of veneration. The work she did that day! There were many things to be brought up from the beach and stored in the outhouse—as oars, nets, sails, cordage, spars, lobsterpots, bags of ballast, and the like; and though there was abundance of assistance rendered, there being not a pair of working hands on all that shore but would have laboured hard for Mr. Peggotty, and been well paid in being asked to do it, yet she persisted, all day long, in toiling under weights that she was quite unequal to, and fagging to and fro on all sorts of unnecessary errands. As to deploring her misfortunes, she appeared to have entirely lost the recollection of ever having had any. She preserved an equable cheerfulness in the midst of her sympathy, which was not the least astonishing part of the change that had come over her. Querulousness was out of the question. I did not even observe her voice to falter, or a tear to escape from her eyes, the whole day through, until twilight; when she and I and Mr. Peggotty being alone together, and he having fallen asleep in perfect exhaustion, she broke into a half-suppressed fit of sobbing and crying, and taking me to the door, said, “Ever bless you, Mas'r Davy, be a friend to him, poor dear!” Then, she immediately ran out of the house to wash her face, in order that she might sit quietly beside him, and be found at work there, when he should awake. In short I left her, when I went away at night, the prop and staff of Mr. Peggotty's affliction; and I could not meditate enough upon the lesson that I read in



page 276 Mrs. Gummidge, and the new experience she unfolded to me.

           It was between nine and ten o'clock when, strolling in a melancholy manner through the town, I stopped at Mr. Omer's door. Mr. Omer had taken it so much to heart, his daughter told me, that he had been very low and poorly all day, and had gone to bed without his pipe.

           “A deceitful, bad-hearted girl,” said Mrs. Joram. “There was no good in her, ever!”

           “Don't say so,” I returned. “You don't think so.”

           “Yes, I do!” cried Mrs. Joram, angrily.

           “No, no,” said I.

           Mrs. Joram tossed her head, endeavouring to be very stern and cross; but she could not command her softer self, and began to cry. I was young, to be sure; but I thought much the better of her for this sympathy, and fancied it became her, as a virtuous wife and mother, very well indeed.

           “What will she ever do!” sobbed Minnie. “Where will she go! What will become of her! Oh, how could she be so cruel, to herself and him!”

           I remembered the time when Minnie was a young and pretty girl; and I was glad that she remembered it too, so feelingly.

           “My little Minnie,” said Mrs. Joram, “has only just now been got to sleep. Even in her sleep she is sobbing for Em'ly. All day long, little Minnie has cried for her, and asked me, over and over again, whether Em'ly was wicked? What can I say to her, when Em'ly tied a ribbon off her own neck round little Minnie's the last night she was here, and laid her head down on the pillow beside her till she was fast asleep! The ribbon 's round my little Minnie's neck now. It ought not to be, perhaps, but what can I do? Em'ly is very bad, but they were fond of one another. And the child knows nothing!”



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           Mrs. Joram was so unhappy, that her husband came out to take care of her. Leaving them together, I went home to Peggotty's; more melancholy myself, if possible, than I had been yet.

           That good creature—I mean Peggotty—all untired by her late anxieties and sleepless nights, was at her brother's, where she meant to stay till morning. An old woman, who had been employed about the house for some weeks past, while Peggotty had been unable to attend to it, was the house's only other occupant besides myself. As I had no occasion for her services, I sent her to bed, by no means against her will; and sat down before the kitchen fire a little while, to think about all this.

           I was blending it with the deathbed of the late Mr. Barkis, and was driving out with the tide towards the distance at which Ham had looked so singularly in the morning, when I was recalled from my wanderings by a knock at the door. There was a knocker upon the door, but it was not that which made the sound. The tap was from a hand, and low down upon the door, as if it were given by a child.

           It made me start as much as if it had been the knock of a footman to a person of distinction. I opened the door; and at first looked down, to my amazement, on nothing but a great umbrella that appeared to be walking about of itself. But presently I discovered underneath it, Miss Mowcher.

           I might not have been prepared to give the little creature a very kind reception, if, on her removing the umbrella, which her utmost efforts were unable to shut up, she had shown me the “volatile” expression of face which had made so great an impression on me at our first and last meeting. But her face, as she turned it up to mine, was so earnest; and when I relieved her of the umbrella (which would have been an inconvenient one for the Irish Giant), she wrung her little hands



page 278 in such an afflicted manner; that I rather inclined to wards her.

           “Miss Mowcher!” said I, after glancing up and down the empty street, without distinctly knowing what I expected to see besides; “how do you come here? What is the matter?'

           She motioned to me, with her short right arm, to shut the umbrella for her; and passing me hurriedly, went into the kitchen. When I had closed the door, and followed, with the umbrella in my hand, I found her sitting on the corner of the fender—it was a low iron one, with two flat bars at top to stand plates upon—in the shadow of the boiler, swaying herself backwards and forwards, and chafing her hands upon her knees like a person in pain.

           Quite alarmed at being the only recipient of this untimely visit, and the only spectator of this portentous behaviour, I exclaimed again: “Pray tell me, Miss Mowcher, what is the matter! are you ill?”

           “My dear young soul,” returned Miss Mowcher, squeezing her hands upon her heart one over the other. “I am ill here, I am very ill. To think that it should come to this, when I might have known it and perhaps prevented it, if I hadn't been a thoughtless fool!”

           Again her large bonnet (very disproportionate to her figure) went backwards and forwards, in her swaying of her little body to and fro; while a most gigantic bonnet rocked, in unison with it, upon the wall.

           “I am surprised,” I began, “to see you so distressed and serious”—when she interrupted me.

           “Yes, it's always so!” she said. “They are all surprised, these inconsiderate young people, fairly and full grown, to see any natural feeling in a little thing like me! They make a plaything of me, use me for their amusement, throw me away when they are tired, and wonder that I feel more than a toy



page 279 horse or a wooden soldier! Yes, yes, that's the way. The old way!”

           “It may be, with others,” I returned, “but I do assure you it is not with me. Perhaps I ought not to be at all surprised to see you as you are now: I know so little of you. I said, without consideration, what I thought.”

           “What can I do?” returned the little woman, standing up, and holding out her arms to show herself. “See! What I am, my father was; and my sister is; and my brother is. I have worked for sister and brother these many years—hard, Mr. Copperfield—all day. I must live. I do no harm. If there are people so unreflecting or so cruel, as to make a jest of me, what is left for me to do but to make a jest of myself, them, and every thing? If I do so, for the time, whose fault is that? Mine?”

           No. Not Miss Mowcher's, I perceived.

           “If I had shown myself a sensitive dwarf to your false friend,” pursued the little woman, shaking her head at me, with reproachful earnestness, “how much of his help or good will do you think I should ever have had? If little Mowcher (who had no hand, young gentleman, in the making of herself) addressed herself to him, or the like of him, because of her misfortunes, when do you suppose her small voice would have been heard? Little Mowcher would have as much need to live, if she was the bitterest and dullest of pigmies; but she couldn't do it. No. She might whistle for her bread and butter till she died of Air!”

           Miss Mowcher sat down on the fender again, and took out her handkerchief, and wiped her eyes.

           “Be thankful for me, if you have a kind heart as I think you have,” she said, “that while I know well what I am, I can be cheerful and endure it all. I am thankful for myself, at any rate, that I can find my tiny way through the world, without being beholden to any one; and that in return for all that is



page 280 thrown at me, in folly or vanity, as I go along, I can throw bubbles back. If I don't brood over all I want, it is the better for me, and not the worse for any one. If I am a plaything for you giants, be gentle with me.”

           Miss Mowcher replaced her handkerchief in her pocket, looking at me with very intent expression all the while, and pursued:

           “I saw you in the street just now. You may suppose I am not able to walk as fast as you, with my short legs and short breath, and I couldn't overtake you; but I guessed where you came, and came after you. I have been here before, to-day, but the good woman wasn't at home.”

           “Do you know her?” I demanded.

           “I know of her, and about her,” she replied, “from Omer and Joram. I was there at seven o'clock this morning. Do you remember what Steerforth said to me about this unfortunate girl, that time when I saw you both at the inn?”

           The great bonnet on Miss Mowcher's head, and the greater bonnet on the wall, began to go backwards and forwards again when she asked this question.

           I remembered very well what she referred to, having had it in my thoughts many times that day. I told her so.

           “May the Father of all Evil confound him,” said the little woman, holding up her forefinger between me and her sparkling eyes, “and ten times more confound that wicked servant; but I believed it was you who had a boyish passion for her!”

           “I?” I repeated.

           “Child, child! In the name of blind ill-fortune,” cried Miss Mowcher, wringing her hands impatiently, as she went to and fro again upon the fender, “why did you praise her so, and blush, and look disturbed?”

           I could not conceal from myself that I had done this, though for a reason very different from her supposition.



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           “What did I know?” said Miss Mowcher, taking out her handkerchief again, and giving one little stamp on the ground whenever, at short intervals, she applied it to her eyes with both hands at once. “He was crossing you and wheedling you, I saw; and you were soft wax in his hands, I saw. Had I left the room a minute, when his man told me that ‘Young Innocence’ (so he called you, and you may call him ‘Old Guilt’ all the days of your life) had set his heart upon her, and she was giddy and liked him, but his master was resolved that no harm should come of it—more for your sake than for hers—and that that was their business here? How could I but believe him? I saw Steerforth soothe and please you by his praise of her! You were the first to mention her name. You owned to an old admiration of her. You were hot and cold, and red and white, all at once when I spoke to you of her. What could I think—what did I think—but that you were a young libertine in everything but experience, and had fallen into hands that had experience enough, and could manage you (having the fancy) for your own good? Oh! oh! oh! They were afraid of my finding out the truth,” exclaimed Miss Mowcher, getting off the fender, and trotting up and down the kitchen with her two short arms distressfully lifted up, “because I am a sharp little thing—I need be, to get through the world at all!—and they deceived me altogether, and I gave the poor unfortunate girl a letter, which I fully believe was the beginning of her ever speaking to Littimer, who was left behind on purpose!”

           I stood amazed at the revelation of all this perfidy, looking at Miss Mowcher as she walked up and down the kitchen until she was out of breath: when she sat upon the fender again, and, drying her face with her handkerchief, shook her head for a long time, without otherwise moving, and without breaking silence.



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           “My country rounds,” she added at length, “brought me to Norwich, Mr. Copperfield, the night before last. What I happened to find out there, about their secret way of coming and going, without you—which was strange—led to my suspecting something wrong. I got into the coach from London last night, as it came through Norwich, and was here this morning. Oh, oh, oh! too late!”

           Poor little Mowcher turned so chilly after all her crying and fretting, that she turned round on the fender, putting her poor little wet feet in among the ashes to warm them, and sat looking at the fire, like a large doll. I sat in a chair on the other side of the hearth, lost in unhappy reflections, and looking at the fire too, and sometimes at her.

           “I must go,” she said at last, rising as she spoke. “It's late. You don't mistrust me?”

           Meeting her sharp glance, which was as sharp as ever when she asked me, I could not on that short challenge answer no, quite frankly.

           “Come!” said she, accepting the offer of my hand to help her over the fender, and looking wistfully up into my face, “you know you wouldn't mistrust me, if I was a full-sized woman!”

           I felt that there was much truth in this; and I felt rather ashamed of myself.

           “You are a young man,” she said, nodding. “Take a word of advice, even from three foot nothing. Try not to associate bodily defects with mental, my good friend, except for a solid reason.”

           She had got over the fender now, and I had got over my suspicion. I told her that I believed she had given me a faithful account of herself, and that we had both been hapless instruments in designing hands. She thanked me, and said I was a good fellow.



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           “Now, mind!” she exclaimed, turning back on her way to the door, and looking shrewdly at me, with her forefinger up again. “I have some reason to suspect, from what I have heard—my ears are always open; I can't afford to spare what powers I have—that they are gone abroad. But if ever they return, if ever any one of them returns, while I am alive, I am more likely than another, going about as I do, to find it out soon. Whatever I know, you shall know. If ever I can do anything to serve the poor betrayed girl, I will do it faithfully, please Heaven! And Littimer had better have a bloodhound at his back, than little Mowcher!”

           I placed implicit faith in this last statement, when I marked the look with which it was accompanied.

           “Trust me no more, but trust me no less, than you would trust a full-sized woman,” said the little creature, touching me appealingly on the wrist. “If ever you see me again, unlike what I am now, and like what I was when you first saw me, observe what company I am in. Call to mind that I am a very helpless and defenceless little thing. Think of me at home with my brother like myself and sister like myself, when my day's work is done. Perhaps you won't, then, be very hard upon me, or surprised if I can be distressed and serious. Good night!”

           I gave Miss Mowcher my hand, with a very different opinion of her from that which I had hitherto entertained, and opened the door to let her out. It was not a trifling business to get the great umbrella up, and properly balanced in her grasp; but at last I successfully accomplished this, and saw it go bobbing down the street through the rain, without the least appearance of having anybody underneath it, except when a heavier fall than usual from some overcharged water-spout sent it toppling over, on one side, and discoverod Miss Mowcher struggling violently to get it right. After making one or two



page 284 sallies to her relief, which were rendered futile by the umbrella's hopping on again, like an immense bird, before I could reach it, I came in, went to bed, and slept till morning.

           In the morning I was joined by Mr. Peggotty and by my old nurse, and we went at an early hour to the coach office, where Mrs. Gummidge and Ham were waiting to take leave of us.

           “Mas'r Davy,” Ham whispered, drawing me aside, while Mr. Peggotty was stowing his bag among the luggage, “his life is quite broke up. He doen't know wheer he's going; he doen't know what's afore him; he's bound upon a voyage that'll last, on and off, all the rest of his days, take my wured for't, unless he finds what he's a seeking of. I am sure you'll be a friend to him, Mas'r Davy?”

           “Trust me, I will indeed,” said I, shaking hands with Ham earnestly.

           “Thankee. Thankee, very kind, Sir. One thing furder. I'm in good employ, you know, Mas'r Davy, and I han't no way now of spending what I gets. Money's of no use to me no more, except to live. If you can lay it out for him, I shall do my work with a better art. Though as to that, Sir,” and he spoke very steadily and mildly, “you're not to think but I shall work at all times, like a man, and act the best that lays in my power!”

           I told him I was well convinced of it; and I hinted that I hoped the time might even come, when he would cease to lead the lonely life he naturally contemplated now.

           “No, Sir,” he said, shaking his head, “all that's past and over with me, Sir. No one can never fill the place that's empty. But you'll bear in mind about the money, as theer's at all times some laying by for him?”

           Reminding him of the fact, that Mr. Peggotty derived a steady, though certainly a very moderate income from the



page 285 bequest of his late brother-in-law, I promised to do so. We then took leave of each other. I cannot leave him, even now, without remembering with a pang, at once his modest fortitude and his great sorrow.

           As to Mrs. Gummidge, if I were to endeavour to describe how she ran down the street by the side of the coach, seeing nothing but Mr. Peggotty on the roof, through the tears she tried to repress, and dashing herself against the people who were coming in the opposite direction, I should enter on a task of some difficulty. Therefore I had better leave her sitting on a baker's door-step, out of breath, with no shape at all remaining in her bonnet, and one of her shoes off, lying on the pavement at a considerable distance.

           When we got to our journey's end, our first pursuit was to look about for a little lodging for Peggotty, where her brother could have a bed. We were so fortunate as to find one, of a very clean and cheap description, over a chandler's shop, only two streets removed from me. When we had engaged this domicile, I bought some cold meat at an eating-house, and took my fellow-travellers home to tea; a proceeding, I regret to state, which did not meet with Mrs. Crupp's approval, but quite the contrary. I ought to observe, however, in explanation of that lady's state of mind, that she was much offended by Peggotty's tucking up her widow's gown before she had been ten minutes in the place, and setting to work to dust my bed-room. This Mrs. Crupp regarded in the light of a liberty, and a liberty, she said, was a thing she never allowed.

           Mr. Peggotty had made a communication to me on the way to London, for which I was not unprepared. It was, that he purposed first seeing Mrs. Steerforth. As I felt bound to assist him in this, and also to mediate between them; with the view of sparing the mother's feelings as much as possible, I



page 286 wrote to her that night. I told her as mildly as I could what his wrong was, and what my own share in his injury. I said he was a man in very common life, but of a most gentle and upright character; and that I ventured to express a hope that she would not refuse to see him in his heavy trouble. I mentioned two o'clock in the afternoon as the hour of our coming, and I sent the letter myself by the first coach in the morning.

           At the appointed time, we stood at the door—the door of that house where I had been, a few days since, so happy: where my youthful confidence and warmth of heart had been yielded up so freely: which was closed against me henceforth: which was now a waste, a ruin.

           No Littimer appeared. The pleasanter face which had replaced his, on the occasion of my last visit, answered to our summons, and went before us to the drawing-room. Mrs. Steerforth was sitting there. Rosa Dartle glided, as we went in, from another part of the room, and stood behind her chair.

           I saw, directly, in his mother's face, that she knew from himself what he had done. It was very pale; and bore the traces of deeper emotion than my letter alone, weakened by the doubts her fondness would have raised upon it, would have been likely to create. I thought her more like him than ever I had thought her; and I felt, rather than saw, that the resemblance was not lost on my companion.

           She sat upright in her arm-chair, with a stately, immoveable, passionless air, that it seemed as if nothing could disturb. She looked very stedfastly at Mr. Peggotty when he stood before her; and he looked, quite as stedfastly, at her. Rosa Dartle's keen glance comprehended all of us. For some moments not a word was spoken.

           She motioned to Mr. Peggotty to be seated. He said, in a low voice, “I shouldn't feel it nat'ral, Ma'am, to sit down in



page 287 this house. I'd sooner stand.” And this was succeeded by another silence, which she broke thus:

           “I know, with deep regret, what has brought you here. What do you want of me? What do you ask me to do?”

           He put his hat under his arm, and feeling in his breast for Emily's letter, took it out, unfolded it, and gave it to her.

           “Please to read that, Ma'am. That's my niece's hand!”

           She read it, in the same stately and impassive way,—untouched by its contents, as far as I could see,—and returned it to him.

           “ ‘Unless he brings me back a lady,’ ” said Mr. Peggotty, tracing out that part with his finger. “I come to know, Ma'am, whether he will keep his wured?”

           “No,” she returned.

           “Why not?” said Mr. Peggotty.

           “It is impossible. He would disgrace himself. You cannot fail to know that she is far below him.”

           “Raise her up!” said Mr. Peggotty.

           “She is uneducated and ignorant.”

           “Maybe she's not; maybe she is,” said Mr. Peggotty. “I think not, Ma'am; but I'm no judge of them things. Teach her better!”

           “Since you oblige me to speak more plainly, which I am very unwilling to do, her humble connexions would render such a thing impossible, if nothing else did.”

           “Hark to this, Ma'am,” he returned, slowly and quietly. “You know what it is to love your child. So do I. If she was a hundred times my child, I couldn't love her more. You doen't know what it is to lose your child. I do. All the heaps of riches in the wureld would be nowt to me (if they was mine) to buy her back! But, save her from this disgrace, and she shall never be disgraced by us. Not one of us that she's growed up among, not one of us that's lived along with her,



page 288 and had her for their all in all, these many year, will ever look upon her pritty face again. We'll be content to let her be; we'll be content to think of her, far off, as if she was underneath another sun and sky; we'll be content to trust her to her husband,—to her little children p'raps,—and bide the time when all of us shall be alike in quality afore our God!”

           The rugged eloquence with which he spoke, was not devoid of all effect. She still preserved her proud manner, but there was a touch of softness in her voice, as she answered:

           “I justify nothing. I make no counter-accusations. But I am sorry to repeat, it is impossible. Such a marriage would irretrievably blight my son's career, and ruin his prospects. Nothing is more certain than that it never can take place, and never will. If there is any other compensation—”

           “I am looking at the likeness of the face,” interrupted Mr. Peggotty, with a steady but a kindling eye, “that has looked at me, in my home, at my fireside, in my boat—wheer not?—smiling and friendly, when it was so treacherous, that I go half wild when I think of it. If the likeness of that face don't turn to burning fire, at the thought of offering money to me for my child's blight and ruin, it's as bad. I doen't know, being a lady's, but what it's worse.”

           She changed now, in a moment. An angry flush overspread her features; and she said, in an intolerant manner, grasping the arm-chair tightly with her hands:

           “What compensation can you make to me for opening such a pit between me and my son? What is your love to mine? What is your separation to ours?”

           Miss Dartle softly touched her, and bent down her head to whisper, but she would not hear a word.

           “No, Rosa, not a word! Let the man listen to what I say! My son, who has been the object of my life, to whom its every thought has been devoted, whom I have gratified



page 289 from a child in every wish, from whom I have had no separate existence since his birth,—to take up in a moment with a miserable girl, and avoid me! To repay my confidence with systematic deception, for her sake, and quit me for her! To set this wretched fancy, against his mother's claims upon his duty, love, respect, gratitude—claims that every day and hour of his life should have strengthened into ties that nothing could be proof against! Is this no injury?”

           Again Rosa Dartle tried to soothe her; again ineffectually.

           “I say, Rosa, not a word! If he can stake his all upon the lightest object, I can stake my all upon a greater purpose. Let him go where he will, with the means that my love has secured to him! Does he think to reduce me by long absence? He knows his mother very little if he does. Let him put away his whim now, and he is welcome back. Let him not put her away now, and he never shall come near me, living or dying, while I can raise my hand to make a sign against it, unless, being rid of her for ever, he comes humbly to me and begs for my forgiveness. This is my right. This is the acknowledgment I will have. This is the separation that there is between us! And is this,” she added, looking at her visitor with the proud intolerant air with which she had begun, “no injury?”

           While I heard and saw the mother as she said these words, I seemed to hear and see the son, defying them. All that I had ever seen in him of an unyielding, wilful spirit, I saw in her. All the understanding that I had now of his misdirected energy, became an understanding of her character too, and a perception that it was, in its strongest springs, the same.

           She now observed to me, aloud, resuming her former restraint, that it was useless to hear more, or to say more, and that she begged to put an end to the interview. She rose with an air of dignity to leave the room, when Mr. Peggotty signified that it was needless.



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           “Doen't fear me being any hindrance to you, I have no more to say, Ma'am,” he remarked, as he moved towards the door. “I come heer with no hope, and I take away no hope. I have done what I thowt should be done, but I never looked fur any good to come of my stan'ning where I do. This has been too evil a house fur me and mine, fur me to be in my right senses and expect it.”

           With this, we departed; leaving her standing by her elbow chair, a picture of a noble presence and a handsome face.

           We had, on our way out, to cross a paved hall, with glass sides and roof, over which a vine was trained. Its leaves and shoots were green then, and the day being sunny, a pair of glass doors leading to the garden were thrown open. Rosa Dartle, entering this way with a noiseless step, when we were close to them, addressed herself to me:

           “You do well,” she said, “indeed, to bring this fellow here!”

           Such a concentration of rage and scorn as darkened her face, and flashed in her jet-black eyes, I could not have thought compressible even into that face. The scar made by the hammer was, as usual in this excited state of her features, strongly marked. When the throbbing I had seen before, came into it as I looked at her, she absolutely lifted up her hand, and struck it.

           “This is a fellow,” she said, “to champion and bring here, is he not? You are a true man!”

           “Miss Dartle,” I returned, “you are surely not so unjust as to condemn me!

           “Why do you bring division between these two mad creatures?” she returned. “Don't you know that they are both mad with their own self-will and pride?”

           “Is it my doing?” I returned.



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           “Is it your doing!” she retorted. “Why do you bring this man here?”

           “He is a deeply-injured man, Miss Dartle,” I replied. “You may not know it.”

           “I know that James Steerforth,” she said, with her hand on her bosom, as if to prevent the storm that was raging there, from being loud, “has a false, corrupt heart, and is a traitor. But what need I know or care about this fellow, and his common niece?”

           “Miss Dartle,” I returned, “you deepen the injury. It is sufficient already. I will only say, at parting, that you do him a great wrong.”

           “I do him no wrong,” she returned. “They are a depraved worthless set. I would have her whipped!”

           Mr. Peggotty passed on, without a word, and went out at the door.

           “Oh, shame, Miss Dartle! shame!” I said indignantly. “How can you bear to trample on his undeserved affliction!”

           “I would trample on them all,” she answered. “I would have his house pulled down. I would have her branded on the face, drest in rags, and cast out in the streets to starve. If I had the power to sit in judgment on her, I would see it done. See it done? I would do it! I detest her. If I ever could reproach her with her infamous condition, I would go anywhere to do so. If I could hunt her to her grave, I would. If there was any word of comfort that would be a solace to her in her dying hour, and only I possessed it, I wouldn't part with it for Life itself.”

           The mere vehemence of her words can convey, I am sensible, but a weak impression of the passion by which she was possessed, and which made itself articulate in her whole figure, though her voice, instead of being raised, was lower than usual. No description I could give of her would do



page 292 justice to my recollection of her, or to her entire deliverance of herself to her anger. I have seen passion in many forms, but I have never seen it in such a form as that.

           When I joined Mr. Peggotty, he was walking slowly and thoughtfully down the hill. He told me, as soon as I came up with him, that having now discharged his mind of what he had purposed doing in London, he meant “to set out on his travels,” that night. I asked him where he meant to go? He only answered, “I'm a going, Sir, to seek my niece.”

           We went back to the little lodging over the chandler's shop, and there I found an opportunity of repeating to Peggotty what he had said to me. She informed me, in return, that he had said the same to her that morning. She knew no more than I did, where he was going, but she thought he had some project shaped out in his mind.

           I did not like to leave him, under such circumstances, and we all three dined together off a beefsteak pie—which was one of the many good things for which Peggotty was famous—and which was curiously flavoured on this occasion, I recollect well, by a miscellaneous taste of tea, coffee, butter, bacon, cheese, new loaves, firewood, candles, and walnut ketchup, continually ascending from the shop. After dinner we sat for an hour or so near the window, without talking much; and then Mr. Peggotty got up, and brought his oilskin bag and his stout stick, and laid them on the table.

           He accepted, from his sister's stock of ready money, a small sum on account of his legacy; barely enough, I should have thought, to keep him for a month. He promised to communicate with me, when anything befel him; and he slung his bag about him, took his hat and stick, and bade us both “Good bye!”

           “All good attend you, dear old woman,” he said, embracing Peggotty, “and you too, Mas'r Davy!” shaking



page 293 hands with me. “I'm a going to seek her, fur and wide. I she should come home while I'm away,—but ah, that ain' like to be!—or if I should bring her back, my meaning is that she and me shall live and die where no one can't reproach her. If any hurt should come to me, remember that the last words I left for her was, ‘My unchanged love is with my darling child, and I forgive her!’”

           He said this solemnly, bare-headed; then, putting on his hat, he went down the stairs, and away. We followed to the door. It was a warm, dusty evening, just the time when, in the great main thoroughfare out of which that bye-way turned there was a temporary lull in the eternal tread of feet upon the pavement, and a strong red sunshine. He turned, alone, at the corner of our shady street, into a glow of light, in which we lost him.

           Rarely did that hour of the evening come, rarely did wake at night, rarely did I look up at the moon, or stars, on watch the falling rain, or hear the wind, but I thought of his solitary figure toiling on, poor pilgrim, and recalled the words:

           “I'm a going to seek her, fur and wide. If any hurt should come to me, remember that the last words I left for her was ‘My unchanged love is with my darling child, and I for give her!’”



page 294

CHAPTER XVII.
Blissful.

           ALL this time, I had gone on loving Dora, harder than ever. Her idea was my refuge in disappointment and distress, and made some amends to me, even for the loss of my friend. The more I pitied myself, or pitied others, the more I sought for consolation in the image of Dora. The greater the accumulation of deceit and trouble in the world, the brighter and the purer shone the star of Dora high above the world. I don't think I had any definite idea where Dora came from, or in what degree she was related to a higher order of beings; but I am quite sure I should have scouted the notion of her being simply human, like any other young lady, with indignation and contempt.

           If I may so express it, I was steeped in Dora. I was not merely over head and ears in love with her, but I was saturated through and through. Enough love might have been wrung out of me, metaphorically speaking, to drown anybody in; and yet there would have remained enough within me, and all over me, to pervade my entire existence.

           The first thing I did, on my own account, when I came back, was to take a night-walk to Norwood, and, like the subject of a venerable riddle of my childhood to go “round and round the house, without ever touching the house,” thinking about Dora. I believe the theme of this incomprehensible conundrum was the moon. No matter what it was, I, the moon-struck slave of Dora, perambulated round and round the house and garden for two hours, looking through



page 295 crevices in the palings, getting my chin by dint of violent exertion above the rusty nails on the top, blowing kisses at the lights in the windows, and romantically calling on the night, at intervals, to shield my Dora—I don't exactly know what from, I suppose from fire. Perhaps from mice, to which she had a great objection.

           My love was so much on my mind, and it was so natural to me to confide in Peggotty, when I found her again by my side of an evening with the old set of industrial implements, busily making the tour of my wardrobe, that I imparted to her, in a sufficiently roundabout way, my great secret. Peggotty was strongly interested, but I could not get her into my view of the case at all. She was audaciously prejudiced in my favour, and quite unable to understand why I should have any misgivings, or be low-spirited about it. ‘The young lady might think herself well off,’ she observed, ‘to have such a beau. And as to her Pa,’ she said, ‘what did the gentleman expect, for gracious sake!’

           I observed, however, that Mr. Spenlow's Proctorial gown and stiff cravat took Peggotty down a little, and inspired her with a greater reverence for the man who was gradually becoming more and more etherealized in my eyes every day, and about whom a reflected radiance seemed to me to beam when he sat erect in Court among his papers, like a little light-house in a sea of stationery. And by-the-by, it used to be uncommonly strange to me to consider, I remember, as I sat in Court too, how those dim old judges and doctors wouldn't have cared for Dora, if they had known her; how they wouldn't have gone out of their senses with rapture, if marriage with Dora had been proposed to them; how Dora might have sung, and played upon that glorified guitar, until she led me to the verge of madness, yet not have tempted one of those slow-goers an inch out of his road!



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           I despised them, to a man. Frozen-out old gardeners in the flower-beds of the heart, I took a personal offence against them all. The Bench was nothing to me but an insensible blunderer. The Bar had no more tenderness or poetry in it, than the Bar of a public-house.

           Taking the management of Peggotty's affairs into my own hands, with no little pride, I proved the will, and came to a settlement with the Legacy Duty-office, and took her to the Bank, and soon got everything into an orderly train. We varied the legal character of these proceedings by going to see some perspiring Wax-work, in Fleet Street (melted, I should hope, these twenty years); and by visiting Miss Linwood's Exhibition, which I remember as a Mausoleum of needlework, favourable to self-examination and repentance; and by inspecting the Tower of London; and going to the top of St. Paul's. All these wonders afforded Peggotty as much pleasure as she was able to enjoy, under existing circumstances: except, I think, St. Paul's, which, from her long attachment to her work-box, became a rival of the picture on the lid, and was, in some particulars, vanquished, she considered, by that work of art.

           Peggotty's business, which was what we used to call “common-form business” in the Commons (and very light and lucrative the common-form business was), being settled, I took her down to the office one morning to pay her bill. Mr. Spenlow had stepped out, old Tiffey said, to get a gentleman sworn for a marriage license; but as I knew he would be back directly, our place lying close to the Surrogate's, and to the Vicar-General's office too, I told Peggotty to wait.

           We were a little like undertakers, in the Commons, as regarded Probate transactions; generally making it a rule to look more or less cut up, when we had to deal with clients in



page 297 mourning. In a similar feeling of delicacy, we were always blithe and light-hearted with the license clients. Therefore I hinted to Peggotty that she would find Mr. Spenlow much recovered from the shock of Mr. Barkis's decease; and indeed he came in like a bridegroom.

           But neither Peggotty nor I had eyes for him, when we saw, in company with him, Mr. Murdstone. He was very little changed. His hair looked as thick, and was certainly as black, as ever; and his glance was as little to be trusted as of old.

           “Ah, Copperfield?” said Mr. Spenlow. “You know this gentleman, I believe?”

           I made my gentleman a distant bow, and Peggotty barely recognised him. He was, at first, somewhat disconcerted to meet us two together; but quickly decided what to do, and came up to me.

           “I hope,” he said, “that you are doing well?”

           “It can hardly be interesting to you,” said I. “Yes, if you wish to know.”

           We looked at each other, and he addressed himself to Peggotty.

           “And you,” said he. “I am sorry to observe that you have lost your husband.”

           “It's not the first loss I have had in my life, Mr. Murdstone,” replied Peggotty, trembling from head to foot. “I am glad to hope that there is nobody to blame for this one,—nobody to answer for it.”

           “Ha!” said he; “that's a comfortable reflection. You have done your duty?”

           “I have not worn any body's life away,” said Peggotty, “I am thankful to think! No, Mr. Murdstone, I have not worrited and frightened any sweet creetur to an early grave!”

           He eyed her gloomily—remorsefully I thought—for an



page 298 instant; and said, turning his head towards me, but looking at my feet instead of my face:

           “We are not likely to encounter soon again;—a source of satisfaction to us both, no doubt, for such meetings as this can never be agreeable. I do not expect that you, who always rebelled against my just authority, exerted for your benefit and reformation, should owe me any good will now. There is an antipathy between us—”

           “An old one, I believe?” said I, interrupting him.

           He smiled, and shot as evil a glance at me as could come from his dark eyes.

           “It rankled in your baby breast,” he said. “It embittered the life of your poor mother. You are right. I hope you may do better, yet; I hope you may correct yourself.”

           Here he ended the dialogue, which had been carried on in a low voice, in a corner of the outer office, by passing into Mr. Spenlow's room, and saying aloud, in his smoothest manner:

           “Gentlemen of Mr. Spenlow's profession are accustomed to family differences, and know how complicated and difficult they always are!” With that, he paid the money for his license; and, receiving it neatly folded from Mr. Spenlow, together with a shake of the hand, and a polite wish for his happiness and the lady's, went out of the office.

           I might have had more difficulty in constraining myself to be silent under his words, if I had had less difficulty in impressing upon Peggotty (who was only angry on my account, good creature!) that we were not in a place for recrimination, and that I besought her to hold her peace. She was so unusually roused, that I was glad to compound for an affectionate hug, elicited by this revival in her mind of our old injuries, and to make the best I could of it, before Mr. Spenlow and the clerks.



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           Mr. Spenlow did not appear to know what the connexion between Mr. Murdstone and myself was; which I was glad of, for I could not bear to acknowledge him, even in my own breast, remembering what I did of the history of my poor mother. Mr. Spenlow seemed to think, if he thought anything about the matter, that my aunt was the leader of the state party in our family, and that there was a rebel party commanded by somebody else—so I gathered at least from what he said, while we were waiting for Mr. Tiffey to make out Peggotty's bill of costs.

           “Miss Trotwood,” he remarked, “is very firm, no doubt, and not likely to give way to opposition. I have an admiration for her character, and I may congratulate you, Copperfield, on being on the right side. Differences between relations are much to be deplored—but they are extremely general—and the great thing is, to be on the right side:” meaning, I take it, on the side of the moneyed interest.

           “Rather a good marriage this, I believe?” said Mr. Spenlow.

           I explained that I knew nothing about it.

           “Indeed!” he said. “Speaking from the few words Mr. Murdstone dropped—as a man frequently does on these occasions—and from what Miss Murdstone let fall, I should say it was rather a good marriage.”

           “Do you mean that there is money, Sir?” I asked.

           “Yes,” said Mr. Spenlow, “I understand there's money. Beauty too, I am told.”

           “Indeed? Is his new wife young?”

           “Just of age,” said Mr. Spenlow. “So lately, that I should think they had been waiting for that.”

           “Lord deliver her!” said Peggotty. So very emphatically and unexpectedly, that we were all three discomposed; until Tiffey came in with the bill.



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           Old Tiffey soon appeared, however, and handed it to Mr. Spenlow, to look over. Mr. Spenlow, settling his chin in his cravat and rubbing it softly, went over the items with a deprecatory air—as if it were all Jorkins's doing—and handed it back to Tiffey with a bland sigh.

           “Yes,” he said. “That's right. Quite right. I should have been extremely happy, Copperfield, to have limited these charges to the actual expenditure out of pocket; but it is an irksome incident in my professional life, that I am not at liberty to consult my own wishes. I have a partner—Mr. Jorkins.”

           As he said this with a gentle melancholy, which was the next thing to making no charge at all, I expressed my acknowledgments on Peggotty's behalf, and paid Tiffey in bank notes. Peggotty then retired to her lodging, and Mr. Spenlow and I went into Court, where we had a divorce-suit coming on, under an ingenious little statute (repealed now, I believe, but in virtue of which I have seen several marriages annulled), of which the merits were these. The husband, whose name was Thomas Benjamin, had taken out his marriage license as Thomas only; suppressing the Benjamin, in case he should not find himself as comfortable as he expected. Not finding himself as comfortable as he expected, or being a little fatigued with his wife, poor fellow, he now came forward by a friend, after being married a year or two, and declared that his name was Thomas Benjamin, and therefore he was not married at all. Which the Court confirmed, to his great satisfaction.

           I must say that I had my doubts about the strict justice of this, and was not even frightened out of them by the bushel of wheat which reconciles all anomalies. But Mr. Spenlow argued the matter with me. He said, Look at the world, there was good and evil in that; look at the ecclesiastical law,



page 301 there was good and evil in that. It was all part of a system. Very good. There you were!

           I had not the hardihood to suggest to Dora's father that possibly we might even improve the world a little, if we got up early in the morning, and took off our coats to the work; but I confessed that I thought we might improve the Commons. Mr. Spenlow replied that he would particularly advise me to dismiss that idea from my mind, as not being worthy of my gentlemanly character; but that he would be glad to hear from me of what improvement I thought the Commons susceptible?

           Taking that part of the Commons which happened to be nearest to us—for our man was unmarried by this time, and we were out of Court, and strolling past the Prerogative Office—I submitted that I thought the Prerogative Office rather a queerly managed institution. Mr. Spenlow inquired in what respect? I replied, with all due deference to his experience (but with more deference, I am afraid, to his being Dora's father), that perhaps it was a little nonsensical that the Registry of that Court, containing the original wills of all persons leaving effects within the immense province of Canterbury, for three whole centuries, should be an accidental building, never designed for the purpose, leased by the registrars for their own private emolument, unsafe, not even ascertained to be fire-proof, choked with the important documents it held, and positively, from the roof to the basement, a mercenary speculation of the registrars, who took great fees from the public, and crammed the public's wills away anyhow and anywhere, having no other object than to get rid of them cheaply. That, perhaps, it was a little unreasonable that these registrars in the receipt of profits amounting to eight or nine thousand pounds a year (to say nothing of the profits of the deputy registrars, and clerks of seats), should not be



page 302 obliged to spend a little of that money, in finding a reasonably safe place for the important documents which all classes of people were compelled to hand over to them, whether they would or no. That, perhaps, it was a little unjust that all the great offices in this great office, should be magnificent sinecures, while the unfortunate working-clerks in the cold dark room up-stairs were the worst rewarded, and the least considered men, doing important services, in London. That perhaps it was a little indecent that the principal registrar of all, whose duty it was to find the public, constantly resorting to this place, all needful accommodation, should be an enormous sinecurist in virtue of that post (and might be, besides, a clergyman, a pluralist, the holder of a stall in a cathedral, and what not),—while the public was put to the inconvenience of which we had a specimen every afternoon when the office was busy, and which we knew to be quite monstrous. That, perhaps, in short, this Prerogative Office of the diocese of Canterbury was altogether such a pestilent job, and such a pernicious absurdity, that but for its being squeezed away, in a corner of Saint Paul's Churchyard, which few people knew, it must have been turned completely inside out, and upside down, long ago.

           Mr. Spenlow smiled as I became modestly warm on the subject, and then argued this question with me as he had argued the other. He said, what was it after all? It was a question of feeling. If the public felt that their wills were in safe keeping, and took it for granted that the office was not to be made better, who was the worse for it? Nobody? Who was the better for it? All the Sinecurists. Very well. Then the good predominated. It might not be a perfect system; nothing was perfect; but what he objected to, was, the insertion of the wedge. Under the Prerogative Office, the country had been glorious. Insert the wedge into the Prerogative



page 303 Office, and the country would cease to be glorious. He considered it the principle of a gentleman to take things as he found them; and he had no doubt the Prerogative Office would last our time. I deferred to his opinion, though I had great doubts of it myself. I find he was right, however; for it has not only lasted to the present moment, but has done so in the teeth of a great parliamentary report made (not too willingly) eighteen years ago, when all these objections of mine were set forth in detail, and when the existing stowage for wills was described as equal to the accumulation of only two years and a half more. What they have done with them since; whether they have lost many, or whether they sell any, now and then, to the butter shops; I don't know. I am glad mine is not there, and I hope it may not go there, yet awhile.

           I have set all this down, in my present blissful chapter, because here it comes into its natural place. Mr. Spenlow and I falling into this conversation, prolonged it and our saunter to and fro, until we diverged into general topics. And so it came about, in the end, that Mr. Spenlow told me this day week was Dora's birthday, and he would be glad if I would come down and join a little pic-nic on the occasion. I went out of my senses immediately; became a mere driveller next day, on receipt of a little lace-edged sheet of note paper, “Favoured by papa. To remind;” and passed the intervening period in a state of dotage.

           I think I committed every possible absurdity, in the way of preparation for this blessed event. I turn hot when I remember the cravat I bought. My boots might be placed in any collection of instruments of torture. I provided, and sent down by the Norwood coach the night before, a delicate little hamper, amounting in itself, I thought, almost to a declaration. There were crackers in it with the tenderest mottos that could be got for money. At six in the morning, I was in Covent



page 304 Garden Market, buying a bouquet for Dora. At ten I was on horseback (I hired a gallant grey, for the occasion), with the bouquet in my hat, to keep it fresh, trotting down to Norwood.

           I suppose that when I saw Dora in the garden and pretended not to see her, and rode past the house pretending to be anxiously looking for it, I committed two small fooleries which other young gentlemen in my circumstances might have committed—because they came so very natural to me. But oh! when I did find the house, and did dismount at the garden gate, and drag those stony-hearted boots across the lawn to Dora sitting on a garden seat under a lilac tree, what a spectacle she was, upon that beautiful morning, among the butterflies, in a white chip bonnet and a dress of celestial blue!

           There was a young lady with her—comparatively stricken in years—almost twenty, I should say. Her name was Miss Mills and Dora called her Julia. She was the bosom friend of Dora. Happy Miss Mills!

           Jip was there, and Jip would bark at me again. When I presented my bouquet, he gnashed his teeth with jealousy. Well he might. If he had the least idea how I adored his mistress, well he might!

           “Oh, thank you, Mr. Copperfield! What dear flowers!” said Dora.

           I had had an intention of saying (and had been studying the best form of words for three miles) that I thought them beautiful before I saw them so near her. But I couldn't manage it. She was too bewildering. To see her lay the flowers against her little dimpled chin, was to lose all presence of mind and power of language in a feeble ecstacy. I wonder I didn't say, “Kill me, if you have a heart, Miss Mills. Let me die here!”



page 305

           Then Dora held my flowers to Jip to smell. Then Jip growled, and wouldn't smell them. Then Dora laughed, and held them a little closer to Jip, to make him. Then Jip laid hold of a bit of geranium with his teeth, and worried imaginary cats in it. Then Dora beat him, and pouted, and said, “My poor beautiful flowers!” as compassionately, I thought, as if Jip had laid hold of me. I wished he had!

           “You'll be so glad to hear, Mr. Copperfield,” said Dora, “that that cross Miss Murdstone is not here. She has gone to her brother's marriage, and will be away at least three weeks. Isn't that delightful?”

           I said I was sure it must be delightful to her, and all that was delightful to her was delightful to me. Miss Mills, with an air of superior wisdom and benevolence, smiled upon us.

           “She is the most disagreeable thing I ever saw,” said Dora. “You can't believe how ill-tempered and shocking she is, Julia.”

           “Yes, I can, my dear!” said Julia.

           “You can, perhaps, love,” returned Dora, with her hand on Julia's. “Forgive my not excepting you, my dear, at first.”

           I learnt, from this, that Miss Mills had had her trials in the course of a chequered existence; and that to these, perhaps, I might refer that wise benignity of manner which I had already noticed. I found, in the course of the day, that this was the case: Miss Mills having been unhappy in a misplaced affection, and being understood to have retired from the world on her awful stock of experience, but still to take a calm interest in the unblighted hopes and loves of youth.

           But now Mr. Spenlow came out of the house, and Dora went to him, saying, “Look, papa, what beautiful flowers!” And Miss Mills smiled thoughtfully, as who should say, “Ye May-flies, enjoy your brief existence in the bright morning of



page 306 life!” And we all walked from the lawn towards the carriage, which was getting ready.

           I shall never have such a ride again. I have never had such another. There were only those three, their hamper, my hamper, and the guitar-case, in the phaeton; and, of course, the phaeton was open; and I rode behind it, and Dora sat with her back to the horses, looking towards me. She kept the bouquet close to her on the cushion, and wouldn't allow Jip to sit on that side of her at all, for fear he should crush it. She often carried it in her hand, often refreshed herself with its fragrance. Our eyes at those times often met; and my great astonishment is that I didn't go over the head of my gallant grey into the carriage.

           There was dust, I believe. There was a good deal of dust, I believe. I have a faint impression that Mr. Spenlow remonstrated with me for riding in it; but I knew of none. I was sensible of a mist of love and beauty about Dora, but of nothing else. He stood up sometimes, and asked me what I thought of the prospect. I said it was delightful, and I daresay it was; but it was all Dora to me. The sun shone Dora, and the birds sang Dora. The south wind blew Dora, and the wild flowers in the hedges were all Doras, to a bud. My comfort is, Miss Mills understood me. Miss Mills alone could enter into my feelings thoroughly.

           I don't know how long we were going, and to this hour I know as little where we went. Perhaps it was near Guildford. Perhaps some Arabian-night magician, opened up the place for the day, and shut it for ever when we came away. It was a green spot, on a hill, carpeted with soft turf. There were shady trees, and heather, and, as far as the eye could see, a rich landscape.

           It was a trying thing to find people here, waiting for us; and my jealousy, even of the ladies, knew no bounds. But all of



page 307 my own sex—especially one impostor, three or four years my elder, with a red whisker, on which he established an amount of presumption not be endured—were my mortal foes.

           We all unpacked our baskets, and employed ourselves in getting dinner ready. Red Whisker pretended he could make a salad (which I don't believe), and obtruded himself on public notice. Some of the young ladies washed the lettuces for him, and sliced them under his directions. Dora was among these. I felt that fate had pitted me against this man, and one of us must fall.

           Red Whisker made his salad (I wondered how they could eat it. Nothing should have induced me to touch it!) and voted himself into the charge of the wine-cellar, which he constructed, being an ingenious beast, in the hollow trunk of a tree. By-and-by I saw him, with the majority of a lobster on his plate, eating his dinner at the feet of Dora!

           I have but an indistinct idea of what happened for some time after this baleful object presented itself to my view. I was very merry, I know; but it was hollow merriment. I attached myself to a young creature in pink, with little eyes, and flirted with her desperately. She received my attentions with favour; but whether on my account solely, or because she had any designs on Red Whisker, I can't say. Dora's health was drunk. When I drank it, I affected to interrupt my conversation for that purpose, and to resume it immediately after wards. I caught Dora's eye as I bowed to her, and I though it looked appealing. But it looked at me over the head of Red Whisker, and I was adamant.

           The young creature in pink had a mother in green; and rather think the latter separated us from motives of policy Howbeit, there was a general breaking up of the party, while the remnants of the dinner were being put away; and I strolled off by myself among the trees, in a raging and remorseful



page 308 state. I was debating whether I should pretend that I was not well, and fly—I don't know where—upon my gallant grey, when Dora and Miss Mills met me.

           “Mr. Copperfield,” said Miss Mills, “you are dull.”

           I begged her pardon. Not at all.

           “And, Dora,” said Miss Mills, “you are dull.

           Oh dear no! Not in the least.

           “Mr. Copperfield and Dora,” said Miss Mills, with an almost venerable air. “Enough of this. Do not allow a trivial misunderstanding to wither the blossoms of spring, which, once put forth and blighted, can not be renewed. I speak,” said Miss Mills, “from experience of the past—the remote irrevocable past. The gushing fountains which sparkle in the sun, must not be stopped in mere caprice; the oasis in the desert of Sahara, must not be plucked up idly.”

           I hardly knew what I did, I was burning all over to that extraordinary extent; but I took Dora's little hand and kissed it—and she let me! I kissed Miss Mills's hand; and we all seemed, to my thinking, to go straight up to the seventh heaven.

           We did not come down again. We stayed up there all the evening. At first we strayed to and fro among the trees: I with Dora's shy arm drawn through mine: and Heaven knows, folly as it all was, it would have been a happy fate to have been struck immortal with those foolish feelings, and have strayed among the trees for ever!

           But, much too soon, we heard the others laughing and talking, and calling “where's Dora!” So we went back, and they wanted Dora to sing. Red Whisker would have got the guitar-case out of the carriage, but Dora told him nobody knew where it was, but I. So Red Whisker was done for in a moment; and I got it, and I unlocked it, and I took the guitar out, and I sat by her, and I held her handkerchief and gloves,



page 309 and I drank in every note of her dear voice, and she sang to me who loved her, and all the others might applaud as much as they liked, but they had nothing to do with it!

           I was intoxicated with joy. I was afraid it was too happy to be real, and that I should wake in Buckingham Street presently, and hear Mrs. Crupp clinking the tea-cups in getting breakfast ready. But Dora sang, and others sang, and Miss Mills sang—about the slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory; as if she were a hundred years old—and the evening came on; and we had tea, with a kettle boiling gipsy-fashion; and I was still as happy as ever.

           I was happier than ever when the party broke up, and the other people, defeated Red Whisker and all, went their several ways, and we went ours through the still evening and the dying light, with sweet scents rising up around us. Mr. Spenlow being a little drowsy after the champagne—honour to the soil that grew the grape, to the grape that made the wine, to the sun that ripened it, and to the merchant who adulterated it!—and being fast asleep in a corner of the carriage, I rode by the side, and talked to Dora. She admired my horse and patted him—oh, what a dear little hand it looked upon a horse!—and her shawl would not keep right, and now and then I drew it round her with my arm; and I even fancied that Jip began to see how it was, and to understand that he must make up his mind to be friends with me.

           That sagacious Miss Mills, too; that amiable, though quite used up, recluse; that little patriarch of something less than twenty, who had done with the world, and mustn't on any account have the slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory awakened; what a kind thing she did!

           “Mr. Copperfield,” said Miss Mills, “come to this side of



page 310 the carriage a moment—if you can spare a moment. I want to speak to you.”

           Behold me, on my gallant grey, bending at the side of Miss Mills, with my hand upon the carriage-door!

           “Dora is coming to stay with me. She is coming home with me the day after to-morrow. If you would like to call, I am sure papa would be happy to see you.”

           What could I do but invoke a silent blessing on Miss Mills's head, and store Miss Mills's address in the securest corner of my memory! What could I do but tell Miss Mills, with grateful looks and fervent words, how much I appreciated her good offices, and what an inestimable value I set upon her friendship!

           Then Miss Mills benignantly dismissed me, saying, “Go back to Dora!” and I went; and Dora leaned out of the carriage to talk to me, and we talked all the rest of the way; and I rode my gallant grey so close to the wheel that I grazed his near fore leg against it, and “took the bark off,” as his owner told me, “to the tune of three pun' sivin”—which I paid, and thought extremely cheap for so much joy. What time Miss Mills sat looking at the moon, murmuring verses and recalling, I suppose, the ancient days when she and earth had anything in common.

           Norwood was many miles too near, and we reached it many hours too soon; but Mr. Spenlow came to himself a little short of it, and said, “You must come in, Copperfield, and rest!” and I consenting, we had sandwiches and wine-and-water. In the light room, Dora blushing looked so lovely, that I could not tear myself away, but sat there staring, in a dream, until the snoring of Mr. Spenlow inspired me with sufficient consciousness to take my leave. So we parted; I riding all the way to London with the farewell touch of Dora's hand still light on mine, recalling every incident and word ten thousand



page 311 times; lying down in my own bed at last, as enraptured a young noodle as ever was carried out of his five wits by love.

           When I awoke next morning, I was resolute to declare my passion to Dora, and know my fate. Happiness or misery was now the question. There was no other question that I knew of in the world, and only Dora could give the answer to it. I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness, torturing myself by putting every conceivable variety of discouraging construction on all that ever had taken place between Dora and me. At last, arrayed for the purpose at a vast expense, I went to Miss Mills's, fraught with a declaration.

           How many times I went up and down the street, and round the square—painfully aware of being a much better answer to the old riddle than the original one—before I could persuade myself to go up the steps and knock, is no matter now. Even when, at last, I had knocked, and was waiting at the door, I had some flurried thought of asking if that were Mr. Blackboy's (in imitation of poor Barkis), begging pardon, and retreating. But I kept my ground.

           Mr. Mills was not at home. I did not expect he would be. Nobody wanted him. Miss Mills was at home. Miss Mills would do.

           I was shown into a room upstairs, where Miss Mills and Dora were. Jip was there. Miss Mills was copying music (I recollect, it was a new song, called Affection's Dirge), and Dora was painting flowers. What were my feelings, when I recognised my own flowers; the identical Covent Garden Market purchase! I cannot say that they were very like, or that they particularly resembled any flowers that have ever come under my observation; but I knew from the paper round them, which was accurately copied, what the composition was.

           Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her Papa was not at home: though I thought we all bore that with



page 312 fortitude. Miss Mills was conversational for a few minutes, and then, laying down her pen upon Affection's Dirge, got up, and left the room.

           I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow.

           “I hope your poor horse was not tired, when he got home at night,” said Dora, lifting up her beautiful eyes. “It was a long way for him.”

           I began to think I would do it to-day.

           “It was a long way for him,” said I, “for he had nothing to uphold him on the journey.”

           “Wasn't he fed, poor thing?” asked Dora.

           I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow.

           “Ye—yes,” I said, “he was well taken care of. I mean he had not the unutterable happiness that I had in being so near you.”

           Dora, bent her head over her drawing, and said, after a little while—I had sat, in the interval, in a burning fever, and with my legs in a very rigid state—

           “You didn't seem to be sensible of that happiness yourself, at one time of the day.”

           I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be done on the spot.

           “You didn't care for that happiness in the least,” said Dora, slightly raising her eyebrows, and shaking her bead, “when you were sitting by Miss Kitt.”

           Kitt, I should observe, was the name of the creature in pink, with the little eyes.

           “Though certainly I don't know why you should,” said Dora, “or why you should call it a happiness at all. But of course you don't mean what you say. And I am sure no one doubts your being at liberty to do whatever you like. Jip, you naughty boy, come here!”



page 313

           I don't know how I did it. I did it in a moment. I intercepted Jip. I had Dora in my arms. I was full of eloquence. I never stopped for a word. I told her how I loved her. I told her I should die without her. I told her that I idolised and worshipped her. Jip barked madly all the time.

           When Dora hung her head and cried, and trembled, my eloquence increased so much the more. If she would like me to die for her, she had but to say the word, and I was ready. Life without Dora's love was not a thing to have on any terms. I couldn't bear it, and I wouldn't. I had loved her every minute, day and night, since I first saw her. I loved her at that minute to distraction. I should always love her, every minute, to distraction. Lovers had loved before, and lovers would love again; but no lover had ever loved, might, could, would, or should ever love, as I loved Dora. The more I raved, the more Jip barked. Each of us, in his own way, got more mad every moment.

           Well, well! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by-and-by, quiet enough, and Jip was lying in her lap, winking peacefully at me. It was off my mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I were engaged.

           I suppose we had some notion that this was to end in marriage. We must have had some, because Dora stipulated that we were never to be married without her papa's consent. But, in our youthful ecstacy, I don't think that we really looked before us or behind us; or had any aspiration beyond the ignorant present. We were to keep our secret from Mr. Spenlow; but I am sure the idea never entered my head, then, that there was anything dishonourable in that.

           Miss Mills was more than usually pensive when Dora, going to find her, brought her back;—I apprehend, because there was a tendency in what had passed to awaken the slumbering echoes in the caverns of memory. But she gave us her



page 314 blessing, and the assurance of her lasting friendship, and spoke to us, generally, as became a Voice from the Cloister.

           What an idle time it was! What an unsubstantial, happy, foolish time it was!

           When I measured Dora's finger for a ring that was to be made of Forget-me-nots, and when the jeweller, to whom I took the measure, found me out, and laughed over his order book, and charged me anything he liked, for the pretty little toy, with its blue stones—so associated in my remembrance with Dora's hand, that yesterday, when I saw such another, by chance, on the finger of my own daughter, there was a momentary stirring in my heart, like pain!

           When I walked about, exalted with my secret, and full of my own interest, and felt the dignity of loving Dora, and of being beloved, so much, that if I had walked the air, I could not have been more above the people not so situated, who were creeping on the earth!

           When we had those meetings in the garden of the square, and sat within the dingy summer-house, so happy, that I love the London sparrows to this hour, for nothing else, and see the plumage of the tropics in their smoky feathers!

           When we had our first great quarrel (within a week of our betrothal), and when Dora sent me back the ring, enclosed in a despairing cocked-hat note, wherein she used the terrible expression that “our love had begun in folly, and ended in madness!” which dreadful words occasioned me to tear my hair, and cry that all was over!

           When, under cover of the night, I flew to Miss Mills, whom I saw by stealth in a back-kitchen where there was a mangle, and implored Miss Mills to interpose between us and avert insanity. When Miss Mills undertook the office and returned with Dora, exhorting us, from the pulpit of her own



page 315 bitter youth, to mutual concession, and the avoidance of the Desert of Sahara!

           When we cried, and made it up, and were so blest again, that the back-kitchen, mangle and all, changed to Love's own temple, where we arranged a plan of correspondence through Miss Mills, always to comprehend at least one letter on each side every day!

           What an idle time! What an unsubstantial, happy, foolish time! Of all the times of mine that Time has in his grip, there is none that in one retrospection I can smile at half so much, and think of half so tenderly.



page 316

CHAPTER XVIII.
My aunt astonishes me.

           I WROTE to Agnes as soon as Dora and I were engaged. I wrote her a long letter, in which I tried to make her comprehend how blest I was, and what a darling Dora was. I entreated Agnes not to regard this as a thoughtless passion which could ever yield to any other, or had the least resemblance to the boyish fancies that we used to joke about. I assured her that its profundity was quite unfathomable, and expressed my belief that nothing like it had ever been known.

           Somehow, as I wrote to Agnes on a fine evening by my open window, and the remembrance of her clear calm eyes and gentle face came stealing over me, it shed such a peaceful influence upon the hurry and agitation in which I had been living lately, and of which my very happiness partook in some degree, that it soothed me into tears. I remember that I sat resting my head upon my hand, when the letter was half done, cherishing a general fancy as if Agnes were one of the elements of my natural home. As if, in the retirement of the house made almost sacred to me by her presence, Dora and I must be happier than anywhere. As if, in love, joy, sorrow, hope, or disappointment; in all emotions; my heart turned naturally there, and found its refuge and best friend.

           Of Steerforth, I said nothing. I only told her there had been sad grief at Yarmouth, on account of Emily's flight; and that on me it made a double wound, by reason of the circumstances attending it. I knew how quick she always was to divine the truth, and that she would never be the first to breathe his name.



page 317

           To this letter, I received an answer by return of post. As I read it, I seemed to hear Agnes speaking to me. It was like her cordial voice in my ears. What can I say more!

           While I had been away from home lately, Traddles had called twice or thrice. Finding Peggotty within, and being informed by Peggotty (who always volunteered that information to whomsoever would receive it), that she was my old nurse, he had established a good-humoured acquaintance with her, and had stayed to have a little chat with her about me. So Peggotty said; but I am afraid the chat was all on her own side, and of immoderate length, as she was very difficult indeed to stop, God bless her! when she had me for her theme.

           This reminds me, not only that I expected Traddles on a certain afternoon of his own appointing, which was now come, but that Mrs. Crupp had resigned everything appertaining to her office (the salary excepted) until Peggotty should cease to present herself. Mrs. Crupp, after holding divers conversations respecting Peggotty, in a very high pitched voice, on the staircase—with some invisible Familiar it would appear, for corporeally speaking she was quite alone at those times—addressed a letter to me, developing her views. Beginning it with that statement of universal application, which fitted every occurrence of her life, namely, that she was a mother herself, she went on to inform me that she had once seen very different days, but that at all periods of her existence she had had a constitutional objection to spies, intruders, and informers. She named no names, she said; let them the cap fitted, wear it; but spies, intruders, and informers, especially in widders' weeds (this clause was underlined), she had ever accustomed herself to look down upon. If a gentleman was the victim of spies, intruders, and



page 318 informers (but still naming no names), that was his own pleasure. He had a right to please himself; so let him do. All that she, Mrs. Crupp, stipulated for, was, that she should not be “brought in contract” with such persons. Therefore she begged to be excused from any further attendance on the top set, until things was as they formerly was, and as they could be wished to be; and further mentioned that her little book would be found upon the breakfast-table every Saturday morning, when she requested an immediate settlement of the same, with the benevolent view of saving trouble, “and an ill-conwenience” to all parties.

           After this, Mrs. Crupp confined herself to making pit-falls on the stairs, principally with pitchers, and endeavouring to delude Peggotty into breaking her legs. I found it rather harassing to live in this state of siege, but was too much afraid of Mrs. Crupp to see any way out of it.

           “My dear Copperfield,” cried Traddles, punctually appearing at my door, in spite of all these obstacles, “how do you do?”

           “My dear Traddles,” said I, “I am delighted to see you at last, and very sorry I have not been at home before. But I have been so much engaged—”

           “Yes, yes, I know,” said Traddles, “of course. Your's lives in London, I think.”

           “What did you say?”

           “She—excuse me—Miss D., you know,” said Traddles, colouring in his great delicacy, “lives in London, I believe?”

           “Oh yes. Near London.”

           “Mine, perhaps you recollect,” said Traddles, with a serious look, “lives down in Devonshire—one of ten. Consequently, I am not so much engaged as you—in that sense.”



page 319

           “I wonder you can bear,” I returned, “to see her so seldom.”

           “Hah!” said Traddles, thoughtfully. “It does seem a wonder. I suppose it is, Copperfield, because there 's no help for it?”

           “I suppose so,” I replied, with a smile, and not without a blush. “And because you have so much constancy and patience, Traddles.”

           “Dear me!” said Traddles, considering about it, “do I strike you in that way, Copperfield? Really I didn't know that I had. But she is such an extraordinarily dear girl herself, that it 's possible she may have imparted something of those virtues to me. Now you mention it, Copperfield, I shouldn't wonder at all. I assure you she is always forgetting herself, and taking care of the other nine.”

           “Is she the eldest?” I inquired.

           “Oh dear, no,” said Traddles. “The eldest is a Beauty.”

           He saw, I suppose, that I could not help smiling at the simplicity of this reply; and added, with a smile upon his own ingenuous face:

           “Not, of course, but that my Sophy—pretty name, Copperfield, I always think?”

           “Very pretty!” said I.

           “Not, of course, but that Sophy is beautiful too, in my eyes, and would be one of the dearest girls that ever was, in anybody's eyes (I should think). But when I say the eldest is a Beauty, I mean she really is a—” he seemed to be describing clouds about himself, with both hands: “Splendid, you know,” said Traddles, energetically.

           “Indeed!” said I.

           “Oh, I assure you,” said Traddles, “something very uncommon, indeed! Then, you know, being formed for society



page 320 and admiration, and not being able to enjoy much of it, in consequence of their limited means, she naturally gets a little irritable and exacting, sometimes. Sophy puts her in good humour!”

           “Is Sophy the youngest?” I hazarded.

           “Oh dear, no!” said Traddles, stroking his chin. “The two youngest are only nine and ten. Sophy educates 'em.”

           “The second daughter, perhaps?” I hazarded.

           “No,” said Traddles. “Sarah 's the second. Sarah has something the matter with her spine, poor girl. The malady will wear out by-and-by, the doctors say, but in the meantime she has to lie down for a twelvemonth. Sophy nurses her. Sophy's the fourth.”

           “Is the mother living?” I inquired.

           “Oh yes,” said Traddles, “she is alive. She is a very superior woman, indeed, but the damp country is not adapted to her constitution, and—in fact, she has lost the use of her limbs.”

           “Dear me!” said I.

           “Very sad, is it not?” returned Traddles. “But in a merely domestic view it is not so bad as it might be, because Sophy takes her place. She is quite as much a mother to her mother, as she is to the other nine.”

           I felt the greatest admiration for the virtues of this young lady; and, honestly with the view of doing my best to prevent the good-nature of Traddles from being imposed upon, to the detriment of their joint prospects in life, inquired how Mr. Micawber was?

           “He is quite well, Copperfield, thank you,” said Traddles. “I am not living with him at present.”

           “No?”

           “No You see the truth is,” said Traddles, in a whisper, “he has changed his name to Mortimer, in consequence of his



page 321 temporary embarrassments; and he don't come out till after dark—and then in spectacles. There was an execution put into our house, for rent. Mrs. Micawber was in such a dreadful state that I really couldn't resist giving my name to that second bill we spoke of here. You may imagine how delightful it was to my feelings, Copperfield, to see the matter settled with it, and Mrs. Micawber recover her spirits.”

           “Hum!” said I.

           “Not that her happiness was of long duration,” pursued Traddles, “for, unfortunately, within a week another execution came in. It broke up the establishment. I have been living in a furnished apartment since then, and the Mortimers have been very private indeed. I hope you won't think it selfish, Copperfield, if I mention that the broker carried off my little round table with the marble top, and Sophy's flower-pot and stand?”

           “What a hard thing!” I exclaimed indignantly.

           “It was a—it was a pull,” said Traddles, with his usual wince at that expression. “I don't mention it reproachfully, however, but with a motive. The fact is, Copperfield, I was unable to repurchase them at the time of their seizure; in the first place, because the broker, having an idea that I wanted them, ran the price up to an extravagant extent; and, in the second place, because I—hadn't any money. Now, I have kept my eye since, upon the broker's shop,” said Traddles, with a great enjoyment of his mystery, “which is up at the top of Tottenham Court Road, and, at last, to-day I find them put out for sale. I have only noticed them from over the way, because if the broker saw me, bless you, he'd ask any price for them! What has occurred to me, having now the money, is, that perhaps you wouldn't object to ask that good nurse of yours to come with me to the shop—I can show it her



page 322 from round the corner of the next street—and make the best bargain for them, as if they were for himself, that she can!”

           The delight with which Traddles propounded this plan to me, and the sense he had of its uncommon artfulness, are among the freshest things in my remembrance.

           I told him that my old nurse would be delighted to assist him, and that we would all three take the field together, but on one condition. That condition was, that he should make a solemn resolution to grant no more loans of his name, or anything else, to Mr. Micawber.

           “My dear Copperfield,” said Traddles, “I have already done so, because I begin to feel that I have not only been inconsiderate, but that I have been positively unjust to Sophy. My word being passed to myself, there is no longer any apprehension; but I pledge it to you, too, with the greatest readiness. That first unlucky obligation, I have paid. I have no doubt Mr. Micawber would have paid it if he could, but he could not. One thing I ought to mention, which I like very much in Mr. Micawber, Copperfield. It refers to the second obligation, which is not yet due. He don't tell me that it is provided for, but he says it will be. Now I think there is something very fair and honest about that!”

           I was unwilling to damp my good friend's confidence, and therefore assented. After a little further conversation, we went round to the chandler's shop, to enlist Peggotty; Traddles declining to pass the evening with me, both because he endured the liveliest apprehensions that his property would be bought by somebody else before he could re-purchase it, and because it was the evening he always devoted to writing to the dearest girl in the world.

           I never shall forget him peeping round the corner of the



page 323 street in Tottenham Court Road, while Peggotty was bargaining for the precious articles; or his agitation when she came slowly towards us after vainly offering a price, and was hailed by the relenting broker, and went back again. The end of the negotiation was, that she bought the property on tolerably easy terms, and Traddles was transported with pleasure.

           “I am very much obliged to you, indeed,” said Traddles, on hearing it was to be sent to where he lived, that night. If I might ask one other favour, I hope you wouldn't think it absurd, Copperfield?”

           I said beforehand, certainly not.

           “Then if you would be good enough,” said Traddles to Peggotty, “to get the flower-pot now, I think I should like (it being Sophy's, Copperfield) to carry it home myself!”

           Peggotty was glad to get it for him, and he overwhelmed her with thanks, and went his way up Tottenham Court Road, carrying the flower-pot affectionately in his arms, with one of the most delighted expressions of countenance I ever saw.

           We then turned back towards my chambers. As the shops had charms for Peggotty which I never knew them possess in the same degree for anybody else, I sauntered easily along, amused by her staring in at the windows, and waiting for her as often as she chose. We were thus a good while in getting to the Adelphi.

           On our way upstairs, I called her attention to the sudden disappearance of Mrs. Crupp's pit-falls, and also to the prints of recent footsteps. We were both very much surprised, coming higher up, to find my outer door standing open (which I had shut), and to hear voices inside.

           We looked at one another, without knowing what to



page 324 make of this, and went into the sitting-room. What was my amazement to find, of all people upon earth, my aunt there, and Mr. Dick! My aunt sitting on a quantity of luggage, with her two birds before her, and her cat on her knee, like a female Robinson Crusoe, drinking tea. Mr. Dick leaning thoughtfully on a great kite, such as we had often been out together to fly, with more luggage piled about him!

           “My dear aunt!” cried I. “Why, what an unexpected pleasure!”

           We cordially embraced; and Mr. Dick and I cordially shook hands; and Mrs. Crupp, who was busy making tea, and could not be too attentive, cordially said she had knowed well as Mr. Copperfull would have his heart in his mouth, when he see his dear relations.

           “Hollao!” said my aunt to Peggotty, who quailed before her awful presence. “How are you?

           “You remember my aunt, Peggotty?” said I.

           “For the love of goodness, child,” exclaimed my aunt, “don't call the woman by that South Sea Island name! If she married and got rid of it, which was the best thing she could do, why don't you give her the benefit of the change? What's your name now,—P?” said my aunt, as a compromise for the obnoxious appellation.

           “Barkis, Ma'am,” said Peggotty, with a curtsey.

           “Well! that's human,” said my aunt. “It sounds less as if you wanted a Missionary. How d'ye do, Barkis? I hope you're well?”

           Encouraged by these gracious words, and by my aunt's extending her hand, Barkis came forward, and took the hand, and curtseyed her acknowledgments.

           “We are older than we were, I see,” said my aunt. “We have only met each other once before, you know. A nice



page 325 business we made of it then! Trot, my dear, another cup.”

           I handed it dutifully to my aunt, who was in her usual inflexible state of figure; and ventured a remonstrance with her on the subject of sitting on a box.

           “Let me draw the sofa here, or the easy chair, aunt,” said I. “Why should you be so uncomfortable?”

           “Thank you, Trot,” replied my aunt, “I prefer to sit upon my property.” Here my aunt looked hard at Mrs. Crupp, and observed, “We needn't trouble you to wait, Ma'am.”

           “Shall I put a little more tea in the pot afore I go, Ma'am?” said Mrs. Crupp.

           “No, I thank you, Ma'am,” replied my aunt.

           “Would you let me fetch another pat of butter, Ma'am?” said Mrs. Crupp. “Or would you be persuaded to try a newlaid hegg? or should I brile a rasher? Ain't there nothing I could do for your dear aunt, Mr. Copperfull?”

           “Nothing, Ma'am,” returned my aunt. “I shall do very well, I thank you.”

           Mrs. Crupp, who had been incessantly smiling to express sweet temper, and incessantly holding her head on one side, to express a general feebleness of constitution, and incessantly rubbing her hands, to express a desire to be of service to all deserving objects, gradually smiled herself, one-sided herself, and rubbed herself, out of the room.

           “Dick!” said my aunt. “You know what I told you about time-servers and wealth-worshippers?”

           Mr. Dick—with rather a scared look, as if he had forgotten it—returned a hasty answer in the affirmative.

           “Mrs. Crupp is one of them,” said my aunt. “Barkis, I'll trouble you to look after the tea, and let me have another cup, for I don't fancy that woman's pouring-out!”

           I knew my aunt sufficiently well to know that she had something



page 326 of importance on her mind, and that there was far more matter in this arrival than a stranger might have supposed. I noticed how her eye lighted on me, when she thought my attention otherwise occupied; and what a curious process of hesitation appeared to be going on within her, while she preserved her outward stiffness and composure. I began to reflect whether I had done anything to offend her; and my conscience whispered me that I had not yet told her about Dora. Could it by any means be that, I wondered!

           As I knew she would only speak in her own good time, I sat down near her, and spoke to the birds, and played with the cat, and was as easy as I could be. But I was very far from being really easy; and I should still have been so, even if Mr. Dick, leaning over the great kite behind my aunt, had not taken every secret opportunity of shaking his head darkly at me, and pointing at her.

           “Trot,” said my aunt at last, when she had finished her tea, and carefully smoothed down her dress, and wiped her lips—“you needn't go, Barkis!—Trot, have you got to be firm, and self-reliant?”

           “I hope so, aunt.”

           “What do you think?” inquired Miss Betsey.

           “I think so, aunt.”

           “Then why, my love,” said my aunt, looking earnestly at me, “why do you think I prefer to sit upon this property of mine to-night?”

           I shook my head, unable to guess.

           “Because,” said my aunt, “it's all I have. Because I'm ruined, my dear!”

           If the house, and every one of us, had tumbled out into the river together, I could hardly have received a greater shock.

           “Dick knows it,” said my aunt, laying her hand calmly on



page 327 my shoulder. “I am ruined, my dear Trot! All I have in the world is in this room, except the cottage; and that I have left Janet to let. Barkis, I want to get a bed for this gentleman to-night. To save expense, perhaps you can make up something here for myself. Anything will do. It's only for to-night. We'll talk about this, more, to-morrow.”

           I was roused from my amazement, and concern for her—I am sure, for her—by her falling on my neck, for a moment, and crying that she only grieved for me. In another moment, she suppressed this emotion; and said with an aspect more triumphant than dejected:

           “We must meet reverses boldly, and not suffer them to frighten us, my dear. We must learn to act the play out. We must live misfortune down, Trot!”



page 328

CHAPTER XIX.
Depression.

           As soon as I could recover my presence of mind, which quite deserted me in the first overpowering shock of my aunt's intelligence, I proposed to Mr. Dick to come round to the chandler's shop, and take possession of the bed which Mr. Peggotty had lately vacated. The chandler's shop being in Hungerford Market, and Hungerford Market being a very different place in those days, there was a low wooden colonade before the door (not very unlike that before the house where the little man and woman used to live, in the old weather-glass), which pleased Mr. Dick mightily. The glory of lodging over this structure would have compensated him, I dare say, for many inconveniences; but, as there were really few to bear, beyond the compound of flavours I have already mentioned, and perhaps the want of a little more clbow-room, he was perfectly charmed with his accommodation. Mrs. Crupp had indignantly assured him that there wasn't room to swing a cat there; but, as Mr. Dick justly observed to me, sitting down on the foot of the bed, nursing his leg, “You know, Trotwood, I don't want to swing a cat. I never do swing a cat. Therefore, what does that signify to me!

           I tried to ascertain whether Mr. Dick had any understanding of the causes of this sudden and great change in my aunt's affairs. As I might have expected, he had none at all. The only account he could give of it, was, that my aunt had said to him, the day before yesterday, “Now, Dick, are you really and truly the philosopher I take you for?” That then he had said, Yes, he hoped so. That then my aunt had said, “Dick,



page 329 I am ruined.” That then he had said “Oh, indeed!” That then my aunt had praised him highly, which he was very glad of. And that then they had come to me, and had had bottled porter and sandwiches on the road.

           Mr. Dick was so very complacent, sitting on the foot of the bed, nursing his leg, and telling me this, with his eyes wide open and a surprised smile, that I am sorry to say I was provoked into explaining to him that ruin meant distress, want, and starvation; but, I was soon bitterly reproved for this harshness, by seeing his face turn pale, and tears course down his lengthened cheeks, while he fixed upon me a look of such unutterable woe, that it might have softened a far harder heart than mine. I took infinitely greater pains to cheer him up again than I had taken to depress him; and I soon understood (as I ought to have known at first) that he had been so confident, merely because of his faith in the wisest and most wonderful of women, and his unbounded reliance on my intellectual resources. The latter, I believe, he considered a match for any kind of disaster not absolutely mortal.

           “What can we do, Trotwood?” said Mr. Dick. “There's the Memorial—”

           “To be sure there is,” said I. “But all we can do just now, Mr. Dick, is to keep a cheerful countenance, and not let my aunt see that we are thinking about it.”

           He assented to this in the most earnest manner; and implored me, if I should see him wandering an inch out of the right course, to recall him by some of those superior methods which were always at my command. But I regret to state that the fright I had given him proved too much for his best attempts at concealment. All the evening his eyes wandered to my aunt's face, with an expression of the most dismal apprehension, as if he saw her growing thin on the spot. He was conscious of this, and put a constraint upon his head; but



page 330 his keeping that immovable, and sitting rolling his eyes like a piece of machinery, did not mend the matter at all. I saw him look at the loaf at supper (which happened to be a small one), as if nothing else stood between us and famine; and when my aunt insisted on his making his customary repast. I detected him in the act of pocketing fragments of his bread and cheese; I have no doubt for the purpose of reviving us with those savings, when we should have reached an advanced stage of attenuation.

           My aunt, on the other hand, was in a composed frame of mind, which was a lesson to all of us—to me, I am sure. She was extremely gracious to Peggotty, except when I inadvertently called her by that name; and, strange as I knew she felt in London, appeared quite at home. She was to have my bed, and I was to lie in the sitting-room, to keep guard over her. She made a great point of being so near the river, in case of a conflagration; and I suppose really did find some satisfaction in that circumstance.

           “Trot, my dear,” said my aunt, when she saw me making preparations for compounding her usual night-draught, “No!”

           “Nothing, aunt?”

           “Not wine, my dear. Ale.”

           “But there is wine here, aunt. And you always have it made of wine.”

           “Keep that, in case of sickness,” said my aunt. “We mustn't use it carelessly, Trot. Ale for me. Half a pint.”

           I thought Mr. Dick would have fallen, insensible. My aunt being resolute, I went out and got the ale myself. As it was growing late, Peggotty and Mr. Dick took that opportunity of repairing to the chandler's shop together. I parted from him, poor fellow, at the corner of the street, with his great kite at his back, a very monument of human misery.



page 331

           My aunt was walking up and down the room when I returned, crimping the borders of her nightcap with her fingers. I warmed the ale and made the toast on the usual infallible principles. When it was ready for her, she was ready for it, with her nightcap on, and the skirt of her gown turned back on her knees.

           “My dear,” said my aunt, after taking a spoonful of it; “it's a great deal better than wine. Not half so bilious.”

           I suppose I looked doubtful, for she added:

           “Tut, tut, child. If nothing worse than Ale happens to us, we are well off.”

           “I should think so myself, aunt, I am sure,” said I.

           “Well, then, why don't you think so?” said my aunt.

           “Because you and I are very different people,” I returned.

           “Stuff and nonsense, Trot!” replied my aunt.

           My aunt went on with a quiet enjoyment, in which there was very little affectation, if any; drinking the warm ale with a tea-spoon, and soaking her strips of toast in it.

           “Trot,” said she, “I don't care for strange faces in general, but I rather like that Barkis of yours, do you know!”

           “It's better than a hundred pounds to hear you say so!” said I.

           “It's a most extraordinary world,” observed my aunt rubbing her nose; “how that woman ever got into it with that name, is unaccountable to me. It would be much more easy to be born a Jackson, or something of that sort, one would think.”

           “Perhaps she thinks so, too; it's not her fault,” said I.

           “I suppose not,” returned my aunt, rather grudging the admission; “but it's very aggravating. However, she” Barkis now. That's some comfort. Barkis is uncommonly fond of you, Trot.”



page 332

           “There is nothing she would leave undone to prove it,” said I.

           “Nothing, I believe,” returned my aunt. “Here, the poor fool has been begging and praying about handing over some of her money—because she has got too much of it! A simpleton!”

           My aunt's tears of pleasure were positively trickling down into the warm ale.

           “She's the most ridiculous creature that ever was born,” said my aunt. “I knew, from the first moment when I saw her with that poor dear blessed baby of a mother of yours, that she was the most ridiculous of mortals. But there are good points in Barkis!”

           Affecting to laugh, she got an opportunity of putting her hand to her eyes. Having availed herself of it, she resumed her toast and her discourse together.

           “Ah! Mercy upon us!” sighed my aunt. “I know all about it, Trot! Barkis and myself had quite a gossip while you were out with Dick. I know all about it. I don't know where these wretched girls expect to go to, for my part. I wonder they don't knock out their brains against—against mantelpieces,” said my aunt; an idea which was probably suggested to her by her contemplation of mine.

           “Poor Emily!” said I.

           “Oh, don't talk to me about poor,” returned my aunt. “She should have thought of that, before she caused so much misery! Give me a kiss, Trot. I am sorry for your early experience.”

           As I bent forward, she put her tumbler on my knee to detain me, and said:

           “Oh, Trot, Trot! And so you fancy yourself in love! Do you?”



page 333

           “Fancy, aunt!” I exclaimed, as red as I could be. “I adore her with my whole soul!”

           “Dora, indeed!” returned my aunt. “And you mean to say the little thing is very fascinating, I suppose?”

           “My dear aunt,” I replied, “no one can form the least idea what she is!”

           “Ah! And not silly?” said my aunt.

           “Silly, aunt!”

           I seriously believe it had never once entered my head for a single moment, to consider whether she was or not. I resented the idea, of course; but I was in a manner struck by it, as a new one altogether.

           “Not light-headed?” said my aunt.

           “Silly, aunt!” I could only repeat this daring speculation with the same kind of feeling with which I had repeated the preceding question.

           “Well, well!” said my aunt. “I only ask. I don't depreciate her. Poor little couple! And so you think you were formed for one another, and are to go through a party-suppertable kind of life, like two pretty pieces of confectionary, do you, Trot?”

           “She asked me this so kindly, and with such a gentle air, half playful and half sorrowful, that I was quite touched.

           “We are young and inexperienced, aunt, I know,” I replied; “and I dare say we say and think a good deal that is rather foolish. But we love one another truly, I am sure. If I thought Dora could ever love anybody else, or cease to love me; or that I could ever love anybody else, or cease to love her; I don't know what I should do—go out of my mind, I think!”

           “Ah, Trot!” said my aunt, shaking her head, and smiling gravely; “blind, blind, blind!”

           “Some one that I know, Trot,” my aunt pursued, after a



page 334 pause, “though of a very pliant disposition, has an earnestness of affection in him that reminds me of poor Baby. Earnestness is what that Somebody must look for, to sustain him and improve him, Trot. Deep, downright, faithful earnestness.”

           “If you only knew the earnestness of Dora, aunt!” I cried.

           “Oh, Trot!” she said again; “blind, blind!” and without knowing why, I felt a vague unhappy loss or want of something overshadow me like a cloud.

           “However,” said my aunt, “I don't want to put two young creatures out of conceit with themselves, or to make them unhappy; so, though it is a girl and boy attachment, and girl and boy attachments very often—mind! I don't say always!—come to nothing, still we'll be serious about it, and hope for a prosperous issue one of these days. There's time enough for it to come to anything!”

           This was not upon the whole very comforting to a rapturous lover; but I was glad to have my aunt in my confidence, and I was mindful of her being fatigued. So I thanked her ardently for this mark of her affection, and for all her other kindnesses towards me; and after a tender good night, she took her nightcap into my bed-room.

           How miserable I was, when I lay down! How I thought and thought about my being poor, in Mr. Spenlow's eyes; about my not being what I thought I was, when I proposed to Dora; about the chivalrous necessity of telling Dora what my worldly condition was, and releasing her from her engagement if she thought fit; about how I should contrive to live, during the long term of my articles, when I was earning nothing; about doing something to assist my aunt, and seeing no way of doing anything; about coming down to have no money in my pocket, and to wear a shabby coat, and to be able to carry Dora no little presents, and to ride no gallant greys, and to show myself in no agreeable light! Sordid and selfish as I



page 335 knew it was, and as I tortured myself by knowing that it was, to let my mind run on my own distress so much, I was so devoted to Dora that I could not help it. I knew that it was base in me not to think more of my aunt, and less of myself; but, so far, selfishness was inseparable from Dora, and I could not put Dora on one side for any mortal creature. How exceedingly miserable I was, that night!

           As to sleep, I had dreams of poverty in all sorts of shapes, but I seemed to dream without the previous ceremony of going to sleep. Now I was ragged, wanting to sell Dora matches, six bundles for a halfpenny; now I was at the office in a nightgown and boots, remonstrated with by Mr. Spenlow on appearing before the clients in that airy attire; now I was hungrily picking up the crumbs that fell from old Tiffey's daily biscuit, regularly eaten when Saint Paul's struck one; now I was hopelessly endeavouring to get a license to marry Dora, having nothing but one of Uriah Heep's gloves to offer in exchange, which the whole Commons rejected; and still, more or less conscious of my own room, I was always tossing about like a distressed ship in a sea of bed-clothes.

           My aunt was restless, too, for I frequently heard her walking to and fro. Two or three times in the course of the night, attired in a long flannel wrapper in which she looked seven feet high, she appeared, like a disturbed ghost, in my room, and came to the side of the sofa on which I lay. On the first occasion I started up in alarm, to learn that she inferred from a particular light in the sky, that Westminster Abbey was on fire; and to be consulted in reference to the probability of its igniting Buckingham Street, in case the wind changed. Lying still, after that, I found that she sat down near me, whispering to herself “Poor boy!” And then it made me twenty times more wretched, to know how unselfishly mindful she was of me, and how selfishly mindful I was of myself.



page 336

           It was difficult to believe that a night so long to me, could be short to anybody else. This consideration set me thinking and thinking of an imaginary party where people were dancing the hours away, until that became a dream too, and I heard the music incessantly playing one tune, and saw Dora incessantly dancing one dance, without taking the least notice of me. The man who had been playing the harp all night, was trying in vain to cover it with an ordinary sized nightcap, when I awoke; or I should rather say, when I left off trying to go to sleep, and saw the sun shining in through the window at last.

           There was an old Roman bath in those days at the bottom of one of the streets out of the Strand—it may be there still—in which I have had many a cold plunge. Dressing myself as quietly as I could, and leaving Peggotty to look after my aunt, I tumbled head foremost into it, and then went for a walk to Hampstead. I had a hope that this brisk treatment might freshen my wits a little; and I think it did them good, for I soon came to the conclusion that the first step I ought to take was, to try if my articles could be cancelled and the premium recovered. I got some breakfast on the Heath, and walked back to Doctors' Commons, along the watered roads and through a pleasant smell of summer flowers, growing in gardens and carried into town on bucksters' heads, intent on this first effort to meet our altered circumstances.

           I arrived at the office so soon, after all, that I had half an hour's loitering about the Commons, before old Tiffey, who was always first, appeared with his key. Then I sat down in my shady corner, looking up at the sunlight on the opposite chimney-pots, and thinking about Dora; until Mr. Spenlow came in, crips and curly.

           “How are you, Copperfield?” said he. “Fine morning!”

           “Beautiful morning, Sir,” said I. “Could I say a word to you before you go into Court?”



page 337

           “By all means,” said he. “Come into my room.”

           I followed him into his room, and he began putting on his gown, and touching himself up before a little glass he had, hanging inside a closet door.

           “I am sorry to say,” said I, “that I have some rather disheartening intelligence from my aunt.”

           “No!” said he. “Dear me! Not paralysis, I hope?”

           “It has no reference to her health, Sir,” I replied. “She has met with some large losses. In fact, she has very little left, indeed.”

           “You as-tound me, Copperfield!” cried Mr. Spenlow.

           I shook my head. “Indeed, Sir,” said I, “her affairs are so changed, that I wished to ask you whether it would be possible—at a sacrifice on our part of some portion of the premium, of course,” I put in this, on the spur of the moment, warned by the blank expression of his face—“to cancel my articles?”

           What it cost me to make this proposal, nobody knows. It was like asking, as a favour, to be sentenced to transportation from Dora.

           “To cancel your articles, Copperfield? Cancel?”

           I explained with tolerable firmness, that I really did not know where my means of subsistence were to come from, unless I could earn them for myself. I had no fear for the future, I said—and I laid great emphasis on that, as if to imply that I should still be decidedly eligible for a son-in-law one of these days—but, for the present, I was thrown upon my own resources.

           “I am extremely sorry to hear this, Copperfield,” said Mr. Spenlow. “Extremely sorry. It is not usual to cancel articles for any such reason. It is not a professional course of proceeding. It is not a convenient precedent at all. Far from it. At the same time”—



page 338

           “You are very good, Sir,” I murmured, anticipating a concession.

           “Not at all. Don't mention it,” said Mr. Spenlow. “At the same time, I was going to say, if it had been my lot to have my hands unfettered—if I had not a partner—Mr. Jorkins”—

           My hopes were dashed in a moment, but I made another effort.

           “Do you think, Sir,” said I, “if I were to mention it to Mr. Jorkins—”

           Mr. Spenlow shook his head discouragingly. “Heaven forbid, Copperfield,” he replied, “that I should do any man an injustice; still less, Mr. Jorkins. But I know my partner, Copperfield. Mr. Jorkins is not a man to respond to a proposition of this peculiar nature. Mr. Jorkins is very difficult to move from the beaten track. You know what he is!”

           I am sure I knew nothing about him, except that he had originally been alone in the business, and now lived by himself in a house near Montagu Square, which was fearfully in want of painting; that he came very late of a day, and went away very early; that he never appeared to be consulted about anything; and that he had a dingy little black-hole of his own up-stairs, where no business was ever done, and where there was a yellow old cartridge-paper pad upon his desk, unsoiled by ink, and reported to be twenty years of age.

           “Would you object to my mentioning it to him, Sir?” I asked.

           “By no means,” said Mr. Spenlow. “But I have some experience of Mr. Jorkins, Copperfield. I wish it were otherwise, for I should be happy to meet your views in any respect. I cannot have the least objection to your mentioning it to Mr. Jorkins, Copperfield, if you think it worth while.”

           Availing myself of this permission, which was given with a warm shake of the hand, I sat thinking about Dora, and looking



page 339 at the sunlight stealing from the chimney-pots down the wall of the opposite house, until Mr. Jorkins came. I them went up to Mr. Jorkins's room, and evidently astonished Mr. Jorkins very much by making my appearance there.

           “Come in, Mr. Copperfield,” said Mr. Jorkins. “Come in!”

           I went in, and sat down; and stated my case to Mr. Jorkins pretty much as I had stated it to Mr. Spenlow. Mr. Jorkins was not by any means the awful creature one might have expected, but a large, mild, smooth-faced man of sixty, who took so much snuff that there was a tradition in the Commons that he lived principally on that stimulant, having little room in his system for any other article of diet.

           “You have mentioned this to Mr. Spenlow, I suppose?” said Mr. Jorkins; when he had heard me, very restlessly, to an end.

           I answered Yes, and told him that Mr. Spenlow had introduced his name.

           “He said I should object?” asked Mr. Jorkins.

           I was obliged to admit that Mr. Spenlow had considered it probable.

           “I am sorry to say, Mr. Copperfield, I can't advance your object,” said Mr. Jorkins, nervously. “The fact is—but I have an appointment at the Bank, if you'll have the goodness to excuse me.”

           With that he rose in a great hurry, and was going out of the room, when I made bold to say that I feared, then, there was no way of arranging the matter?

           “No!” said Mr. Jorkins, stopping at the door to shake his head. “Oh, no! I object, you know,” which he said very rapidly, and went out. “You must be aware, Mr. Copperfield,” he added, looking restlessly in at the door again, “if Mr. Spenlow objects—”

           “Personally, he does not object, Sir,” said I.



page 340

           “Oh! Personally!” repeated Mr. Jorkins, in an impatient manner. “I assure you there's an objection, Mr. Copperfield. Hopeless! What you wish to be done, can't be done. I—I really have got an appointment at the Bank.” With that he fairly ran away; and to the best of my knowledge, it was three days before he showed himself in the Commons again.

           Being very anxious to leave no stone unturned, I waited until Mr. Spenlow came in, and then described what had passed; giving him to understand that I was not hopeless of his being able to soften the adamantine Jorkins, if he would undertake that task.

           “Copperfield,” returned Mr. Spenlow, with a sagacious smile, “you have not known my partner, Mr. Jorkins, as long as I have. Nothing is farther from my thoughts than to attribute any degree of artifice to Mr. Jorkins. But Mr. Jorkins has a way of stating his objections which often deceives people. No, Copperfield!” shaking his head. “Mr. Jorkins is not to be moved, believe me!”

           I was completely bewildered between Mr. Spenlow and Mr. Jorkins, as to which of them really was the objecting partner; but I saw with sufficient clearness that there was obduracy somewhere in the firm, and that the recovery of my aunt's thousand pounds was out of the question. In a state of despondency, which I remember with anything but satisfaction, for I know it still had too much reference to myself (though always in connexion with Dora), I left the office, and went homeward.

           I was trying to familiarise my mind with the worst, and to present to myself the arrangements we should have to make for the future in their sternest aspect, when a hackney chariot coming after me, and stopping at my very feet, occasioned me to look up. A fair hand was stretched forth to me from the window; and the face I had never seen without a feeling



page 341 of serenity and happiness, from the moment when it first turned back on the old oak staircase with the great broad balustrade, and when I associated its softened beauty with the stained glass window in the church, was smiling on me.

           “Agnes!” I joyfully exclaimed. “Oh, my dear Agnes, of all people in the world, what a pleasure to see you!”

           “Is it, indeed?” she said, in her cordial voice.

           “I want to talk to you so much!” said I. “It's such a lightening of my heart, only to look at you! If I had had a conjuror's cap, there is no one I should have wished for but you!”

           “What?” returned Agnes.

           “Well! perhaps Dora, first,” I admitted, with a blush.

           “Certainly, Dora first, I hope,” said Agnes, laughing.

           “But you next!” said I. “Where are you going?”

           She was going to my rooms to see my aunt. The day being very fine, she was glad to come out of the chariot, which smelt (I had my head in it all this time) like a stable put under a cucumber-frame. I dismissed the coachman, and she took my arm, and we walked on together. She was like Hope embodied, to me. How different I felt in one short minute, having Agnes at my side!

           My aunt had written her one of the odd, abrupt notes—very little longer than a Bank note—to which her epistolary efforts were usually limited. She had stated therein that she had fallen into adversity, and was leaving Dover for good, but had quite made up her mind to it, and was so well that nobody need be uncomfortable about her. Agnes had come to London to see my aunt, between whom and herself there had been a mutual liking these many years: indeed, it dated from the time of my taking up my residence in Mr. Wickfield's house. She was not alone, she said. Her papa was with her—and Uriah Heep.



page 342

           “And now they are partners,” said I. “Confound him!'

           “Yes,” said Agnes. “They have some business here; and I took advantage of their coming, to come too. You must not think my visit all friendly and disinterested, Trotwood, for—I am afraid I may be cruelly prejudiced—I do not like to let papa go away alone, with him.”

           “Does he exercise the same influence over Mr. Wickfield still, Agnes?”

           Agnes shook her head. “There is such a change at home,” said she, “that you would scarcely know the dear old house. They live with us now.”

           “They?” said I.

           “Mr. Heep and his mother. He sleeps in your old room,” said Agnes, looking up into my face.

           “I wish I had the ordering of his dreams,” said I. “He wouldn't sleep there long.”

           “I keep my own little room,” said Agnes, “where I used to learn my lessons. How the time goes! You remember? The little panelled room that opens from the drawing-room?”

           “Remember, Agnes? When I saw you, for the first time, coming out at the door, with your quaint little basket of keys hanging at your side?”

           “It is just the same,” said Agnes, smiling. “I am glad you think of it so pleasantly. We were very happy.”

           “We were, indeed,” said I.

           “I keep that room to myself still; but I cannot always desert Mrs. Heep, you know. And so,” said Agnes quietly, “I feel obliged to bear her company, when I might prefer to be alone. But I have no other reason to complain of her. If she tires me, sometimes, by her praises of her son, it is only natural in a mother. He is a very good son to her.”



page 343

           I looked at Agnes when she said these words, without detecting in her any consciousness of Uriah's design. Her mild but earnest eyes met mine with their own beautiful frankness, and there was no change in her gentle face.

           “The chief evil of their presence in the house,” said Agnes, “is that I cannot be as near papa as I could wish—Uriah Heep being so much between us—and cannot watch over him, if that is not too bold a thing to say, as closely as I would. But, if any fraud or treachery is practising against him, I hope that simple love and truth will be stronger, in the end. I hope that real love and truth are stronger in the end than any evil or misfortune in the world.”

           A certain bright smile which I never saw on any other face, died away, even while I thought how good it was, and how familiar it had once been to me; and she asked me, with a quick change of expression (we were drawing very near my street), if I knew how the reverse in my aunt's circumstances had been brought about. On my replying no, she had not told me yet, Agnes became thoughtful, and I fancied I felt her arm tremble in mine.

           We found my aunt alone, in a state of some excitement. A difference of opinion had arisen between herself and Mrs. Crupp, on an abstract question (the propriety of chambers being inhabited by the gentler sex); and my aunt, utterly indifferent to spasms on the part of Mrs. Crupp, had cut the dispute short, by informing that lady that she smelt of my brandy, and that she would trouble her to walk out. Both of these expressions Mrs. Crupp considered actionable, and had expressed her intention of bringing before a “British Judy”—meaning, it was supposed, the bulwark of our national liberties.

           My aunt, however, having had time to cool, while Peggotty



page 344 was out showing Mr. Dick the soldiers at the Horse Guards—and being, besides, greatly pleased to see Agnes—rather plumed herself on the affair than otherwise, and received us with unimpaired good humour. When Agnes laid her bonnet on the table, and sat down beside her, I could not but think, looking on her mild eyes and her radiant forehead, how natural it seemed to have her there; how trustfully, although she was so young and inexperienced, my aunt confided in her; how strong she was, indeed, in simple love and truth.

           We began to talk about my aunt's losses, and I told them what I had tried to do that morning.

           “Which was injudicious, Trot,” said my aunt, “but well meant. You are a generous boy—I suppose I must say, young man, now—and I am proud of you, my dear. So far, so good. Now, Trot and Agnes, let us look the case of Betsey Trotwood in the face, and see how it stands.”

           I observed Agnes turn pale, as she looked very attentively at my aunt. My aunt, patting her cat, looked very attentively at Agnes.

           “Betsey Trotwood,” said my aunt, “who had always kept her money matters to herself: “—I don't mean your sister, Trot, my dear, but myself—had a certain property. It don't matter how much; enough to live on. More; for she had saved a little, and added to it. Betsey funded her property for some time, and then, by the advice of her man of business, laid it out on landed security. That did very well, and returned very good interest, till Betsey was paid off. I am talking of Betsey as if she was a man-of-war. Well! Then, Betsey had to look about her, for a new investment. She thought she was wiser, now, than her man of business, who was not such a good man of business by this time, as he used to be—I am alluding to your father, Agnes—and she



page 345 took it into her head to lay it out for herself. So she took her pigs,” said my aunt, “to a foreign market; and a very bad market it turned out to be. First, she lost in the mining way, and then she lost in the diving way—fishing up treasure, or some such Tom Tidler nonsense,” explained my aunt, rubbing her nose; “and then she lost in the mining way again, and, last of all, to set the thing entirely to rights, she lost in the banking way. I don't know what the Bank shares were worth for a little while,” said my aunt; “cent per cent was the lowest of it, I believe; but the Bank was at the other end of the world, and tumbled into space, for what I know; anyhow, it fell to pieces, and never will and never can pay sixpence; and Betsey's sixpences were all there, and there's an end of them. Least said, soonest mended!”

           My aunt concluded this philosophical summary, by fixing her eyes with a kind of triumph on Agnes, whose colour was gradually returning.

           “Dear Miss Trotwood, is that all the history?” said Agnes.

           “I hope it's enough, child,” said my aunt. “If there had been more money to lose, it wouldn't have been all, I dare say. Betsey would have contrived to throw that after the rest, and make another chapter, I have little doubt. But, there was no more money, and there's no more story.”

           Agnes had listened at first with suspended breath. Her colour still came and went, but she breathed more freely. I thought I knew why. I thought she had had some fear that her unhappy father might be in some way to blame for what had happened. My aunt took her hand in hers, and laughed.

           “Is that all?” repeated my aunt. “Why, yes, that's all, except, ‘And she lived happy ever afterwards.’ Perhaps I may add that of Betsey yet, one of these days. Now, Agnes,



page 346 you have a wise head. So have you, Trot, in some things, though I can't compliment you always;” and here my aunt shook her own at me, with an energy peculiar to herself. “What's to be done? Here's the cottage, taking one time with another, will produce, say seventy pounds a-year. I think we may safely put it down at that. Well!—That's all we've got,” said my aunt; with whom it was an idiosyncrasy, as it is with some horses, to stop very short when she appeared to be in a fair way of going on for a long while.

           “Then,” said my aunt, after a rest, “there's Dick. He's good for a hundred a-year, but of course that must be expended on himself. I would sooner send him away, though I know I am the only person who appreciates him, than have him, and not spend his money on himself. How can Trot and I do best, upon our means? What do you say, Agnes?”

           “I say, aunt,” I interposed, “that I must do something!”

           “Go for a soldier, do you mean?” returned my aunt, alarmed; “or go to sea? I won't hear of it. You are to be a proctor. We're not going to have any knockings on the head in this family, if you please, Sir.”

           I was about to explain that I was not desirous of introducing that mode of provision into the family, when Agnes inquired if my rooms were held for any long term?

           “You come to the point, my dear,” said my aunt. “They are not to be got rid of, for six months at least, unless they could be underlet, and that I don't believe. The last man died here. Five people out of six would die—of course—of that woman in nankeen with the flannel petticoat. I have a little ready money; and I agree with you, the best thing we can do, is, to live the term out here, and get Dick a bed-room hard by.”



page 347

           I thought it my duty to hint at the discomfort my aunt would sustain, from living in a continual state of guerilla warfare with Mrs. Crupp; but she disposed of that objection summarily by declaring, that, on the first demonstration of hostilities, she was prepared to astonish Mrs. Crupp for the whole remainder of her natural life.

           “I have been thinking, Trotwood,” said Agnes, diffidently, “that if you had time—”

           “I have a good deal of time, Agnes. I am always disengaged after four or five o'clock, and I have time early in the morning. In one way and another,” said I, conscious of reddening a little as I thought of the hours and hours I had devoted to fagging about town, and to and fro upon the Norwood Road, “I have abundance of time.”

           “I know you would not mind,” said Agnes, coming to me, and speaking in a low voice, so full of sweet and hopeful consideration that I hear it now, “the duties of a secretary.”

           “Mind, my dear Agnes?”

           “Because,” continued Agnes, “Doctor Strong has acted on his intention of retiring, and has come to live in London; and he asked papa, I know, if he could recommend him one. Don't you think he would rather have his favourite old pupil near him, than anybody else?”

           “Dear Agnes!” said I. “What should I do without you! You are always my good angel. I told you so. I never think of you in any other light.”

           Agnes answered with her pleasant laugh, that one good angel (meaning Dora) was enough; and went on to remind me that the Doctor had been used to occupy himself in his study, early in the morning, and in the evening—and that probably my leisure would suit his requirements very well. I was scarcely more delighted with the prospect of earning my



page 348 own bread, than with the hope of earning it under my old master; in short, acting on the advice of Agnes, I sat down and wrote a letter to the Doctor, stating my object, and appointing to call on him next day at ten in the forenoon. This I addressed to Highgate—for in that place, so memorable to me, he lived—and went out and posted, myself, without losing a minute.

           Wherever Agnes was, some agreeable token of her noiseless presence seemed inseparable from the place. When I came back, I found my aunt's birds hanging, just as they had hung so long in the parlour window of the cottage; and my easy chair imitating my aunt's much easier chair in its position at the open window; and even the round green fan, which my aunt had brought away with her, screwed on to the windowsill. I knew who had done all this, by its seeming to have quietly done itself; and I should have known in a moment who had arranged my neglected books in the old order of my school days, even if I had supposed Agnes to be miles away, instead of seeing her busy with them, and smiling at the disorder into which they had fallen.

           My aunt was quite gracious on the subject of the Thames (it really did look very well with the sun upon it, though not like the sea before the cottage), but she could not relent towards the London smoke, which, she said, “peppered everything.” A complete revolution, in which Peggotty bore a prominent part, was being effected in every corner of my rooms, in regard of this pepper; and I was looking on, thinking how little even Peggotty seemed to do with a good deal of bustle, and how much Agnes did without any bustle at all, when a knock came at the door.

           “I think,” said Agnes, turning pale, “it's papa. He promised me that he would come.”

           I opened the door, and admitted, not only Mr. Wickfield,



page 349 but Uriah Heep. I had not seen Mr. Wickfield for some time. I was prepared for a great change in him, after what I had heard from Agnes, but his appearance shocked me.

           It was not that he looked many years older, though still dressed with the old scrupulous cleanliness; or that there was an unwholesome ruddiness upon his face; or that his eyes were full and bloodshot; or that there was a nervous trembling in his hand, the cause of which I knew, and had for some years seen at work. It was not that he had lost his good looks, or his old bearing of a gentleman—for that he had not—but the thing that struck me most, was, that with the evidences of his native superiority still upon him, he should submit himself to that crawling impersonation of meanness, Uriah Heep. The reversal of the two natures, in their relative positions, Uriah's of power and Mr. Wickfield's of dependence, was a sight more painful to me than I can express. If I had seen an Ape taking command of a Man, I should hardly have thought it a more degrading spectacle.

           He appeared to be only too conscious of it himself. When he came in, he stood still; and with his head bowed, as if he felt it. This was only for a moment; for Agnes softly said to him, “Papa! Here is Miss Trotwood—and Trotwood, whom you have not seen for a long while!” and then he approached, and constrainedly gave my aunt his hand, and shook hands more cordially with me. In the moment's pause I speak of, I saw Uriah's countenance form itself into a most ill-favoured smile. Agnes saw it too, I think, for she shrank from him.

           What my aunt saw, or did not see, I defy the science of physiognomy to have made out, without her own consent. I believe there never was anybody with such an imperturbable



page 350 countenance when she chose. Her face might have been a dead wall on the occasion in question, for any light it threw upon her thoughts; until she broke silence with her usual abruptness.

           “Well, Wickfield!” said my aunt; and he looked up at her for the first time. “I have been telling your daughter how well I have been disposing of my money for myself, because I couldn't trust it to you, as you were growing rusty in business matters. We have been taking counsel together, and getting on very well, all things considered. Agnes is worth the whole firm, in my opinion.”

           “If I may umbly make the remark,” said Uriah Heep, with a writhe, “I fully agree with Miss Betsey Trotwood, and should be only too appy if Miss Agnes was a partner.”

           “You're a partner yourself, you know,” returned my aunt, “and that's about enough for you, I expect. How do you find yourself, Sir?”

           In acknowledgment of this question, addressed to him with extraordinary curtness, Mr. Heep, uncomfortably clutching the blue bag he carried, replied that he was pretty well, he thanked my aunt, and hoped she was the same.

           “And you, Master—I should say, Mister Copperfield,” pursued Uriah. “I hope I see you well! I am rejoiced to see you, Mister Copperfield, even under present circumstances.” I believed that; for he seemed to relish them very much. “Present circumstances is not what your friends would wish for you, Mister Copperfield, but it isn't money makes the man: it's—I am really unequal with my umble powers to express what it is,” said Uriah, with a fawning jerk, “but it isn't money!”

           Here he shook hands with me: not in the common way, but standing at a good distance from me, and lifting my



page 351 hand up and down like a pump handle, that he was a little afraid of.

           “And how do you think we are looking, Master Copperfield,—I should say, Mister?” fawned Uriah. “Don't you find Mr. Wickfield blooming, Sir? Years don't tell much in our firm, Master Copperfield, except in raising up the umble, namely, mother and self—and in developing,” he added as an after-thought, “the beautiful, namely Miss Agnes.”

           He jerked himself about, after this compliment, in such an intolerable manner, that my aunt, who had sat looking straight at him, lost all patience.

           “Deuce take the man!” said my aunt, sternly, “what's he about? Don't be galvanic, Sir!”

           “I ask your pardon, Miss Trotwood,” returned Uriah; “I'm aware you're nervous.”

           “Go along with you, Sir!” said my aunt, anything but appeased. “Don't presume to say so! I am nothing of the sort. If you're an eel, Sir, conduct yourself like one. If you're a man, control your limbs, Sir! Good God!” said my aunt, with great indignation, “I am not going to be serpentined and corkscrewed out of my senses!”

           Mr. Heep was rather abashed, as most people might have been, by this explosion; which derived great additional force from the indignant manner in which my aunt afterwards moved in her chair, and shook her head as if she were making snaps or bounces at him. But, he said to me aside in a meek voice:

           “I am well aware, Master Copperfield, that Miss Trotwood, though an excellent lady, has a quick temper (indeed I think I had the pleasure of knowing her, when I was a numble clerk, before you did, Master Copperfield), and it's only natural, I am sure, that it should be made quicker by present circumstances. The wonder is, that it isn't much worse! I only



page 352 called to say that if there was anything we could do, in present circumstances, mother or self, or Wickfield and Heep, we should be really glad. I may go so far?” said Uriah, with a sickly smile at his partner.

           “Uriah Heep,” said Mr. Wickfield, in a monotonous forced way, “is active in the business, Trotwood. What he says, I quite concur in. You know I had an old interest in you. Apart from that, what Uriah says I quite concur in!”

           “Oh, what a reward it is,” said Uriah, drawing up one leg, at the risk of bringing down upon himself another visitation from my aunt, “to be so trusted in! But I hope I am able to do something to relieve him from the fatigues of business, Master Copperfield!”

           “Uriah Heep is a great relief to me,” said Mr. Wickfield, in the same dull voice. “It's a load off my mind, Trotwood, to have such a partner.”

           The red fox made him say all this, I knew, to exhibit him to me in the light he had indicated on the night when he poisoned my rest. I saw the same ill-favoured smile upon his face again, and saw how he watched me.

           “You are not going, Papa?” said Agnes, anxiously. “Will you not walk back with Trotwood and me?”

           He would have looked to Uriah, I believe, before replying, if that worthy had not anticipated him.

           “I am bespoke myself,” said Uriah, “on business; otherwise I should have been appy to have kept with my friends. But I leave my partner to represent the firm. Miss Agnes, ever yours! I wish you good-day, Master Copperfield, and leave my umble respects for Miss Betsey Trotwood.”

           With those words, he retired, kissing his great hand, and leering at us like a mask.

           We sat there, talking about our pleasant old Canterbury days, an hour or two. Mr. Wickfield, left to Agnes, soon became



page 353 more like his former self; though there was a settled depression upon him, which he never shook off. For all that, he brightened; and had an evident pleasure in hearing us recall the little incidents of our old life, many of which he remembered very well. He said it was like those times, to be alone with Agnes and me again; and he wished to Heaven they had never changed. I am sure there was an influence in the placid face of Agnes, and in the very touch of her hand upon his arm, that did wonders for him.

           My aunt (who was busy nearly all this while with Peggotty, in the inner room) would not accompany us to the place where they were staying, but insisted on my going; and I went. We dined together. After dinner, Agnes sat beside him, as of old, and poured out his wine. He took what she gave him, and no more—like a child—and we all three sat together at a window as the evening gathered in. When it was almost dark, he lay down on a sofa, Agnes pillowing his head and bending over him a little while; and when she came back to the window, it was not so dark but I could see tears glittering in her eyes.

           I pray Heaven that I never may forget the dear girl in her love and truth, at that time of my life; for if I should, I must be drawing near the end, and then I would desire to remember her best! She filled my heart with such good resolutions, strengthened my weakness so, by her example, so directed—I know not how, she was too modest and gentle to advise me in many words—the wandering ardour and unsettled purpose within me, that all the little good I have done, and all the harm I have forborne, I solemnly believe I may refer to her.

           And how she spoke to me of Dora, sitting at the window in the dark; listened to my praises of her; praised again; and round the little fairy-figure shed some glimpses of her own pure light, that made it yet more precious and more innocent



page 354 to me! Oh, Agnes, sister of my boyhood, if I had known then, what I knew long afterwards!—

           There was a beggar in the street, when I went down; and as I turned my head towards the window, thinking of her calm, seraphic eyes, he made me start by muttering, as if he were an echo of the morning:

           “Blind! Blind! Blind!”



page 355

CHAPTER XX.
Enthusiasm.

           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



page 356 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 up-stairs 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.



page 357

           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



page 358 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,” returned 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



page 359 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



page 360 in the day-time 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 that 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



page 361 who were not cutting down the 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 to-day?” 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 caterpillers. 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.



page 362

           “I came out to inquire whether Annie would like to go to the opera to-night,” 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!



page 363

           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, actutely sensitive to my aunt's reverses, and sincerely believing that no galleyslave or convict worked as I did, he had begun to fret and



page 364 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 flowerpot-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



page 365 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 to-morrow.”

           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 pen-man, 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;



page 366 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



page 367 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 cemetry attached to a venerable pile, for



page 368 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 bed-stead 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



page 369 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 any thing 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



page 370 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 coeduced 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



page 371 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,



page 372 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?”



page 373

           “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 develope 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



page 374 (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: it 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



page 375 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



page 376 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 down stairs. 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.



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CHAPTER XXI.
A little cold water.

           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



page 378 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.



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           “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 any one, 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



page 380 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 explict, 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



page 381 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 to 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 up-stairs.

           “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



page 382 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!”

           “Sweet heart!” 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!” bried 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—”



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           “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 will 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 drawingroom.

           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 franctic 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.



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           “Who had 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.



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           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 tea-pot 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.



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           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 to-morrow 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.

END OF VOL. II.

PRINTED BY BERNH. TAUCHNITZ JUN.