 CHAPTER 39 My aunt, beginning I imagine to be made seriously uncomfortable by my prolonged dejection, made a pretence of being anxious that I should go to Dover to see that all was working well at the cottage, which was let, and to conclude an agreement with the same tenant for a longer term of occupation. Janet was drafted into the service of Mrs. Strong where I saw her every day. She had been undecided on leaving Dover, whether or not to give the finishing touch to that renunciation of mankind in which she had been educated by marrying a pilot, but she decided against that venture. Not so much for the sake of principle, I believe, as because she happened not to like him. Although it required an effort to leave Miss Mills, I fell rather willingly into my aunt's pretence as a means of enabling me to pass a few tranquil hours with Agnes. I consulted the good doctor relative to an absence of three days, and the doctor wishing me to take that relaxation. He wished me to take more, but my energy could not bear that. I made up my mind to go. As to the commons, I had no great occasion to be particular about my duties in that quarter. To say the truth, we were getting in no very good odour among the tip-top proctors, and were rapidly sliding down to but a doubtful position. The business had been indifferent under Mr. Jorkins before Mr. Spenlow's time, and although it had been quickened by the infusion of new blood and by the display which Mr. Spenlow made, still it was not established as a sufficiently strong basis to bear without being shaken such a blow as the sudden loss of its active manager. It fell off very much. Mr. Jorkins not bestanding his reputation in the firm was an easy-going, incapable sort of man whose reputation out of doors was not calculated to back it up. I was turned over to him now, and when I saw him take his snuff and let the business go, I regretted my aunt's a thousand pounds more than ever. But this was not the worst of it. There were a number of hangers-ong and outsiders about the commons who, without being proctors themselves, dabbled in common-form business, and got it done by real proctors who lent their names in consideration of a share in the spoil. And there were a good many of these, too. As our house and our wanted business on any terms, we joined this noble band and threw out lures to the hangers-ong and outsiders to bring their business to us. Marriage licenses and small pro-boats were what we all looked for and what paid us best, and the competition for these ran very high indeed. Kidnappers and inveiglers were planted at all the avenues of entrance to the commons, with instructions to do their utmost to cut off all persons in mourning, and all gentlemen with anything bashful in their appearance, and entice them to the offices in which their respective employees were interested. Which instructions were so well observed that I myself, before I was known by sight, was twice hustled into the premises of our principal opponent. The conflicting interests of these touting gentlemen being of a nature to irritate their feelings, personal collisions took place, and the commons was even scandalised by our principal inveigler, who had formerly been in the wine-trade and afterwards in the swan-brokery line, walking about for some days with a black eye. Any one of these scouts used to think nothing of politely assisting an old lady in black out of a vehicle, killing any proctor whom she inquired for, representing his employer as the lawful successor and representative of that proctor, and bearing the old lady off, sometimes greatly affected, to his employer's office. Many captives were brought to me in this way. As to marriage licenses, the competition rose to such a pitch that a shy gentleman in want of one had nothing to do but submit himself to the first inveigler, or be fought for, and become the prey of the strongest. One of our clerks, who was an outsider, used in the height of this contest to sit with his hat on, that he might be ready to rush out and swear before a surrogate any victim who was brought in. The system-invigling continues, I believe, to this day. The last time I was in the commons, a civil, able-bodied person in a white apron pounced out upon me from a doorway, and, whispering the word marriage license, in my ear, was with great difficulty preventing from taking me up in his arms and lifting me into a proctor's. In this digression, let me proceed to Dover. I found everything in a satisfactory state at the cottage, and was enabled to gratify my aunt exceedingly by reporting that the tenant inherited her feud and waged incessant war against donkeys. Having settled the little business I had to transact there, and slept there one night, I walked on to Canterbury early in the morning. It was now winter again, and the fresh cold windy day and the sweeping downland brightened up my hopes a little. Coming into Canterbury, I loitered through the old streets with a sober pleasure that calmed my spirits and eased my heart. There were the old signs, the old names over the shops, the old people serving in them. It appeared so long since I had been a schoolboy there, that I wondered the place was so little changed, until I reflected how little I was changed myself. It seems to say that quiet influence, which was inseparable in my mind from Agnes, seemed to pervade even the city where she dwelt. The venerable cathedral towers, and the old jackdaws and rooks whose airy voices made them more retired than perfect silence would have done, the battered gateways, one stuck full with statues long thrown down and crumbled away, like the reverential pilgrims who had gazed upon them. There still nooks where the ivied growth of centuries crept over gabled ends and ruined walls, the ancient houses, the pastoral landscape of field, orchard, and garden, everywhere, on everything. I felt the same serene air, the same calm, thoughtful, softening spirit. Arrived at Mr. Wickfield's house, I found in the little lower room on the ground floor where Uriah Heep had been of old accustomed to sit. Mr. McCorber, plying his pen with greatest aciduity, he was dressed in an eagle-looking suit of black, and loomed, burly and large in that small office. Mr. McCorber was extremely glad to see me, but a little confused, too. He would have conducted me immediately into the presence of Uriah, but I declined. I know the house of old, you recollect, said I, and I will find my way upstairs. How do you like the law, Mr. McCorber? My dear Cobberfield, he replied, to a man possessed of the higher imaginative powers, the objection to legal studies is the amount of detail which they involve. Even in our professional correspondence, said Mr. McCorber, glancing at some letters he was writing, the mind is not at liberty to soar to any exalted form of expression. Still, it is a great pursuit, a great pursuit. He then told me that he had become the tenant of Uriah Heep's old house, and that Mrs. McCorber would be delighted to receive me once more under her own roof. It is humble, said Mr. McCorber, to quote a favorite expression of my friend Heep, but it may prove the stepping-stone to more ambitious domiciliary accommodation. I asked him whether he had a reason so far to be satisfied with his friend Heep's treatment of him. He got up to ascertain if the door were close shut before he replied in a lower voice. My dear Copfield, a man who labors under the pressure of pecuniary embarrassments is, with the generality of people, at a disadvantage. That disadvantage is not diminished when that pressure necessitates the drawing of stipendary emoluments before those emoluments are strictly due and payable. What I can say is that my friend Heep has responded to appeals to which I need not more particularly refer, in a manner calculated to redound equally to the honor of his head and of his heart. I should not have supposed him to be very free with his money either, I observed. Pardon me, said Mr. McCorber, with an air of constraint. I speak of my friend Heep as I have experience. I am glad your experience is so favorable, I returned. You are very obliging, my dear Copfield, said Mr. McCorber, and hummed a tune. Do you see much of Mr. Wickfield? I asked to change the subject. Not much, said Mr. McCorber, slightly. Mr. Wickfield is, I dare say, a man of very excellent intentions, but he is, in short, he is obsolete. I'm afraid his partner seeks to make him so, said I. My dear Copfield, returned Mr. McCorber after some uneasy evolutions on his stool, allow me to offer a remark. I am here in a capacity of confidence. I'm here in a position of trust. The discussion of some topics, even with Mrs. McCorber herself, so long the partner of my various vicissitudes and a woman of a remarkable lucidity of intellect, is, I am led to consider, incompatible with the functions now devolving on me. I would therefore take the liberty of suggesting that in our friendly intercourse, which I trust will never be disturbed, we draw a line. On one side of this line, said Mr. McCorber, representing us on the desk with the office ruler, is the whole range of the human intellect with a trifling exception. On the other is that exception, that is to say, the affairs of Mrs. Wickfield and Heap with all belonging and appertaining thereon too. I trust I give no offense to the companion of my youth in submitting this proposition to his cooler judgment. Though I saw an uneasy change in Mr. McCorber, which sat tightly on him as if his new duties were a misfit, I felt I had no right to be offended. My telling him so appeared to relieve him, and he shook hands with me. I am charmed, Copperfield, said Mr. McCorber, but let me assure you, with Mrs. Wickfield, she is a very superior young lady of very remarkable attractions, graces and virtues. Upon my honour, said Mr. McCorber, indefinitely kissing his hand and bowing with his gentilist air, I do homage to Mr. Wickfield. I am glad of that, at least, said I. If you had not assured us, my dear Copperfield, on the occasion of that agreeable afternoon, we had the happiness of passing with you that D was your favourite letter, said Mr. McCorber. I should unquestionably have supposed that A had been so. We have all some experience of a feeling that comes over us occasionally of what we are saying and doing, having been said and done before in a remote time, of our having been surrounded, dim years ago, by the same faces, objects and circumstances, of our knowing perfectly what will be said next, as if we suddenly remembered it. I never had this mysterious impression more strongly in my life than before he uttered those words. I took my leave of Mr. McCorber for the time, charging him with my best remembrances to all at home. As I left him, resuming his stool and his pen and rolling his head in his stock to get it into easier writing-order, I clearly perceived that there was something interposed between him and me, since he had come into his new functions, which prevented our getting at each other as we used to do, and quite altered the character of our intercourse. There was no one in the quaint old drawing-room, though presented tokens of Mrs. Heaps whereabouts. I looked into the room still belonging to Agnes, and saw her sitting by the far at a pretty old-fashioned desk she had writing. My darkening the light made her look up. What a pleasure to be the cause of that bright change in her attentive face and the object of that sweet regard and welcome. Our Agnes said I when we were sitting together side by side. I have missed you so much lately. Indeed, he replied again and so soon. I shook my head. I don't know how it is, Agnes. I seem to want some faculty of mind that I ought to have. You were so much in the habit of thinking for me in the happy old days here, and I came so naturally to you for your counsel and support that I really think I have missed acquiring it. And what is it? said Agnes cheerfully. I don't know what to call it, I replied. I think I am earnest and persevering. I am sure of it, said Agnes. And a patient, Agnes, I inquired with a little hesitation. He has returned, Agnes, laughing, pretty well. And yet, said I, I get so miserable and worried and so unsteady and irresolute in my power of assuring myself that I know I must want, shall I call it, reliance of some kind? Call it so, if you will, said Agnes. Well, I returned. See here, you come to London. I rely on you, and I have an object and a course at once. I am driven out of it. I come here, and in a moment I feel an altered person. The circumstances of this trust me are not changed, since I came into this room, but an influence comes over me in that short interval that alters me. Oh, how much for the better? What is it? What is your secret, Agnes? Her head was bent down, looking at the fire. It's the old story, said I. Don't laugh when I say it was always the same in little things, as it is in greater things. My old troubles were nonsense, and now they are serious, but whenever I have gone away from my adopted sister, Agnes looked up with such a heavenly face, and gave me her hand, which I kissed. Whenever I have not had you, Agnes, to advise and approve in the beginning, I have seemed to go wild and to get into all sorts of difficulty. When I have come to you, at last, as I has always done, I have come to peace and happiness. I come home, now, like a tired traveller, and find such a blessed sense of rest. I felt so deeply what I said it affected me so sincerely that my voice failed, and I covered my face with my hand and broke into tears. I write the truth. Whatever contradictions and inconsistencies there were within me, as there are within so many of us. Whatever might have been so different and so much better, whatever I had done in which I had perversely wandered away from the voice of my own heart, I knew nothing of. I only knew that I was fervently in earnest, when I felt the rest and peace of having Agnes near me. In her placid sisterly manner, with her beaming eyes, with her tender voice, and with that sweet composure which had long ago made the house that held her quite a sacred place to me, she soon won from me this weakness, and led me on to tell all that had happened since our last meeting. And there is not another word to tell Agnes, said I, when I have made an end of my confidence. Now, my reliance is on you. But it must not be on me, Trotwood, returned Agnes, with a pleasant smile. It must be on someone else. On Dora, said I, assuredly. Why, I have not mentioned Agnes, said I, a little embarrassed, that Dora is rather difficult to, I would not for the world say, to rely upon, because she is the soul of purity and truth, but rather difficult to, I hardly know how to express it really, Agnes. She is a timid little thing, and easily disturbed and frightened. Some time ago, before her father's death, when I thought it right to mention to her, but I tell you, if you will not bear with me, how it was. Accordingly, I told Agnes about my declaration of poverty, about the cookery book, the housekeeping accounts, and all the rest of it. Oh, Trotwood, she remonstrated with a smile, just your old headlong way. You might have been in earnest in striving to get on in the world, without being so very sudden with a timid, loving, inexperienced girl, poor Dora. I never heard such sweet, forbearing kindness expressed in a voice as she expressed in making this reply. It was as if I had seen her admiringly and tenderly embracing Dora, and tacitly reproving me by her considerate protection for my hot haste in fluttering that little heart. It was as if I had seen Dora in all her fascinating artlessness, caressing Agnes, and thanking her, and coaxing the appealing against me, and loving me, with all her childish innocence. I felt so grateful to Agnes, and it marred her so. I saw those two together, in a bright perspective, such well-associated friends, each adorning the other so much. What ought I to do then, Agnes? I inquired, after looking at the fire a little while. What would it be right to do? I think, said Agnes, that the honourable course to take would be to write to those two ladies. Don't you think that any secret course is an unworthy one? Yes, if you think so, said I. I am poorly qualified to judge of such matters, replied Agnes, with a modest heterization, but I certainly feel, in short, I feel that your being secret and clandestine is not being like yourself. Like myself in the too high opinion you have of me, Agnes, I am afraid, said I. Like yourself in the candour of your nature, she returned, and therefore I would write to those two ladies. I would relate as plainly and as openly as possible all that has taken place, and I would ask their permission to visit sometimes at their house. Considering that you are young and striving for a place in life, I think it would be well to say that you would readily abide by any conditions they might impose upon you. I would entreat them not to dismiss your request, without a reference to Dora, and to discuss it with her when they should think the time suitable. I would not be too vehement, said Agnes gently, or propose too much. I would trust to my fidelity and perseverance, and to Dora. But if they were to frighten Dora again, Agnes, by speaking to her, said I, and if Dora were to cry and say nothing about me, is that likely? inquired Agnes with the same sweet consideration in her face. God bless that she is as easily scared as a bird, said I. It might be. Or of the two Miss Spendlows, elderly ladies of that sort or odd character sometimes, should not be likely persons to address in that way. I don't think, Drotwood, returned Agnes, raising her soft eyes to mine. I would consider that. Perhaps it would be better only to consider whether it is right to do this, and if it is, to do it. I had no longer any doubt on the subject. With a lightened heart, though with a profound sense of the weighty importance of my task, I devoted the whole afternoon to the composition of the draft of this letter, for which great purpose Agnes relinquished her desk to me. But first I went down Seher's to see Mr. Wickfield and Eurya Heap. I found Eurya in possession of a new plaster-smelling office built out in the garden, looking extraordinarily mean in the midst of a quantity of books and papers. He received me in his usual thawning way, and pretended not to have heard of my arrival from Mr. McCorber, and pretends I took the liberty of disbelieving. He accompanied me into Mr. Wickfield's room, which was the shadow of its former self, having been divested of a variety of conveniences for the accommodation of the new partner, and stood before the fire, warming his back and shaving his chin with his bony hand, while Mr. Wickfield and I exchanged greetings. You stay with the strongwood while you remain in Canterbury? said Mr. Wickfield, but not without a glance at Eurya for his approval. Is there room for me? said I. I'm sure, Master Gottfield, I should say, Mr. But the other comes so natural, said Eurya. I would turn out of your old room with pleasure if it would be agreeable. And no, no, said Mr. Wickfield, why should you be inconvenienced? There's another room, there's another room. Oh, but you know, returned Eurya with a grin, I should really be delighted to cut the matter short. I said I would have the other room or none at all. Said was settled that I should have the other room, and taking my leave for the firm until dinner, I went upstairs again. I had hoped to have no other companion than Agnes, but Mrs. Heap had asked permission to bring herself and her knitting near the fire in that room, on pretence of its having an aspect more favorable for her rheumatics, as the wind then was, than the drawing-room or dining-parler. Though I could almost have consigned her to the mercies of the wind on the topmost pinnacle of the cathedral without remorse, I made a virtue of necessity, and gave her a friendly salutation. I'm unbly thankful to you, sir, said Mrs. Heap in acknowledgement of my inquiries concerning her health, but I'm only pretty well. I haven't much to boast of. If I could see my Eurya well settled in life, I couldn't expect much more, I think. How do you think my Eurya looking, sir? I thought him looking as villainous as ever, and I replied that I saw no change in him. Oh, don't you think he's changed, said Mrs. Heap? There I must umbly beg leave to differ from you. Don't you see a thinness in him? Not more than usual, I replied. Don't you, though, said Mrs. Heap, but you don't take notice of him with a mother's eye. His mother's eye was an evil eye to the rest of the world, I thought, as it met mine, howsoever affectionate to him, and I believe she and her son were devoted to one another. It passed me and went on to Agnes. Don't you see a wasting and a wearing in him, Miss Wickfield? inquired Mrs. Heap. No, said Agnes, quietly pursuing the work on which she was engaged. You are too solicitous about him. He is very well. Mrs. Heap, with a prodigious sniff, resumed her knitting. She never left off, or left us for a moment. I had arrived early in the day, and we had still three or four hours before dinner. But she sat there, plying her knitting needles as monotonously as an aardlast might have poured out its sands. She sat on one side of the far, I sat at the desk in front of it, a little beyond me on the other side sat Agnes. When, so ever, slowly pondering over my letter, I lifted up my eyes, and, meeting the thoughtful face of Agnes, saw its clear and beaming encouragement upon me, with its own angelic expression, I was conscious presently of the evil eye passing me and going on to her, and coming back to me again, and dropping furtively upon the knitting. What the knitting was, I don't know not being learned in that art, but it looked like a net, and as she worked away with those Chinese chopsticks of knitting needles, she showed in the far light like an ill-looking enchantress, balked as yet by the radiant goodness opposite, but getting ready for a cast of her net, by and by. At dinner she maintained her watch with the same unwinking eyes. After dinner her son took his turn, and when Mr. Wickfield himself and I were left alone together, leered at me, arrived, until I could hardly bear it. In the drawing-room there was the mother knitting and watching a game. All the time that Agnes sang and played, the mother sat at the piano. Once she asked for a particular ballad, which she said, her yory, who was yawning in a great chair, doted on. And at intervals she looked round at him, and reported to Agnes that he was in raptures with the music. But she hardly ever spoke. I question if she ever did, without making some mention of him. It was evident to me that this was the duty assigned to her. This lasted until bedtime. To have seen the mother and son like two great bats hanging over the whole house and darkening it with their ugly forms may be so uncomfortable that I would rather have remained downstairs knitting and all than gone to bed. I hardly got any sleep. Next day the knitting and watching began again, and lasted all day. I had not had an opportunity of speaking to Agnes for ten minutes. I could barely show her my letter. I proposed to her to walk out with me. But Mrs. Heap repeatedly complaining that she was worse, Agnes charitably remained within to bear her company. Towards the twilight I went out by myself, musing on what I ought to do, and whether I was justified in withholding from Agnes any longer, what Yorah Heap had told me in London. For that began to trouble me again very much. I had not walked out far enough to be quite clear of the town upon the Ramsgate Road, where there was a good path, when I was hailed through the dust by somebody behind me. The shambling figure and the scanty great-coat were not to be mistaken. I stopped, and Yorah Heap caught up. Well, said I. How fast you walk! said he. My legs are pretty long, but you've given him quite a job. Where are you going? said I. I'm going with you, Master Copperfield, if you allow me the pleasure of a walk with an old acquaintance. Saying this, with a jerk of his body, which might have been either propitiatory or derisive, he fell into step beside me. Yorah, said I, as civilly as I could, after a silence. Master Copperfield, said Yorah. To tell you the truth, at which you will not be offended, I came out to walk alone, because I've had so much company. He looked at me sideways, and said with his hardest grin, You mean mother? Why, yes, I do, said I. Ah, but you know we're so very humble, he returned, and having such a knowledge of our own humbleness, we must really take care that we're not pushed to the wall by them as isn't humble. All stratagems are fair in love, sir. Raising his great hands until they touched his chin, he rubbed them softly, and softly chuckled, looking as like a malevolent baboon, I thought, as anything human could look. You see, he said, still hugging himself in that unpleasant way and shaking his head at me. You're quite a dangerous rival, Master Copperfield. You always was, you know. Do you set a watch upon Miss Wickfield and make her home no home because of me? Said I. Oh, Master Copperfield, those are very harsh words. Put my meaning into any words you like, said I. You know what it is, Yorah, as well as I do. Oh, no, you must put it into words, he said. Oh, really, I couldn't myself. Do you suppose, said I, constraining myself to be very temperate and quiet with him, on a kind of agnus, that I regard Miss Wickfield otherwise than as a very dear sister? Well, Master Copperfield, he replied, you perceive I'm not bound to answer that question. You may not, you know, but then you see you may. Anything to equal the low cunning of his visage and of his shadowless eyes without the ghost of an eyelash I never saw. Come, then, said I. For the sake of Miss Wickfield, my agnus, he exclaimed, with a sickly angular contortion of himself, would you be so good as to call her Agnus, Master Copperfield? For the sake of Agnus, Wickfield, heaven bless her. Thank you for that blessing, Master Copperfield, he interposed. I will tell you what I should, under any other circumstances, have soon have thought of telling to Jack Kedge. Go, sir, said Uriah, stretching out his neck and shading his ear with his hand. To the hangman I returned. The most unlikely person I could think of. Though his own face had suggested the illusion quite as a natural sequence. I'm engaged to another young lady. I hope that contends you. Upon your soul, said Uriah. I was about it dignitly to give my assertion the confirmation he required, when he caught hold of my hand and gave it a squeeze. Oh, Master Copperfield, he said. If you had only had the condescension to return my confidence when I poured out the fullness of my art, the night I put you so much out of the way by sleeping before your sitting-room fire, I never should have doubted you. As it is, I'm sure I'll take off mother directly and only too happy. I know you'll excuse the precautions of affection, won't you? What a pity, Master Copperfield, that you didn't condescend to return my confidence. I'm sure I gave you every opportunity. But you never have condescended to me as much as I could have wished. I know you have never liked me, as I have liked you. All this time he was squeezing my hand with his damp, fishy fingers, while I made every effort I decently could to get it away. But I was quite unsuccessful. He drew it under the sleeve of his mulberry-coloured greater coat, and I walked on almost upon compulsion, arm in arm with him. Shall we turn, Sidurah, by and by, wheeling me about towards the town on which the early moon was now shining, silvering the distant windows. Before we leave the subject, you ought to understand, said I, breaking a pretty long silence, that I believe Agnes Wickfield to be as far above you and as far removed from all your aspirations as that moon herself. Peaceful, ain't she? said Uriah. Very. Now confess, Master Copperfield, that you haven't liked me quite as I have liked you. All along you've thought me too humble now, I shouldn't wonder. I am not fond of professions of humility, I returned, or professions of anything else. There now, said Uriah, looking flabby and lead-coloured in the moonlight. Didn't I know it? But how little you think of the rightful humbleness of a person in my station, Master Copperfield. Father and me was both brought up at a foundation school for boys, and mother, she was likewise brought up at a public sort of charitable establishment. They taught us all a deal of humbleness, not much else that I know of, from morning to night. We was to be humble to this person, and humble to that, and to pull of our caps here, and to make bows there, and always to know our place, and to base ourselves before our betters. And we had such a lot of betters. Father got the monitor-medal by being humble, so did I. Father got made a sexton by being humble. He had the character among the gentle folks of being such a well-behaved man that they were determined to bring him in. Be humble, Uriah, says Father to me, and you'll get on. He was what was always been dint into you, and me at school, it's what goes down best. Be humble, says Father, and you'll do. And really, it ain't done bad. It was the first time it had ever occurred to me that this detestable cant of false humility might have originated out of the heap family. I had seen the harvest, but had never thought of the seed. When I was quite a young boy, says Uriah, I got to know what humble this did, and I took to it. I had humble pie with an appetite. I stopped at the humble point of my learning, and says I, old heart, when you offered to teach me Latin, I knew better. People like to be above you, says Father, keep yourself down. I am very humble to the present moment, Master Copperfield, but I've got a little power. And he said all this, I knew, as I saw his face in the moonlight, that I might understand he was resolved to recompense himself by using his power. I had never doubted his meanness, his craft, and malice. But I fully comprehended now, for the first time, what a base, unrelenting and revengeful spirit, must have been engendered by this early and this long suppression. His account of himself was so far attended with an agreeable result that it led to his withdrawing his hand in order that he might have another hug of himself under the chin. Once apart from him I was determined to keep apart, and we walked back side by side, saying very little more, by the way. Whether his spirits were elevated by the communication I had made to him, or by his having indulged in this retrospect, I don't know, but they were raised by some influence. He talked more at dinner than was usual for him, asked his mother, off duty, from the moment of our re-entering the house, whether he was not grain too old for a bachelor. And once looked at Agnes so, that I would give him all I had for leave to knock him down. When we three males were left alone after dinner he got into a more adventurous state. He'd taken little or no wine, and I presume it was the mere insolence of triumph that was upon him, flushed perhaps by the temptation my presence furnished to his exhibition. I had observed yesterday that he tried to entice Mr. Wickfield to drink, and interpreting the look which Agnes had given me as she went out had limited myself to one glass, and then proposed that we should follow her. I would have done so again today, but your eye was too quick for me. We seldom see our present visitor, sir, he said, addressing Mr. Wickfield, sitting such a contrast to him at the end of the table, and I should propose to give him welcome in another glass or two of wine if you have no objections. Mr. Copperfield, your health and happiness. I was obliged to make a show of taking the hand he stretched across to me, and then, with very different emotions, I took the hand of the broken gentleman, his partner. Come, fellow partner, said your eye, if I may take the liberty. Now suppose you give us something or another appropriate to Copperfield. I passed over Mr. Wickfield's proposing my aunt, his proposing Mr. Dick, his proposing Drs. Commons, his proposing your eye, his drinking everything twice, his consciousness of his own weakness, the ineffectual effort that he made against it, the struggle between his shame and your eye's deportment and his desire to conciliate him, the manifest exultation with which your eye twisted and turned, and held him up before me. It may be sick at heart to see, and my hand recoils from writing it. Come, fellow partner, said your eye at last, I'll give you another one, and I humbly ask for bumpers, seeing I intend to make it the divinest of her sex. Her father had his emptied glass in his hand. I saw him set it down, look at the picture she was so like, put his hand to his forehead, and shrink back in his elbow chair. I am an humble individual to give you her elf, proceeded your eye, but I am a door her. No physical pain that her father's grey head could have borne, I think, could have been more terrible to me than the mental endurance I saw compressed now within both his hands. Agnes, said your eye, either not regarding him or not knowing what the nature of his action was, Agnes Wickfield is, I am safe to say, the divinest of her sex. May I speak out among friends? To be her father is a proud distinction, but to be her husband spare me from ever again hearing such a cry as that with which her father rose up from the table. What's the matter? asked Uriah, turning of a deadly colour. You've not gone mad after all, Mr. Wickfield, I hope. If I say I am ambition to make your Agnes my Agnes, I have as good a right to do it as it any other man. I have a better right to it than any other man. I have my arms round, Mr. Wickfield, imploring him by everything that I could think of, oftentous of all by his love for Agnes, to calm himself a little. He was mad for the moment, tearing out his hair, beating his head, trying to force me from him, and to force himself from him, not answering a word, not looking at all, seeing any one. Blindly striving, for he knew not what, his face all staring and distorted, a frightful spectacle. I conjured him incoherently, but in the most impassioned manner, not to abandon himself to this wildness, but to hear me. I besought him to think of Agnes, to connect me with Agnes, to recollect how Agnes and I had grown up together, how I honoured her and loved her, how she was his pride and joy. I tried to bring her idea before him in any form. I even reproached him with her not having firmness to spare her the knowledge of such a scene as this. I may have affected something, or his wildness may have spent itself. But by degrees he struggled less, and began to look at me, strangely at first, then with recognition in his eyes. At length he said, I know, Trotwood, my darling child and you, I know, but look at him! He pointed to Uriah pale and glaring in a corner, evidently very much out in his calculations, and taken by surprise. Look at my torture, replied, before him I have step by step abandoned name and reputation, peace and quiet, house and home. I have kept your name and reputation for you, and your peace and quiet and your house and home too," said Uriah, with a sulky, hurried, defeated air of compromise. Don't be foolish, Mr. Wickfield. If I have gone a little beyond what you were prepared for, I can go back, I suppose, there's no arm done. I looked for single motives in everyone, said Mr. Wickfield, and I was satisfied I had bound him to me by motives of interest. But see what he is—see what he is! You better stop him, Copperfield, if you can, cried Uriah, with his long forefinger pointing towards me. You'll say something presently, mind you, he be sorry to have said afterwards it, and you'll be sorry to have heard. I'll say anything, cried Mr. Wickfield, with a desperate air. Why should I not in being all the world's power if I am in yours? Mind, I tell you, said Uriah, continuing to warn me, if you don't stop his mouth you're not his friend. Why shouldn't you be in all the world's power, Mr. Wickfield? Because you've got a daughter. You me know what we know, don't we? Let sleeping dogs lie. You want Sir Rouson? I don't. Can't you see I am as humble as I can be? I tell you, if I've gone too far I'm sorry. What would you have, sir? Oh, Trotwood, Trotwood, exclaimed Mr. Wickfield, wringing his hands. What have I come down to be since I first saw you in this house? I was on my downward way then, but the dreary, dreary road I have travelled since. Weak indulgence has ruined me. Indulgence in remembrance, and indulgence in forgetfulness. My natural grief for my child's mother turned to disease. My natural love for my child turned to disease. I have infected everything I touched. I have brought misery on what I dearly love. I know. You know. I thought it possible that I could truly love one creature in the world and not love the rest. I thought it possible that I could truly mourn for one creature gone out of the world, and not have some part in the grief of all who mourned. Thus the lessons of my life have been perverted. I have prayed on my own morbid-coward heart, and it has prayed on me. Sordid in my grief, sordid in my love, sordid in my miserable escape from the darker side of both. Oh, see the ruin I am, and hate me, shun me! He dropped into a chair and weakly sobbed. The excitement of which he had been roused was leaving him. Uriah came out of his corner. I don't know all I have done in my fatuity, so Mr. Wickfield putting out his hands as if to deprecate my condemnation. He knows best, meaning Uriah heep, for he has always been at my elbow, whispering me. You see the millstone that he is about my neck. You find him in my house. You find him in my business. You heard him but a little time ago. What need of I to say more? You haven't need to say so much, nor aft so much, nor anything at all. Observe, Uriah, half defiant, and half fawning. You wouldn't have took it up, so if it hadn't been for the wine. You'll think better of it to-morrow, sir. If I have said too much or more than I meant, what of it? I haven't stood by it. The door opened, and Agnes, gliding in without a vestige of colour in her face, put her arm round his neck, and steadily said, Papa, you're not well. Come with me. He laid his head upon her shoulder, as if he were oppressed with heavy shame, and went out with her. Her eyes met mine for but an instant. Yet I saw how much she knew of what had passed. I didn't expect he cut up so rough, Master Copperfield, said Uriah. But it's nothing. I'll be friends with him to-morrow. It's for his good. I'm umbly anxious for his good. I gave him no answer, and went upstairs into the courtroom, where Agnes had so often sat beside me at my books. Nobody came near me, until late at night. I took up a book and tried to read. I heard the clocks strike twelve and was still reading without knowing what I read. When Agnes touched me. You'll be going early in the morning, Trotwood. Let us say good-bye now. She had been weeping, but her face then was so calm and beautiful. Heaven bless you, she said, giving me her hand. Dearest Agnes, I returned. I see you asked me not to speak of tonight. But is there nothing to be done? There is God to trust in, she replied. Can I do nothing? I, who come to you with my poor sorrows? And make mine so much lighter, she replied. Dear Trotwood, no. Dear Agnes, I said, it is presumptuous for me, who I am so poor in all which in which you are so rich. Goodness, resolution, all noble qualities. To doubt or direct you, but you know how much I love you, and how much I owe you. You will never sacrifice yourself to a mistaken sense of duty, Agnes. More agitated for a moment than I have ever seen her. She took her hands from me, and moved a step back. Say you have no such thought, dear Agnes, much more than sister. Think of the priceless gift of such a heart as yours, of such a love as yours. Oh, long, long afterwards I saw that face rise up before me, with its momentary look. Not wondering, not accusing, not regretting. Oh, long, long afterwards I saw that look subside, as it did now, into the lovely smile with which she told me she had no fear for herself. I need have none for her, and parted from me by the name of brother, and was gone. It was dark in the morning when I got upon the coach at the indoor. The day was just breaking when we were about to start, and then, as I sat thinking of her, came struggling up the coach side through the mingled day and night. Eurya's head. Copperfield! said he, in a croaking whisper, as he hung by the an on the roof. I thought you'd be glad to hear, before you went off, that there are no squares broke between us. I've been into his room already, and we've made it all smooth. Why, though I'm humble, I'm useful to him, you know. And he understands his interest when he isn't in liquor. What an agreeable man he is after all, Master Copperfield! I obliged myself to say that I was glad he had made his apology. Oh, to be sure, said Eurya, when a person's humble, you know. What's an apology? So easy, I say. I suppose, with a jerk, you have sometimes plucked a pair before it was right, Master Copperfield? I suppose I have, I replied. I did that last night, said Eurya, but it'll ripen yet. It only wants attending to. I can wait. Profuse said his farewells. He got down again as the coachman got up. For anything I know, he was eating something to keep the raw morning air out. But he made motions with his mouth, as if the pair were ripe already, and he was smacking his lips over it. CHAPTER 40 THE WANDERER We had a very serious conversation in Buckingham Street that night about the domestic occurrences I've detailed in the last chapter. My aunt was deeply interested in them, and walked up and down the room with her arms folded, for more than two hours afterwards. Whenever she was particularly discomposed, she always performed one of these pedestrian feats, and the amount of her discomposure might always be estimated by the duration of her walk. On this occasion, she was so much disturbed in mind as to find it necessary to open the bedroom door and make a course for herself, comprising the full extent of the bedrooms from wall to wall. And while Mr. Dick and I sat quietly by the fire, she kept passing in and out along this measure track at an unchanging pace with the regularity of a clock pendulum. When my aunt and I were left to ourselves by Mr. Dick's going out to bed, I sat down to write my letter to the two old ladies. By that time she was tired of walking, and sat by the fire with her dress tucked up as usual. But instead of sitting in her usual manner, holding her glass upon her knee, she suffered it to stand neglected on the chimney piece, and resting her left elbow on her right arm and her chin on her left hand, looked thoughtfully at me. As often as I raised my eyes from what I was about, I met hers. I am the lovingest of tempers, my dear, she would assure me with a nod, but I am fidgeted and sorry. I had been too busy to observe, until after she was gone to bed, that she had left her night mixture, as she always called it, untasted on the chimney piece. She came to her door with even more than her usual affection of manner, when I knocked to acquaint her with this discovery, but only said, I have not the heart to take it trot tonight, and shook her head and went in again. She read my letter to the two old ladies in the morning and approved of it. I posted it and had nothing to do then but wait as patiently as I could for the reply. I was still in the state of expectation, and had been for nearly a week, when I left the doctors one snowy night, to walk home. It had been a bitter day, and a cutting northeast wind had blown for some time. The wind had gone down with the light, and so the snow had come on. It was a heavy, settled fall, I recollect, and great flakes, and it lay thick. The noise of wheels and tread of people were as hushed, as if the streets had been strewn that depth with feathers. My shortest way home, and I naturally took the shortest way on such a night, was through St. Martin's Lane. Now the church which gives its name to the Lane, stood in a less free situation at that time, there being no open space before it, and the Lane winding down to the Strand. As I passed the steps of the portico, I encountered at the corner, a woman's face. It looked in mine, passed across the narrow lane, and disappeared. I knew it. I had seen it somewhere, but I could not remember where. I had some association with it, that struck upon my heart directly, but I was thinking of anything else when it came upon me, and was confused. On the steps of the church, there was the stooping figure of a man, who had put down some burden on the smooth snow to adjust it. My seeing the face, and my seeing him were simultaneous. I don't think I had stopped at my surprise, but in any case, as I went on, he rose, turned, and came down towards me. I stood face to face with Mr. Pegatee. Then I remembered the woman. It was Martha, to whom Emily had given the money that night in the kitchen. Martha indel. Side by side with whom, he would not have seen his dear niece, Hamid told me, for all the treasures wrecked in the sea. We shook hands heartily. At first, neither of us could speak a word. Master Davy, he said, gripping me tight. It do my art good to see you, sir. Well met. Well met. Well met, my dear old friend, said I. I had my thoughts a come into making curation for you, sir, tonight, he said. But knowing as your aunt was living along with you, for I'd been down yonder, Yarmouth Way, I was afeard it was too late. I should have come early in the morning, sir, before going away. Again, said I. Yes, sir, he replied, patiently shaking his head. I'm away tomorrow. Where were you going now, I asked. Well, he replied, shaking the snow out of his long hair. I was a going to turn in some wears. In those days there was a side entrance to the stable yard of the Golden Cross, the end so memorable to me in connection with his misfortune, nearly opposite to where we stood. I pointed out the gateway, put my arm through his, and we went across. Two or three public rooms opened out of the stable yard, and looking into one of them, and finding it empty, and a good fire burning, I took him in there. When I saw him in the light, I observed not only that his hair was long and ragged, but that his face was burnt dark by the sun. He was grayer, the lines in his face and forehead were deeper, and he had every appearance of having toiled and wandered through all varieties of weather. But he looked very strong, and like a man upheld by steadfastness of purpose, whom nothing could tire out. He shook the snow from his hat and clothes, and brushed it away from his face, while I was inwardly making these remarks. As he sat down opposite to me at a table, with his back to the door by which we had entered, he put out his rough hand again, and grasped mine warmly. I'll tell you, Master Davy, he said, where all I've been, and what all I've heard. I've been fur, and we've heard little, but I'll tell you. I rang the bell for something hot to drink. He would have nothing stronger than ale, and while it was being brought, and being warmed at the fire, he sat thinking. There was a fine mass of gravity in his face that I did not venture to disturb. When she was a child, he said, lifting up his head soon after we were left alone. She used to talk to me a deal about the sea, and about them coasts where the sea got to be dark blue, and to lay a shining and a shining in the sun. I thought odd times, as her father being drowned had made her think on it so much. I don't know, you see, but maybe she believed, or hoped, he had drifted out to them parts, where the flowers is always a blowing, and the country bright. It is likely to have been a childish fancy, I replied. When she was lost, said Mr. Pegadie, I knowed in my mind as he would take her to them countries. I knowed in my mind as he'd have told her wonders of them, and how as she was to be a lady there, and how he got her to listen to him first, along as such like. When we see his mother, I knowed quite well as I was right. I went to cross-channel to France, and landed there, as if I fell down from the sky. I saw the door move, and the snow drift in. I saw it move a little more, and a hand softly interposed to keep it open. I found out an English gentleman, as was an authority, said Mr. Pegadie, and told him I was a go-in to seek my niece. He got me them papers as I wanted her to carry me through. I don't rightly know how they're called, and he would have given me money, but that I was thankful to have no need on. I thank him kind for all he'd done, I'm sure. I've wrote it for you, he said to me, and I shall speak it to many as will come that way, and many will know you for a distant from here, when you're a travelin' alone. I told him as best as I was able what my gratitude was, and went away through France. Alone and on foot, said I. Mostly afoot, he rejoined, sometimes in carts along with people going to market, sometimes in empty coaches. Many mile a day afoot, and often with some poor soldier or another traveling to see his friends. I couldn't talk to him, said Mr. Pegadie, nor he to me, but we was company for one another, too, along the dusty roads. I should have known that by his friendly tone. When I come to any town he pursued, I found the inn, and waited about the yard till someone turned up, someone mostly did, as known English. Then I told Hal that I was on my way to seek my niece, and they told me what manner of gentle folks was in the house. And I waited to see any as seemed like her, going in or out. When it weren't Emily, I went on again. By little and little, when I come to a new village or that, among the poor people, I found they knowed about me. They would set me down at their cottage doors, and give me what not for to eat and drink, and show me where to sleep. And many a woman, Master Davy, has had a daughter of about Emily's age. I found a waitin' for me at our Saviour's cross outside the village, for to do me similar kindnesses. Some has had daughters as was dead, and God only knows how good them mothers was to me. It was Martha at the door. I saw her haggard, listening face distinctly. My dread was lest he should turn his head, and see her, too. They would often put their children, particularly the little girls, said Mr. Pegatey, upon my knee. And many a time you might have seen me sitting at their doors when night was coming in, almost as if they had been my darling's children. Oh, my darling! Overpowered by sudden grief, he sobbed aloud. I laid my trembling hand upon the hand he put before his face. Thank ye, sir, he said. Don't take no notice. And a very little while he took his hand away and put it on his breast, and went on with his story. They often walked with me, said, in the morning, maybe a mile or two upon my road. And when we parted, I said, I'm very thankful to you, God bless you. They always seemed to understand and answered pleasant. At last I come to the sea. It weren't hard, you may suppose, for a seafaring man like me to work his way over to Italy. When I got there, I wandered on as I had done afore. The people were just as good to me, and I should have gone from town to town, maybe the country through, but that I got news of her being seen among them Swiss mountains yonder. One is known as servants see him there, all three, and told me how they travelled, and where they was. I made for them mountains, Master Davy, day and night. Ever so fur as I went, ever so fur the mountains seemed to shift away from me. But I come up with them, and I cross them. When I got nigh the place as I'd been told of, I began to think within my own self. What shall I do when I see her? The listening face, insensible to the inclement night, still drooped at the door, and the hands begged me, prayed me, not to cast it forth. I never doubted her, said Mr. Pegady. No, not a bit. Only let her see my face. Only let her hear my voice. Only let my standing still afford her bring to her thoughts the home she had fled from, and the child she had been. And if she had grown to be a royal lady, she'd have fell down at my feet. I knowed it well. Many a time in my sleep I had heard or cry out, Uncle, and seen her fall like death before me. Many a time in my sleep had I raised her up and whispered to her, Emily my dear, I am comforted to bring forgiveness and to take you home. He stopped and shook his head and went on with a sigh. He was not to me now, Emily was all. I bought a country dress to put upon her, and I knowed that once found she would walk beside me over them stony roads, go where I would, and never, never leave me more, to put that dress upon her and to cast off what she wore, to take her on my arm again and wander towards home, to stop sometimes upon the road, and heal her bruised feet and her worst bruised heart, was all that I thought of now, and I don't believe I should have done so much as look at him. But, Master Davy, it weren't to be, not yet. I was too late, and they was gone, where I couldn't learn. Some said here, some said there. I traveled here, and I traveled there, but I found no Emily, and I traveled home. How long ago, I asked? A matter of four days, said Mr. Pegaty. I sighed in the old boat out of dark, and the light is shining in the winter. When I come nigh and looked in through the glass, I see the faithful creature, Mrs. Gummage, sitting by the fire, as we had fixed upon alone. I called out, Don't be afraid, it's Daniel. And I went in. I never could have thought the old boat would have been so strange. From some pocket in his breast he took out, with a very careful hand, a small paper bundle containing two or three letters, or little packets, which he laid upon the table. This first one come, he said, selecting it from the rest, before I'd been gone a week, a fifty pound bank note, and a sheet of paper directed to me, and put underneath the door in the night. She tried to hide her riding, but she couldn't hide it from me. He folded up the note again, with great patience and care, in exactly the same form, and laid it on one side. This come to Mrs. Gummage, he said, opening another, two or three months ago. After looking at it for some moments, he gave it to me, and added in a low voice, Be so good as to read it, sir. I read as follows. Oh, what will you feel when you see this riding, and know it comes from my wicked hand? But try, try, not for my sake, but for uncle's goodness, try to let your heart soften to me, only for a little, little time. Try, pray due, to relent towards a miserable girl, and write down on a bit of paper whether he is well, and what he said about me before you left off ever naming me among yourselves, and whether of a night, when it is my old time of coming home, you ever see him look as if he thought of one he used to love so dear? Oh, my heart is breaking when I think about it. I am kneeling down to you, begging and praying you not to be as hard with me as I deserve, as I well, well know I deserve, but to be so gentle and so good as to write down something of him, and send it to me. You need not call me little, you need not call me by the name I have disgraced. But oh, listen to my agony, and have mercy on me, so far as to write me some word of uncle, never, never to be seen in this world by my eyes again. Dear, if your heart is hard towards me, justly hard I know. But listen, if it is hard, dear, ask him I have wronged the most, him whose wife I was to have been, before you quite decide against my poor, poor prayer. And he should be so compassionate as to say that you might write something for me to read. I think he would, oh, I think he would, if you'd only ask him, for he always was so brave and so forgiving. Tell him then, but not else, that when I hear the wind blowing at night, I feel as if it was passing angrily from seeing him and uncle, and was going up to God against me. Tell him that if I was to die tomorrow, and oh, if I was fit, I would be so glad to die. I would bless him and uncle with my last words, and pray for his happy home with my last breath. Some money was enclosed in this letter also. Five pounds. It was untouched like the previous sum, and he refolded it in the same way. Detailed instructions were added relative to the address of reply, which, although they betrayed the intervention of several hands, and made it difficult to arrive at any very probable conclusion in reference to her place of concealment, made it at least not unlikely that she had written from that spot where she was stated to have been seen. What answer was sent, I inquired of Mr. Peggity. Mrs. Gummage, he returned, not being a good scholar, sir, ham kindly drawed it out, and she made a copy on it. They told her I was gone to seek her, and what my parting words was. Is that another letter in your hands, said I? It's money, sir, said Mr. Peggity, unfolding it a little way. Ten pound, you see, and wrote inside from a true friend, like the first. But the first was put under the door, and this come by the post, day before yesterday. I'm a going to see her at the postmark. He showed it to me. It was a town on the upper Rhine. He had found out at Yarmouth some foreign dealers who knew that country, and they had drawn him a rude map on paper, which he could very well understand. He laid it between us on the table, and with his chin resting on one hand, tracked his course upon it with the other. I asked him how ham was, he shook his head. He works, he said, as bold as a man can. His names is good, and all that part, as any man's is, anywhere is in the world. Anyone's hand is ready to help them, you understand, and his is ready to help them. He's never been heard for to complain, but my sister's belief is, to extracells, as it is, cut him deep. Poor fellow, I can believe it. He ain't no care, Master Davies, said Mr. Peggity in a solemn whisper. Cunder no care, know-how for his life. When a man's wanted for rough service and rough weather, he's there. When there's hard duty to be done with danger in it, he steps forward before all his mates, and yet he's as gentle as any child. There ain't a child in Yarmouth that don't know him. He gathered up the letters thoughtfully, smoothing them with his hand, put them into their little bundle, and placed it tenderly in his breast again. The face was gone from the door. I still saw the snow drifting in, but nothing else was there. Well, he said, looking to his bag, having seen you to-night, Master Davie, and that do's me good. I shall away betimes to-morrow morning. You have seen what I've got here, putting his hand on with a little packet lay. All that troubles me is to think that any harm might come to me, before that money was give back. If I was to die, and it was lost, or stole, or else was made away with, and it was never known by him but what I took it, I believed the other world wouldn't hold me. I believe I must come back. He rose, and I rose too. We grasped each other by the hand again before going out. I'd go ten thousand miles, he said. I'd go till I drop dead, to lay that money down a forum. If I do that, and find my Imly, I'm content. If I don't find her, maybe she'll come to hear sometime, as her loving uncle only entered his search for her when he ended his life. And if I know her, even that will turn her home at last. As he went out into the rigorous night, I saw the lovely figure flit away before us. I turned him hastily on some pretense, and held him in conversation until it was gone. He spoke of a traveller's house on the Dover Road, where he knew he could find a clean, plain lodging for the night. I went with him over Westminster Bridge, and parted from him on the Surrey Shore. Everything seemed to my imagination to be hushed in reverence for him, as he resumed his solitary journey through the snow. I returned to the innyard, and impressed by my remembrance of the face, looked awfully around for it. It was not there. The snow had covered our late footprints. My new track was the only one to be seen, and even that began to die away. It snowed so fast, as I looked back over my shoulder. End of Chapter 40, Recording by Vivian Bush, Houston, Texas, October 4, 2007 Chapter 41 of David Copperfield This is LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Graham Daly, David Copperfield by Charles Dickens Chapter 41, Doris Aunts At last an answer came from the two old ladies. They presented their compliments to Mr. Copperfield, and informed him that they had given his letter the best consideration, with a view to the happiness of both parties, which I thought rather an alarming expression, not only because of the use they had made of it in relation to the family difference before mentioned, but because I had, and have all my life, observed that conventional phrases are sort of fireworks, easily let off, and liable to take a great variety of shapes and colors, not at all suggested by their original form. The Mrs. Spenlo added that they begged to forbear expressing, through the medium of correspondence, an opinion on the subject of Mr. Copperfield's communication, but that if Mr. Copperfield would do them the favor to call upon a certain day, accompanied if he thought proper by a confidential friend, they would be happy to hold some conversation on the subject. To this favor, Mr. Copperfield immediately replied, with his respectful compliments, that he would have the honor of waiting on the Mrs. Spenlo at the time appointed, accompanied in accordance with their kind permission, by his friend, Mr. Thomas Trattles, of the inner temple. Having dispatched to his missive, Mr. Copperfield fell into a condition of strong nervous agitation, and so remained until the day arrived. It was a great augmentation of my uneasiness to be bereaved at this eventful crisis of the inestimable services of Miss Mills. But Mr. Mills, who was always doing something other to annoy me, or I felt as if he were, which was the same thing, had brought his conduct to a climax by taking it into his head that he would go to India. Why should he go to India, except to harass me? To be sure, he had nothing to do with any other part of the world, and he had a good deal to do with that part, being entirely in the India trade, whatever that was. I had floating dreams myself concerning Golden Shaw's and Elephant's teeth, having been at Calcutta in his youth, and designing now to go out there again in the capacity of resident partner. But this was nothing to me. However, it was so much to him that for India he was bound, and Julia with him, and Julia went into the country to take leave of her relations, and the house was put into a perfect suit of bills, announcing that it was to be let or sold, and that the furniture, mango and all, was to be taken at evaluation. So here was another earthquake of which I became the sport, before I had recovered from the shock of its predecessor. I was in several minds, how to dress myself on the important day, being divided between my desire to appear to advantage, and my apprehensions of putting on anything that might impair my severely practical character in the eyes of the Mrs. Spendlow. I endeavored to hit a happy medium between these two extremes. My aunt improved the result, and Mr. Dick threw one of his shoes after travels in me, for luck as we went downstairs. Excellent fellow, as I knew Traddles to be, and warmly attached to him as I was, I could not help wishing, on that delicate occasion, that he had never contracted the habit of brushing his hair so very upright. He gave him a surprised look, not to say a hearth-broomy kind of expression, which my apprehensions whispered might be fatal to us. I took the liberty of mentioning it to Traddles, as we were walking to Putney, and saying that if he would smooth it down a little, my dear Copperfield, so Traddles lifting up his head, and rubbing his hair all kinds of ways, nothing would give me great pleasure, but it won't. Won't it be smooth down, said I? No, so Traddles. Nothing will induce it. If I was to carry a half hundred weight upon it all the way to Putney, it would be up again the moment the weight was taken off. You have no idea what obstinate hair mine is, Copperfield. I am quite a fretful porcupine. I was a little disappointed, I must confess, but thoroughly charmed by his good nature, too. I told him how I esteemed his good nature, and said that his hair must have taken all the obscenity out of his character, for he had none. Oh, returned Traddles laughing, I assure you, it's quite an old story, my unfortunate hair. My uncle's wife couldn't bear it, but she said it exasperated her. It stood very much in my way, too, when I first fell in love with Sophie very much. Did she object to it? She didn't rejoin Traddles, but her elder sister, the one that's the beauty quite made game of it, I understand. In fact, all the sisters laugh at it. Agreeable, said I. Yes, returned Traddles with a perfect innocence. It's a joke for us. They pretend that Sophie has a lock of it in her desk, and is obliged to shut it in a class book to keep it down. We laugh about it. By the by, my dear Traddles, said I. Your experience may suggest something to me. When you became engaged to the young lady whom you have just mentioned, did you make a regular proposal to her family? Was there anything like what we're going through today, for instance? I had it nervously. Why, replied Traddles, on whose attentive face a thoughtful shade had stolen. It was a rather painful transaction, Copperfield, in my case. You see, Sophie being of so much use in the family, none of them could endure the thought of her ever being married. Indeed, they had quite settled among themselves that she never was to be married, and they called her the old maid. Accordingly, when I mentioned it with the greatest precaution to Mrs. Cruller, the mama, said I, the mama, said Traddles, Reverend Horace Cruller, when I mentioned it with every possible precaution to Mrs. Cruller, the effect upon her was such that she gave a scream and became insensible. I couldn't approach the subject again for months. You did it last, said I. Well, the Reverend Horace did, said Traddles. He is an excellent man, most exemplary in every way, and he pointed out to her that she ought, as a Christian, to reconcile herself to the sacrifice, especially as it was so uncertain, and to bear no uncharitable feeling toward me. As to myself, Copperfield, I give you my word. I felt a perfect bird of prey towards the family. The sisters took her pot, I hope, Traddles. Well, I can't say they did, he returned. When we had comparatively reconciled Mrs. Cruller to it, we had to break it to Sarah. You recall my mentioning Sarah as the one that had something the matter with her spine? Perfectly. She clenched both her hands, said Traddles, looking at me in a smile. Shut her up, turn in that colour, became perfectly stiff, and took nothing for two days but toast and water, administered with a teaspoon. What a very unpleasant girl, Traddles, I remarked. Oh, I beg your pardon, Copperfield, said Traddles. She is a very charming girl, but she has a great deal of feeling. In fact, they all have. Sophie told me afterwards that the self-reproach she underwent while she was in attendance upon Sarah no words could describe. I knew it must have been severe by my own feelings, Copperfield, which were like a criminals. After Sarah was restored, we still had to break it to the other eight, and it produced various effects upon them of the most pathetic nature. And the two little ones, whom Sophie educates, have only just left off detesting me. At any rate, they all reconciled to it now, I hope, I said. Yes, I should say they were, on the whole, resigned to it, said Traddles. The fact is, we avoid mentioning the subject, and my unsettled prospects and indifferent circumstances are a great consolation to them. There will be a deplorable scene whenever we are married, and be much more like a funeral than a wedding, and they'll all hate me for taking her away. His honest face, as he looked at me with a serial comic shake of his head, impresses me more in the remembrance than it did in reality, for I was, by this time, in a state of such excessive trepidation and wandering of mind, as to be quite unable to fix my attention on anything. On our approaching the house where the Mrs. Spenla live, I was at such a discount in respect of my personal looks and presence of mind that Traddles proposed a gentle stimulant in the form of a glass of ale. As having been administered at a neighbouring public house, he conducted me, with torturing steps, to the Mrs. Spenla's door. I had a vague sensation of being, as it were, on view when the maid opened it, and of wavering, somehow across a hall with a weatherglass in it, into a quiet little drawing room on the ground floor, commanding a neat garden. Also of sitting down here on a sofa, and seeing Traddles' hair start up, now as had it was removed, like one of those obtrusive little figures made of springs, that fly out of fictitious snuff boxes when the lid is taken off. Also of hearing an old-fashioned clock ticking away on the chimney piece, and trying to make it keep time to the jerking of my heart, which it wouldn't. Also of looking around the room for any sign of Dora, and seeing none. Also of thinking that Gip who once barked in the distance, and was instantly choked by somebody. Ultimately I found myself backing Traddles into the fireplace, and bowing in great confusion to two dry little elderly ladies, dressed in black, and each looking wonderfully like a preparation in chip or tin of the late Mr. Spendle. Pray, said one of the two little ladies, be seated. When I had done tumbling over Traddles, and had sat upon something which was not a cat, my first seed was, I so far recovered my sight, as to perceive that Mr. Spendle had evidently been the youngest of the family, that there was a disparity of six or eight years between the two sisters, and that the younger appeared to be the manager of the conference, and as much as she had my letter in the hand. So familiar as it looked to me, and yet so odd. And was referring to it through an eyeglass. They were just alike, but this sister wore her dress with a more youthful air than the other, and perhaps had a trifle more frill, or tuck or brooch or bracelet, or some little thing of that kind, which made her look more lively. They were both upright in their carriage, formal, precise, composed and quiet. The sister, who had not my letter, had rounds crossed upon her breast, and resting on each other like an idol. Mr. Copperfield, I believe, said the sister who had got my letter, addressing herself to Traddles. This was a frightful beginning. Traddles had to indicate that I was Mr. Copperfield, and I had to lay claim to myself, and they had to divest themselves of a preconceived opinion, that Traddles was Mr. Copperfield, and altogether we were in a nice condition. To improve it, we all distinctly heard Jip give two short barks, and receive another joke. Mr. Copperfield, said the sister with the letter. I did something, bowed, I suppose, and was all attention when the other sister struck in. My sister Levinia, she said, being conversant with matters of this nature, will state what we consider most calculated to promote the happiness of both parties. I discovered afterwards that Ms. Levinia was an authority in affairs of the heart, by reason of their having anciently existed a certain Mr. Pidgeot, who played short wist, and was supposed to have been enamored of her. My private opinion is that this was entirely a gratuitous assumption, and that Pidgeot was altogether innocent of any such sentiments, to which he had never given any sort of expression that I could ever hear of. Both Ms. Levinia and Ms. Clarissa had a superstition, however, that he would have declared his passion, if he had not been consured in his youth, at about sixty, by overdrinking his constitution and overdoing an attempt to set it right again by swilling bathwater. They had a lurking suspicion, even, that he died of secret love, though I must say there was a picture of him in the house with a dim-sked nose, which concealment did not appear to have ever prayed upon. We will not, said Ms. Levinia, enter on the past history of this matter. Our poor brother Francis' death has cancelled that. We had not, said Ms. Clarissa, been in the habit of frequent association with our brother Francis, but there was no decided division or disunion between us. Francis took his road, we took ours, we considered it conducive to the happiness of all parties that it should be so, and it was so. Each of the sisters had leaned a little forward to speak, shook her head after speaking, and become upright again in silent. Ms. Clarissa never moved her arms. She sometimes played tunes upon them with her fingers, minuets and marches, I should think, but never moved them. Our niece's position, or supposed position, is much changed by our brother Francis' death, said Ms. Levinia, and therefore we consider our brother's opinions as regarded as position as being changed too. We have no reason to doubt, Mr. Cotfield, that you are a young gentleman possessed of good qualities and honourable character, or that you have an affection or are fully persuaded that you have an affection for our niece. I replied, as I usually did whenever I had a chance, that nobody had ever loved anybody else as I loved Dora. Trattles came to my assistance with a confirmatory murmur. Ms. Levinia was going to make some rejoinder when Ms. Clarissa, who appeared to be incessantly beset by a desire to refer to her brother Francis, struck in again. If Dora's mama, she said, when she married her brother Francis, had at once said that there was not room for the family at the dinner table, it would have been better for the happiness of all parties. Sister Clarissa, said Ms. Levinia, perhaps we didn't mind that now. Sister Levinia, said Ms. Clarissa, belongs to the subject. With your branch of the subject, on which alone you are competent to spink, I should not think of interfering. On this branch of the subject I have a voice and an opinion. It would have been better for the happiness of all parties if Dora's mama, when she married her brother Francis, had mentioned plainly what her intentions were. We should then have known what we had to expect. We should have said, pray do not invite us at any time, and all possibility of misunderstanding would have been avoided. When Ms. Clarissa had shaken her head, Ms. Levinia resumed, again referring to my letter through her eye-gas. They both had little bright round twinkling eyes, by the way, which were like birds' eyes. They were not unlike birds altogether, having a sharp brisk sudden manner and a little short spruce way of adjusting themselves, like canaries. Ms. Levinia, as I have said, resumed. You ask permission of my sister Clarissa and of myself, Mr. Copperfield, to visit here as the accepted suitor of our niece. If our brother Francis, said Ms. Clarissa, breaking out again, if I may call anything so calm or breaking out, wished to surround himself with an atmosphere of doctor's commons and of doctor's commons only, what right to desire had we to object? None, I am sure. But why not say so? Let our brother Francis and his wife have their society. Let my sister Levinia and myself have our society. We can find it for ourselves, I hope. As this appeared to be addressed to Tradles and me, both Tradles and I made some sort of reply. Tradles was inaudible. I think I observed myself that it was highly credible to all concerned. I don't, in the least, know what I meant. Sister Levinia, said Ms. Clarissa, having now relieved her mind. You can go on, my dear. Ms. Levinia perceived. Mr. Copperfield, my sister Clarissa, and I have been very careful, indeed, in considering this letter, and we have not considered without finally showing it to our niece and discussing it with our niece. We have no doubt that you think you like her very much. Think, ma'am, I rapturously began, oh, but Ms. Clarissa, giving me a look, just like a sharp canary, as requesting that I would not interrupt the oracle, I begged pardon. Afection, said Ms. Levinia, glancing at her sister for corroboration, which she gave in the form of little nod to every cross. Mature affection, homage, devotion, does not easily express itself. It's a voice is low. It is modest and retiring. It lies in ambush, waits and waits. Such is the mature fruit. Sometimes a life glides away and finds it still ripening in the shade. Of course, I do not understand then that this was an allusion to her supposed experience of the stricken pigeon. But I saw, from the gravity with which Ms. Clarissa nodded her head, that great weight was attached to these words. Light, for I call them, in comparison with such sentiments, the light inclinations of very young people, pursued Ms. Levinia, are dust compared to rocks. It is owing to the difficulty of knowing whether they are likely to endure or have any real foundation that my sister Clarissa and myself have been very undecided how to act, Mr. Copperfield and Mr. Truddles, said my friend, finding himself looked at. I beg pardon. Of the inner temple I'd leave, said Ms. Clarissa, again glancing at my letter. Truddles said, exactly so, and became pretty red in the face. Now, although I had not received any express encouragement as yet, I fancied that I saw in the two little sisters, and particularly in Ms. Levinia, an intensified enjoyment of this new and fruitful subject of domestic interest, a settling down to make the most of it, a disposition to pet it, in which there was a good, bright ray of hope. I thought I perceived that Ms. Levinia would have uncommon satisfaction in superintending two young lovers, like Dora and me, and that Ms. Clarissa would have hardly less satisfaction in seeing her superintendents, and in chiming in with her in particular department of the subject, whenever that impulse was strong upon her. This gave me courage to protest most vehemently that I loved Dora better than I could tell for anyone to believe, that all of my friends knew how I loved her, that my aunt, Agnes, Truddles, everyone who knew me, knew how I loved him, and how earnest my love had made me. For the truth of this, I appealed to Truddles, and Truddles, firing up as if he were plunging into a parliamentary debate, really did come out nobly, confirming me in a good-run terms, and in a plain, sensible, practical manner, that evidently made a favourable impression. I speak, if I may presume to say so, as one who has some little experience of such things, so Truddles, being myself engaged to a young lady, one of ten, down in Devonshire, and seeing no probability at present of our engagement coming to a termination. You may be able to confirm what I have said, Mr. Truddles, observed Ms. Levinia, evidently taking a new interest of him, of the affection that is mortised and retiring, and that waits and waits. Entirely, ma'am, said Truddles. Ms. Clarissa looked at Ms. Levinia, and shook her head gravely. Ms. Levinia looked consciously at Ms. Clarissa, and heaved a little sigh. Sister Levinia said Ms. Clarissa, take my smelling bottle. Ms. Levinia revived herself with a few whiffs of aromatic vinegar, Truddles and I, looking on with great solicitude the while, and then went on to say, rather faintly, my sister and myself have been in great doubt, Mr. Truddles, what cause we are to take in reference to the likings, or imagine the likings, of such very young people as your friend Mr. Copperfield at Elise. Our brother Francis' child, remarked Ms. Clarissa, if our brother Francis' wife had found it convenient in her lifetime, though she had an unquestionable right to act as she thought versed, to invite the family to a dinner table, we might have known our brother Francis' child better at the present moment, Sister Venya, proceed. Ms. Levinia turned to my letter, so as to bring the super description towards her son, and referred, through her eyeglass, to some orderly-looking notes she had made in that part of it. It seems to us, said she, prudent Mr. Truddles, to bring these feelings to the test of our own observation. At present we know nothing of them, and are not in a situation to judge how much reality there may be in them. Therefore we are inclined, so far, to exceed to Mr. Copperfield's proposal, as to admit his visits here. I shall never, dear ladies, I exclaimed, relieved of an immense load of apprehension, forget your kindness, but, pursued Ms. Levinia, but we would prefer to regard those visits, Mr. Truddles, as made at present to us. We must guard ourselves from recognizing any positive engagement between Mr. Copperfield and our niece until we have had an opportunity, until you have had an opportunity, says the Levinia, so misquiescent. Be it so, assented Ms. Levinia with a sigh, until I have had an opportunity of observing them. Copperfield, said Truddles, turning to me, you feel, I am sure, that nothing could be more reasonable or considerate. Nothing, cried I, I am deeply sensible of it. In this position of affairs, said Ms. Levinia, again referring to her notes, and admitting his visits on this understanding only, we must require from Mr. Copperfield a distinct assurance on his word of honor, that no communication of any kind shall take place between him and our niece without our knowledge, that no project whatever shall be entertained with regard to our niece without being first submitted to us, to you, Sister Levinia, Ms. Clarissa interposed. Be it so, Clarissa, listen to Ms. Levinia as I mean, to me, and to receiving our concurrence. We must make this a most express and serious stipulation, not to be broken on any account. We wished Mr. Copperfield to be accompanied by some confidential friend today, with an inclination of her heads toward Truddles, who vowed, in order that there might be no doubt all misconception on this subject. If Mr. Copperfield, or a few Mr. Truddles, feel the least scruble in giving this promise, I beg you to take time to consider it. I exclaimed, in a state of high ecstatic fervour, that not a moment's consideration could be necessary. I bound myself by the required promise in a most impassioned manner, called upon Truddles to witness it, and announced to myself as the most atrocious of characters, if I ever swerve from it, in the least degree. Stay, said Ms. Levinia, holding off her hand. We resolved, before we had the pleasure of receiving you two gentlemen, to leave you alone for a quarter of an hour to consider this point. Who will allow us to retire? I was in vain for me to say no consideration was necessary. They persisted in withdrawing for the specified time. Accordingly, these little birds hopped out with great dignity, leaving me to receive the congratulations of Truddles, and to feel, as if I were translated to regions of exquisite happiness. Exactly at the expiration of the quarter of an hour, they were appeared with no less dignity than they had disappeared. They had gone rustling away as if their little dresses were made of autumn leaves, and they came rustling back in like manner. I then bound myself once more to the prescribed conditions. C'est excerissa, said Ms. Levinia. The rest is with you. Ms. Clarissa, unfolding her arms for the first time, took the notes and glanced at them. We shall be happy, said Ms. Clarissa, to see Mr. Cupfield to dinner every Sunday, if it should suit his convenience. Our hour is three. Our hour. In the course of the week, said Ms. Clarissa, we shall be happy to see Mr. Cupfield to tea. Our hour is half past six. I bound again. Twice in the week, said Ms. Clarissa, but as a rule, not oftener. I bound again. Ms. Trotwood, said Ms. Clarissa, mentioned in Mr. Cupfield's letter, will perhaps call upon us. When visiting is better for the happiness of old parties, we are glad to receive visits and return them. When it is better for the happiness of old parties, that no visiting should take place, as is the case of our brother Francis and his establishment, that is quite different. I intimated that my aunt would be proud and delighted to make their acquaintance, though I must say, I was not quite sure if they're getting on very satisfactorily together. The conditions being now closed, I expressed my acknowledgments in the warmest manner, and, taking the hand, first of Ms. Clarissa, then of Ms. Lavinia, pressed it in each case to my lips. Ms. Lavinia then arose, and, begging Mr. Traddles to excuse us for a moment, requested me to follow her. I obeyed, all in tremble, and was conducted to in another room. Then I found my blessed darling, stopping her ears behind the door, with her dear little face against the wall, and jib in the plate woman with his head tied up in the towel. Oh, how beautiful she was in her black frock, and how she sobbed and cried at first and wouldn't come out from behind the door. How fond we were of one another, when she did come out at last, and what a state of bliss I was in when we took Jip out of the plate woman and restored him to the light, sneezing very much, and all three of you reunited. My dearest Dora, now indeed my own forever. Oh, don't, pleaded Dora. Please, are you not my own forever, Dora? Oh yes, of course I am, cried Dora, but I am so frightened. Frightened, my own? Oh yes, I don't like him, said Dora. Why don't he go? Who, my life? Your friend, said Dora, it isn't any business of his. What a stupid he must be. My love, though it never was anything so coaxing as her childish ways. He is the best creature. Oh, but we don't want any best creatures, pouted Dora. My dear, I argued, you will soon know him well and like him of all things. And here is my aunt coming soon, and you'll like her of all things too, when you know her. You know, please don't bring her, said Dora, giving them a horrified little case and holding her hands. Don't, I know she's a naughty mischief-making old thing. Don't let her come here, dodie. Which was a corruption of David. Remonstrance was of no use, then, so I laughed and admired and was very much in love and very happy, and she showed me Jip's new trick of standing on his high legs in a corner, which he did for about the space of a flash of lightning, and then fell down, and I don't know how long I should have stayed there, oblivious of Traddles, if Miss Levinia had not come in to take me away. Miss Levinia was very fond of Dora. She told me Dora was exactly like what she had been herself at her age, she must have altered her good deal. And she treated Dora just as if she had been a toy. I wanted to persuade Dora to come and see Traddles, but on my proposing it, she ran off to her room and locked herself in, so I went to Traddles without her, and walked away with him on air. Nothing could be more satisfactory, said Traddles, and they are very agreeable, old lady, so I'm sure. I shouldn't be at all surprised if you were to be married years before me, Copperfield. Does Dora Sophie play any instrument in Traddles? I inquired in the pride of my art. She knows enough of the piano to teach it to her little sisters, said Traddles. Does she sing at all? I asked. Why? She sings ballads, sometimes, to freshen up the others in the narrative spirits, said Traddles. Nothing scientific. She doesn't sing to the guitar, said I. Oh dear no, said Traddles. Paint it all? Not at all, said Traddles. I promised Traddles that he should hear Dora sing and see some of her flower painting. He said he should like it very much, and we went home arm in arm in a great humour and delight. I encouraged him to talk about Sophie on the way, which he did with a loving reliance on her that I very much admired. I compared her in my mind with Dora with considerable inward satisfaction, but I candidly admitted to myself that she seemed to be an excellent kind of girl for Traddles, too. Of course, my aunt was immediately made acquainted with the successful issue of the conference, and with all that had been said and done in the course of it. She was happy to see me so happy, and promised to call on Dora's aunts without the loss of time. But she took such a long walk up and down our rooms that night, while I was writing to Agnes, that I began to think she meant what to what in mourning. My letter to Agnes was a fervent and grateful one, narrating all the good effects that had returned from my following of her advice. She wrote, by return of post, to me. Her letter was hopeful, honest, and cheerful. She was always cheerful from that time. I had my hands more full than ever. My daily journeys to Highgate considered, Putney was a long way off, and I naturally wanted to go there as often as I could. The proposed tea-drinking, being quite impractical, I compounded with Miss Lavinia for permission to visit every Saturday afternoon without detriment to my privileged Sundays. So, the close of every week was a delicious time for me, and I got through the rest of the week by looking forward to it. I was wonderfully relieved to find that my aunt and Dora's aunts rubbed on, all things considered, much more smoothly than I could have expected. My aunt made her promised visit within a few days of the conference, and within a few more days, Dora's aunts called upon her in due state and form. Similar, but more friendly exchanges took place afterwards, usually at intervals of three or four weeks. I know that my aunt distressed Dora's aunts very much by utterly setting at naught the dignity of fly conveyance, and walking out to Putney at extraordinary times, as shortly after breakfast, or just before tea. Likewise, by wearing her bonnet in any manner that happened to be comfortable to her head without at all deferring to the prejudices of civilization on that subject. But Dora's aunts soon agreed to regard my aunt as an eccentric and somewhat masculine lady, with a strong understanding, and although my aunt occasionally ruffled the feathers of Dora's aunts by expressing heretical opinions on various points of ceremony, she loved me too well not to sacrifice some of her little peculiarities to the general harmony. The only member of our small society who positively refused to adapt himself to the circumstances was Jib. He never saw my aunt without immediately displaying every tooth in his head, retiring under a chair, and growling incessantly with now and then a doleful howl as if she really were too much for his feelings. All kinds of treatment were tried with him, coaxing, scolding, slapping, bringing him to Buckingham Street where he instantly dashed at two cats to the terror of all the holders. But he never could prevail upon himself to bear my aunt's society. He would sometimes think he had got the better of his objection and be amiable for a few minutes, then would put up his thumb nose and howl to that extent that there was nothing for it but to blind him and put him in the plate warmer. And length Dora regularly muffled him into his howl and shut him up there whenever my aunt was reported at the door. One thing troubled me much after we had fallen into this quiet train. It was that Dora seemed, by one consent, to be regarded like a pretty toy or plaything. My aunt, with whom she gradually became familiar, always called her Little Blossom and the pleasure of Miss Levinia's life was to wait upon her, color, hair, make ornaments for her and treat her like a pet child. When Miss Levinia did, her sister did as a matter of course. It was very odd to me but they all seemed to treat Dora in her degree much as Dora treated Chip in his. I made up my mind to speak to Dora about this and one day when we were out walking for we were licensed by Miss Levinia after a while to go out walking by ourselves I said to her that I wish she could get them to behave towards her differently. Because you know my darling, I run on streeting, you're not a child. There said Dora, now you're going to be cross. Cross, my love. I'm sure they're very kind to me, said Dora, and I am very happy. Well, but dearest life, said I, you might be very happy and yet be treated rationally. Dora gave me a reportful look, the prettiest look, and then begun to sob, saying if I didn't like her, why had I ever wanted so much to be engaged to her and why didn't I go away now if I couldn't bear her? What could I do but kiss away her tears and tell her how I doted upon her after that? I am sure I am very affectionate, said Dora. You're in to be cruel to me, dodie. Cruel, my precious love, as if I would or could be cruel to you for the world. Then don't find fault with me, said Dora, making the rosebud have a mouth. It won't be good. I was charmed by her presently asking me, over on a core, to give her that cookery book I'd once spoke enough and to show her how to keep accounts as I had once promised I would. I brought the volume with me on my next visit. I got it pretty late bound first to make it look less dry and more inviting. And as we strolled about the common, I showed her an old housekeeping book of my aunt's and gave her a set of tablets and a pretty little pencil case and box of leads to practice housekeeping with. But the cookery book made Dora's head ache and the figures made her cry. There wouldn't end up, she said. So she rubbed them out and drew little nosegays and likenesses of me and Jib all over the tablets. And I playfully tried verbal instruction in domestic manners as we walked about on a Saturday afternoon. Sometimes, for example, when we passed a butcher's shop, I'd say, now suppose, my pet, that we were married and you were going to buy shoulder of mutton for dinner. Would you know how to buy it? My pretty little Dora's face would fall and she would make her mouth into a bud again as if she would very much prefer to shut mine with kiss. Would you know how to buy it, my darling? I would repeat, perhaps, if I were very inflexible. Dora would think a little and then reply, perhaps, with great triumph. Why, the butcher would know how to sell it and what need I know? Oh, you silly boy. So, when I once asked Dora, with an eye to the cookery book, what she should do if we were married and I were to say I should like a nice Irish stew, she replied that she would tell the servant to make him and then clapped her hands together across my arm and left in such a charming manner that she was more delighted than ever. Consequently, the principle used to which the cookery book was devoted was being put down in the quarter for Jib to stand upon. But Dora was so pleased when she had trained him to stand upon it without offering to come off and at the same time hold the pencil case in his mouth that I was very glad I had bought it. And we fell back on the guitar case and the flower painting and the songs about never leaving off dancing, tarar laa, and were as happy as the week was long. I occasionally wished I could venture a hint to Miss Levinia that she treated the darling of my heart a little too much like a plaything and sometimes a woke, as it were, wondering to find that I had fallen into the general fault and treated her like a plaything too. But not all. End of Chapter 41 Recording by Graham Daley