CHAPTER 33. BLISSFUL

All this time, I had gone on loving Dora, harder than ever. Her idea was

my refuge in disappointment and distress, and made some amends to me,

even for the loss of my friend. The more I pitied myself, or pitied

others, the more I sought for consolation in the image of Dora. The

greater the accumulation of deceit and trouble in the world, the

brighter and the purer shone the star of Dora high above the world. I

don’t think I had any definite idea where Dora came from, or in what

degree she was related to a higher order of beings; but I am quite sure

I should have scouted the notion of her being simply human, like any

other young lady, with indignation and contempt.

If I may so express it, I was steeped in Dora. I was not merely over

head and ears in love with her, but I was saturated through and through.

Enough love might have been wrung out of me, metaphorically speaking,

to drown anybody in; and yet there would have remained enough within me,

and all over me, to pervade my entire existence.

The first thing I did, on my own account, when I came back, was to take

a night-walk to Norwood, and, like the subject of a venerable riddle of

my childhood, to go ‘round and round the house, without ever

touching the house’, thinking about Dora. I believe the theme of this

incomprehensible conundrum was the moon. No matter what it was, I, the

moon-struck slave of Dora, perambulated round and round the house and

garden for two hours, looking through crevices in the palings, getting

my chin by dint of violent exertion above the rusty nails on the top,

blowing kisses at the lights in the windows, and romantically calling

on the night, at intervals, to shield my Dora--I don’t exactly know what

from, I suppose from fire. Perhaps from mice, to which she had a great

objection.

My love was so much in my mind and it was so natural to me to confide in

Peggotty, when I found her again by my side of an evening with the old

set of industrial implements, busily making the tour of my wardrobe,

that I imparted to her, in a sufficiently roundabout way, my great

secret. Peggotty was strongly interested, but I could not get her into

my view of the case at all. She was audaciously prejudiced in my favour,

and quite unable to understand why I should have any misgivings, or be

low-spirited about it. ‘The young lady might think herself well off,’

she observed, ‘to have such a beau. And as to her Pa,’ she said, ‘what

did the gentleman expect, for gracious sake!’

I observed, however, that Mr. Spenlow’s proctorial gown and stiff cravat

took Peggotty down a little, and inspired her with a greater reverence

for the man who was gradually becoming more and more etherealized in my

eyes every day, and about whom a reflected radiance seemed to me to beam

when he sat erect in Court among his papers, like a little lighthouse in

a sea of stationery. And by the by, it used to be uncommonly strange

to me to consider, I remember, as I sat in Court too, how those dim old

judges and doctors wouldn’t have cared for Dora, if they had known

her; how they wouldn’t have gone out of their senses with rapture, if

marriage with Dora had been proposed to them; how Dora might have sung,

and played upon that glorified guitar, until she led me to the verge of

madness, yet not have tempted one of those slow-goers an inch out of his

road!

I despised them, to a man. Frozen-out old gardeners in the flower-beds

of the heart, I took a personal offence against them all. The Bench

was nothing to me but an insensible blunderer. The Bar had no more

tenderness or poetry in it, than the bar of a public-house.

Taking the management of Peggotty’s affairs into my own hands, with

no little pride, I proved the will, and came to a settlement with the

Legacy Duty-office, and took her to the Bank, and soon got everything

into an orderly train. We varied the legal character of these

proceedings by going to see some perspiring Wax-work, in Fleet Street

(melted, I should hope, these twenty years); and by visiting Miss

Linwood’s Exhibition, which I remember as a Mausoleum of needlework,

favourable to self-examination and repentance; and by inspecting the

Tower of London; and going to the top of St. Paul’s. All these wonders

afforded Peggotty as much pleasure as she was able to enjoy, under

existing circumstances: except, I think, St. Paul’s, which, from her

long attachment to her work-box, became a rival of the picture on the

lid, and was, in some particulars, vanquished, she considered, by that

work of art.

Peggotty’s business, which was what we used to call ‘common-form

business’ in the Commons (and very light and lucrative the common-form

business was), being settled, I took her down to the office one morning

to pay her bill. Mr. Spenlow had stepped out, old Tiffey said, to get a

gentleman sworn for a marriage licence; but as I knew he would be

back directly, our place lying close to the Surrogate’s, and to the

Vicar-General’s office too, I told Peggotty to wait.

We were a little like undertakers, in the Commons, as regarded Probate

transactions; generally making it a rule to look more or less cut up,

when we had to deal with clients in mourning. In a similar feeling

of delicacy, we were always blithe and light-hearted with the licence

clients. Therefore I hinted to Peggotty that she would find Mr. Spenlow

much recovered from the shock of Mr. Barkis’s decease; and indeed he

came in like a bridegroom.

But neither Peggotty nor I had eyes for him, when we saw, in company

with him, Mr. Murdstone. He was very little changed. His hair looked as

thick, and was certainly as black, as ever; and his glance was as little

to be trusted as of old.

‘Ah, Copperfield?’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘You know this gentleman, I

believe?’

I made my gentleman a distant bow, and Peggotty barely recognized him.

He was, at first, somewhat disconcerted to meet us two together; but

quickly decided what to do, and came up to me.

‘I hope,’ he said, ‘that you are doing well?’

‘It can hardly be interesting to you,’ said I. ‘Yes, if you wish to

know.’

We looked at each other, and he addressed himself to Peggotty.

‘And you,’ said he. ‘I am sorry to observe that you have lost your

husband.’

‘It’s not the first loss I have had in my life, Mr. Murdstone,’ replied

Peggotty, trembling from head to foot. ‘I am glad to hope that there is

nobody to blame for this one,--nobody to answer for it.’

‘Ha!’ said he; ‘that’s a comfortable reflection. You have done your

duty?’

‘I have not worn anybody’s life away,’ said Peggotty, ‘I am thankful to

think! No, Mr. Murdstone, I have not worrited and frightened any sweet

creetur to an early grave!’

He eyed her gloomily--remorsefully I thought--for an instant; and said,

turning his head towards me, but looking at my feet instead of my face:

‘We are not likely to encounter soon again;--a source of satisfaction to

us both, no doubt, for such meetings as this can never be agreeable. I

do not expect that you, who always rebelled against my just authority,

exerted for your benefit and reformation, should owe me any good-will

now. There is an antipathy between us--’

‘An old one, I believe?’ said I, interrupting him.

He smiled, and shot as evil a glance at me as could come from his dark

eyes.

‘It rankled in your baby breast,’ he said. ‘It embittered the life of

your poor mother. You are right. I hope you may do better, yet; I hope

you may correct yourself.’

Here he ended the dialogue, which had been carried on in a low voice,

in a corner of the outer office, by passing into Mr. Spenlow’s room, and

saying aloud, in his smoothest manner:

‘Gentlemen of Mr. Spenlow’s profession are accustomed to family

differences, and know how complicated and difficult they always are!’

With that, he paid the money for his licence; and, receiving it neatly

folded from Mr. Spenlow, together with a shake of the hand, and a polite

wish for his happiness and the lady’s, went out of the office.

I might have had more difficulty in constraining myself to be silent

under his words, if I had had less difficulty in impressing upon

Peggotty (who was only angry on my account, good creature!) that we were

not in a place for recrimination, and that I besought her to hold her

peace. She was so unusually roused, that I was glad to compound for

an affectionate hug, elicited by this revival in her mind of our old

injuries, and to make the best I could of it, before Mr. Spenlow and the

clerks.

Mr. Spenlow did not appear to know what the connexion between Mr.

Murdstone and myself was; which I was glad of, for I could not bear to

acknowledge him, even in my own breast, remembering what I did of the

history of my poor mother. Mr. Spenlow seemed to think, if he thought

anything about the matter, that my aunt was the leader of the state

party in our family, and that there was a rebel party commanded by

somebody else--so I gathered at least from what he said, while we were

waiting for Mr. Tiffey to make out Peggotty’s bill of costs.

‘Miss Trotwood,’ he remarked, ‘is very firm, no doubt, and not likely

to give way to opposition. I have an admiration for her character, and

I may congratulate you, Copperfield, on being on the right side.

Differences between relations are much to be deplored--but they are

extremely general--and the great thing is, to be on the right side’:

meaning, I take it, on the side of the moneyed interest.

‘Rather a good marriage this, I believe?’ said Mr. Spenlow.

I explained that I knew nothing about it.

‘Indeed!’ he said. ‘Speaking from the few words Mr. Murdstone

dropped--as a man frequently does on these occasions--and from what Miss

Murdstone let fall, I should say it was rather a good marriage.’

‘Do you mean that there is money, sir?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Spenlow, ‘I understand there’s money. Beauty too, I am

told.’

‘Indeed! Is his new wife young?’

‘Just of age,’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘So lately, that I should think they

had been waiting for that.’

‘Lord deliver her!’ said Peggotty. So very emphatically and

unexpectedly, that we were all three discomposed; until Tiffey came in

with the bill.

Old Tiffey soon appeared, however, and handed it to Mr. Spenlow, to

look over. Mr. Spenlow, settling his chin in his cravat and rubbing it

softly, went over the items with a deprecatory air--as if it were all

Jorkins’s doing--and handed it back to Tiffey with a bland sigh.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s right. Quite right. I should have been extremely

happy, Copperfield, to have limited these charges to the actual

expenditure out of pocket, but it is an irksome incident in my

professional life, that I am not at liberty to consult my own wishes. I

have a partner--Mr. Jorkins.’

As he said this with a gentle melancholy, which was the next thing to

making no charge at all, I expressed my acknowledgements on Peggotty’s

behalf, and paid Tiffey in banknotes. Peggotty then retired to

her lodging, and Mr. Spenlow and I went into Court, where we had a

divorce-suit coming on, under an ingenious little statute (repealed

now, I believe, but in virtue of which I have seen several marriages

annulled), of which the merits were these. The husband, whose name was

Thomas Benjamin, had taken out his marriage licence as Thomas only;

suppressing the Benjamin, in case he should not find himself as

comfortable as he expected. NOT finding himself as comfortable as he

expected, or being a little fatigued with his wife, poor fellow, he

now came forward, by a friend, after being married a year or two, and

declared that his name was Thomas Benjamin, and therefore he was not

married at all. Which the Court confirmed, to his great satisfaction.

I must say that I had my doubts about the strict justice of this,

and was not even frightened out of them by the bushel of wheat which

reconciles all anomalies. But Mr. Spenlow argued the matter with me. He

said, Look at the world, there was good and evil in that; look at the

ecclesiastical law, there was good and evil in THAT. It was all part of

a system. Very good. There you were!

I had not the hardihood to suggest to Dora’s father that possibly

we might even improve the world a little, if we got up early in the

morning, and took off our coats to the work; but I confessed that I

thought we might improve the Commons. Mr. Spenlow replied that he would

particularly advise me to dismiss that idea from my mind, as not being

worthy of my gentlemanly character; but that he would be glad to hear

from me of what improvement I thought the Commons susceptible?

Taking that part of the Commons which happened to be nearest to us--for

our man was unmarried by this time, and we were out of Court, and

strolling past the Prerogative Office--I submitted that I thought the

Prerogative Office rather a queerly managed institution. Mr. Spenlow

inquired in what respect? I replied, with all due deference to his

experience (but with more deference, I am afraid, to his being Dora’s

father), that perhaps it was a little nonsensical that the Registry of

that Court, containing the original wills of all persons leaving effects

within the immense province of Canterbury, for three whole centuries,

should be an accidental building, never designed for the purpose, leased

by the registrars for their Own private emolument, unsafe, not even

ascertained to be fire-proof, choked with the important documents

it held, and positively, from the roof to the basement, a mercenary

speculation of the registrars, who took great fees from the public, and

crammed the public’s wills away anyhow and anywhere, having no other

object than to get rid of them cheaply. That, perhaps, it was a little

unreasonable that these registrars in the receipt of profits amounting

to eight or nine thousand pounds a year (to say nothing of the profits

of the deputy registrars, and clerks of seats), should not be obliged to

spend a little of that money, in finding a reasonably safe place for the

important documents which all classes of people were compelled to hand

over to them, whether they would or no. That, perhaps, it was a little

unjust, that all the great offices in this great office should be

magnificent sinecures, while the unfortunate working-clerks in the cold

dark room upstairs were the worst rewarded, and the least considered

men, doing important services, in London. That perhaps it was a little

indecent that the principal registrar of all, whose duty it was to

find the public, constantly resorting to this place, all needful

accommodation, should be an enormous sinecurist in virtue of that post

(and might be, besides, a clergyman, a pluralist, the holder of a

staff in a cathedral, and what not),--while the public was put to the

inconvenience of which we had a specimen every afternoon when the office

was busy, and which we knew to be quite monstrous. That, perhaps,

in short, this Prerogative Office of the diocese of Canterbury was

altogether such a pestilent job, and such a pernicious absurdity, that

but for its being squeezed away in a corner of St. Paul’s Churchyard,

which few people knew, it must have been turned completely inside out,

and upside down, long ago.

Mr. Spenlow smiled as I became modestly warm on the subject, and then

argued this question with me as he had argued the other. He said, what

was it after all? It was a question of feeling. If the public felt

that their wills were in safe keeping, and took it for granted that the

office was not to be made better, who was the worse for it? Nobody. Who

was the better for it? All the Sinecurists. Very well. Then the good

predominated. It might not be a perfect system; nothing was perfect;

but what he objected to, was, the insertion of the wedge. Under the

Prerogative Office, the country had been glorious. Insert the wedge into

the Prerogative Office, and the country would cease to be glorious. He

considered it the principle of a gentleman to take things as he found

them; and he had no doubt the Prerogative Office would last our time. I

deferred to his opinion, though I had great doubts of it myself. I find

he was right, however; for it has not only lasted to the present moment,

but has done so in the teeth of a great parliamentary report made (not

too willingly) eighteen years ago, when all these objections of mine

were set forth in detail, and when the existing stowage for wills was

described as equal to the accumulation of only two years and a half

more. What they have done with them since; whether they have lost many,

or whether they sell any, now and then, to the butter shops; I don’t

know. I am glad mine is not there, and I hope it may not go there, yet

awhile.

I have set all this down, in my present blissful chapter, because here

it comes into its natural place. Mr. Spenlow and I falling into this

conversation, prolonged it and our saunter to and fro, until we diverged

into general topics. And so it came about, in the end, that Mr. Spenlow

told me this day week was Dora’s birthday, and he would be glad if I

would come down and join a little picnic on the occasion. I went out of

my senses immediately; became a mere driveller next day, on receipt of

a little lace-edged sheet of note-paper, ‘Favoured by papa. To remind’;

and passed the intervening period in a state of dotage.

I think I committed every possible absurdity in the way of preparation

for this blessed event. I turn hot when I remember the cravat I bought.

My boots might be placed in any collection of instruments of torture.

I provided, and sent down by the Norwood coach the night before, a

delicate little hamper, amounting in itself, I thought, almost to a

declaration. There were crackers in it with the tenderest mottoes that

could be got for money. At six in the morning, I was in Covent Garden

Market, buying a bouquet for Dora. At ten I was on horseback (I hired a

gallant grey, for the occasion), with the bouquet in my hat, to keep it

fresh, trotting down to Norwood.

I suppose that when I saw Dora in the garden and pretended not to see

her, and rode past the house pretending to be anxiously looking for

it, I committed two small fooleries which other young gentlemen in my

circumstances might have committed--because they came so very natural

to me. But oh! when I DID find the house, and DID dismount at the

garden-gate, and drag those stony-hearted boots across the lawn to Dora

sitting on a garden-seat under a lilac tree, what a spectacle she was,

upon that beautiful morning, among the butterflies, in a white chip

bonnet and a dress of celestial blue! There was a young lady with

her--comparatively stricken in years--almost twenty, I should say. Her

name was Miss Mills. And Dora called her Julia. She was the bosom friend

of Dora. Happy Miss Mills!

Jip was there, and Jip WOULD bark at me again. When I presented my

bouquet, he gnashed his teeth with jealousy. Well he might. If he had

the least idea how I adored his mistress, well he might!

‘Oh, thank you, Mr. Copperfield! What dear flowers!’ said Dora.

I had had an intention of saying (and had been studying the best form of

words for three miles) that I thought them beautiful before I saw them

so near HER. But I couldn’t manage it. She was too bewildering. To see

her lay the flowers against her little dimpled chin, was to lose all

presence of mind and power of language in a feeble ecstasy. I wonder I

didn’t say, ‘Kill me, if you have a heart, Miss Mills. Let me die here!’

Then Dora held my flowers to Jip to smell. Then Jip growled, and

wouldn’t smell them. Then Dora laughed, and held them a little closer

to Jip, to make him. Then Jip laid hold of a bit of geranium with his

teeth, and worried imaginary cats in it. Then Dora beat him, and pouted,

and said, ‘My poor beautiful flowers!’ as compassionately, I thought, as

if Jip had laid hold of me. I wished he had!

‘You’ll be so glad to hear, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Dora, ‘that that

cross Miss Murdstone is not here. She has gone to her brother’s

marriage, and will be away at least three weeks. Isn’t that delightful?’

I said I was sure it must be delightful to her, and all that was

delightful to her was delightful to me. Miss Mills, with an air of

superior wisdom and benevolence, smiled upon us.

‘She is the most disagreeable thing I ever saw,’ said Dora. ‘You can’t

believe how ill-tempered and shocking she is, Julia.’

‘Yes, I can, my dear!’ said Julia.

‘YOU can, perhaps, love,’ returned Dora, with her hand on Julia’s.

‘Forgive my not excepting you, my dear, at first.’

I learnt, from this, that Miss Mills had had her trials in the course

of a chequered existence; and that to these, perhaps, I might refer that

wise benignity of manner which I had already noticed. I found, in

the course of the day, that this was the case: Miss Mills having been

unhappy in a misplaced affection, and being understood to have retired

from the world on her awful stock of experience, but still to take a

calm interest in the unblighted hopes and loves of youth.

But now Mr. Spenlow came out of the house, and Dora went to him,

saying, ‘Look, papa, what beautiful flowers!’ And Miss Mills smiled

thoughtfully, as who should say, ‘Ye Mayflies, enjoy your brief

existence in the bright morning of life!’ And we all walked from the

lawn towards the carriage, which was getting ready.

I shall never have such a ride again. I have never had such another.

There were only those three, their hamper, my hamper, and the

guitar-case, in the phaeton; and, of course, the phaeton was open; and

I rode behind it, and Dora sat with her back to the horses, looking

towards me. She kept the bouquet close to her on the cushion, and

wouldn’t allow Jip to sit on that side of her at all, for fear he should

crush it. She often carried it in her hand, often refreshed herself

with its fragrance. Our eyes at those times often met; and my great

astonishment is that I didn’t go over the head of my gallant grey into

the carriage.

There was dust, I believe. There was a good deal of dust, I believe. I

have a faint impression that Mr. Spenlow remonstrated with me for riding

in it; but I knew of none. I was sensible of a mist of love and beauty

about Dora, but of nothing else. He stood up sometimes, and asked me

what I thought of the prospect. I said it was delightful, and I dare

say it was; but it was all Dora to me. The sun shone Dora, and the birds

sang Dora. The south wind blew Dora, and the wild flowers in the hedges

were all Doras, to a bud. My comfort is, Miss Mills understood me. Miss

Mills alone could enter into my feelings thoroughly.

I don’t know how long we were going, and to this hour I know as little

where we went. Perhaps it was near Guildford. Perhaps some Arabian-night

magician, opened up the place for the day, and shut it up for ever when

we came away. It was a green spot, on a hill, carpeted with soft turf.

There were shady trees, and heather, and, as far as the eye could see, a

rich landscape.

It was a trying thing to find people here, waiting for us; and my

jealousy, even of the ladies, knew no bounds. But all of my own

sex--especially one impostor, three or four years my elder, with a red

whisker, on which he established an amount of presumption not to be

endured--were my mortal foes.

We all unpacked our baskets, and employed ourselves in getting dinner

ready. Red Whisker pretended he could make a salad (which I don’t

believe), and obtruded himself on public notice. Some of the young

ladies washed the lettuces for him, and sliced them under his

directions. Dora was among these. I felt that fate had pitted me against

this man, and one of us must fall.

Red Whisker made his salad (I wondered how they could eat it. Nothing

should have induced ME to touch it!) and voted himself into the charge

of the wine-cellar, which he constructed, being an ingenious beast, in

the hollow trunk of a tree. By and by, I saw him, with the majority of a

lobster on his plate, eating his dinner at the feet of Dora!

I have but an indistinct idea of what happened for some time after this

baleful object presented itself to my view. I was very merry, I know;

but it was hollow merriment. I attached myself to a young creature in

pink, with little eyes, and flirted with her desperately. She received

my attentions with favour; but whether on my account solely, or because

she had any designs on Red Whisker, I can’t say. Dora’s health was

drunk. When I drank it, I affected to interrupt my conversation for that

purpose, and to resume it immediately afterwards. I caught Dora’s eye as

I bowed to her, and I thought it looked appealing. But it looked at me

over the head of Red Whisker, and I was adamant.

The young creature in pink had a mother in green; and I rather think the

latter separated us from motives of policy. Howbeit, there was a general

breaking up of the party, while the remnants of the dinner were being

put away; and I strolled off by myself among the trees, in a raging and

remorseful state. I was debating whether I should pretend that I was not

well, and fly--I don’t know where--upon my gallant grey, when Dora and

Miss Mills met me.

‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said Miss Mills, ‘you are dull.’

I begged her pardon. Not at all.

‘And Dora,’ said Miss Mills, ‘YOU are dull.’

Oh dear no! Not in the least.

‘Mr. Copperfield and Dora,’ said Miss Mills, with an almost venerable

air. ‘Enough of this. Do not allow a trivial misunderstanding to wither

the blossoms of spring, which, once put forth and blighted, cannot be

renewed. I speak,’ said Miss Mills, ‘from experience of the past--the

remote, irrevocable past. The gushing fountains which sparkle in the

sun, must not be stopped in mere caprice; the oasis in the desert of

Sahara must not be plucked up idly.’

I hardly knew what I did, I was burning all over to that extraordinary

extent; but I took Dora’s little hand and kissed it--and she let me!

I kissed Miss Mills’s hand; and we all seemed, to my thinking, to go

straight up to the seventh heaven. We did not come down again. We stayed

up there all the evening. At first we strayed to and fro among the

trees: I with Dora’s shy arm drawn through mine: and Heaven knows,

folly as it all was, it would have been a happy fate to have been struck

immortal with those foolish feelings, and have stayed among the trees

for ever!

But, much too soon, we heard the others laughing and talking, and

calling ‘where’s Dora?’ So we went back, and they wanted Dora to sing.

Red Whisker would have got the guitar-case out of the carriage, but Dora

told him nobody knew where it was, but I. So Red Whisker was done for

in a moment; and I got it, and I unlocked it, and I took the guitar out,

and I sat by her, and I held her handkerchief and gloves, and I drank in

every note of her dear voice, and she sang to ME who loved her, and all

the others might applaud as much as they liked, but they had nothing to

do with it!

I was intoxicated with joy. I was afraid it was too happy to be real,

and that I should wake in Buckingham Street presently, and hear Mrs.

Crupp clinking the teacups in getting breakfast ready. But Dora sang,

and others sang, and Miss Mills sang--about the slumbering echoes in the

caverns of Memory; as if she were a hundred years old--and the evening

came on; and we had tea, with the kettle boiling gipsy-fashion; and I

was still as happy as ever.

I was happier than ever when the party broke up, and the other people,

defeated Red Whisker and all, went their several ways, and we went ours

through the still evening and the dying light, with sweet scents

rising up around us. Mr. Spenlow being a little drowsy after the

champagne--honour to the soil that grew the grape, to the grape that

made the wine, to the sun that ripened it, and to the merchant who

adulterated it!--and being fast asleep in a corner of the carriage, I

rode by the side and talked to Dora. She admired my horse and patted

him--oh, what a dear little hand it looked upon a horse!--and her shawl

would not keep right, and now and then I drew it round her with my arm;

and I even fancied that Jip began to see how it was, and to understand

that he must make up his mind to be friends with me.

That sagacious Miss Mills, too; that amiable, though quite used up,

recluse; that little patriarch of something less than twenty, who had

done with the world, and mustn’t on any account have the slumbering

echoes in the caverns of Memory awakened; what a kind thing she did!

‘Mr. Copperfield,’ said Miss Mills, ‘come to this side of the carriage a

moment--if you can spare a moment. I want to speak to you.’

Behold me, on my gallant grey, bending at the side of Miss Mills, with

my hand upon the carriage door!

‘Dora is coming to stay with me. She is coming home with me the day

after tomorrow. If you would like to call, I am sure papa would be

happy to see you.’ What could I do but invoke a silent blessing on Miss

Mills’s head, and store Miss Mills’s address in the securest corner of

my memory! What could I do but tell Miss Mills, with grateful looks

and fervent words, how much I appreciated her good offices, and what an

inestimable value I set upon her friendship!

Then Miss Mills benignantly dismissed me, saying, ‘Go back to Dora!’ and

I went; and Dora leaned out of the carriage to talk to me, and we talked

all the rest of the way; and I rode my gallant grey so close to the

wheel that I grazed his near fore leg against it, and ‘took the bark

off’, as his owner told me, ‘to the tune of three pun’ sivin’--which I

paid, and thought extremely cheap for so much joy. What time Miss Mills

sat looking at the moon, murmuring verses--and recalling, I suppose, the

ancient days when she and earth had anything in common.

Norwood was many miles too near, and we reached it many hours too soon;

but Mr. Spenlow came to himself a little short of it, and said,

‘You must come in, Copperfield, and rest!’ and I consenting, we had

sandwiches and wine-and-water. In the light room, Dora blushing looked

so lovely, that I could not tear myself away, but sat there staring, in

a dream, until the snoring of Mr. Spenlow inspired me with sufficient

consciousness to take my leave. So we parted; I riding all the way

to London with the farewell touch of Dora’s hand still light on mine,

recalling every incident and word ten thousand times; lying down in my

own bed at last, as enraptured a young noodle as ever was carried out of

his five wits by love.

When I awoke next morning, I was resolute to declare my passion to Dora,

and know my fate. Happiness or misery was now the question. There was no

other question that I knew of in the world, and only Dora could give the

answer to it. I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness, torturing

myself by putting every conceivable variety of discouraging construction

on all that ever had taken place between Dora and me. At last, arrayed

for the purpose at a vast expense, I went to Miss Mills’s, fraught with

a declaration.

How many times I went up and down the street, and round the

square--painfully aware of being a much better answer to the old riddle

than the original one--before I could persuade myself to go up the steps

and knock, is no matter now. Even when, at last, I had knocked, and was

waiting at the door, I had some flurried thought of asking if that

were Mr. Blackboy’s (in imitation of poor Barkis), begging pardon, and

retreating. But I kept my ground.

Mr. Mills was not at home. I did not expect he would be. Nobody wanted

HIM. Miss Mills was at home. Miss Mills would do.

I was shown into a room upstairs, where Miss Mills and Dora were. Jip

was there. Miss Mills was copying music (I recollect, it was a new song,

called ‘Affection’s Dirge’), and Dora was painting flowers. What were my

feelings, when I recognized my own flowers; the identical Covent Garden

Market purchase! I cannot say that they were very like, or that

they particularly resembled any flowers that have ever come under my

observation; but I knew from the paper round them which was accurately

copied, what the composition was.

Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her papa was not at

home: though I thought we all bore that with fortitude. Miss Mills was

conversational for a few minutes, and then, laying down her pen upon

‘Affection’s Dirge’, got up, and left the room.

I began to think I would put it off till tomorrow.

‘I hope your poor horse was not tired, when he got home at night,’ said

Dora, lifting up her beautiful eyes. ‘It was a long way for him.’

I began to think I would do it today.

‘It was a long way for him,’ said I, ‘for he had nothing to uphold him

on the journey.’

‘Wasn’t he fed, poor thing?’ asked Dora.

I began to think I would put it off till tomorrow.

‘Ye-yes,’ I said, ‘he was well taken care of. I mean he had not the

unutterable happiness that I had in being so near you.’

Dora bent her head over her drawing and said, after a little while--I

had sat, in the interval, in a burning fever, and with my legs in a very

rigid state--

‘You didn’t seem to be sensible of that happiness yourself, at one time

of the day.’

I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be done on the spot.

‘You didn’t care for that happiness in the least,’ said Dora, slightly

raising her eyebrows, and shaking her head, ‘when you were sitting by

Miss Kitt.’

Kitt, I should observe, was the name of the creature in pink, with the

little eyes.

‘Though certainly I don’t know why you should,’ said Dora, ‘or why you

should call it a happiness at all. But of course you don’t mean what you

say. And I am sure no one doubts your being at liberty to do whatever

you like. Jip, you naughty boy, come here!’

I don’t know how I did it. I did it in a moment. I intercepted Jip.

I had Dora in my arms. I was full of eloquence. I never stopped for a

word. I told her how I loved her. I told her I should die without her.

I told her that I idolized and worshipped her. Jip barked madly all the

time.

When Dora hung her head and cried, and trembled, my eloquence increased

so much the more. If she would like me to die for her, she had but to

say the word, and I was ready. Life without Dora’s love was not a thing

to have on any terms. I couldn’t bear it, and I wouldn’t. I had loved

her every minute, day and night, since I first saw her. I loved her at

that minute to distraction. I should always love her, every minute, to

distraction. Lovers had loved before, and lovers would love again; but

no lover had loved, might, could, would, or should ever love, as I loved

Dora. The more I raved, the more Jip barked. Each of us, in his own way,

got more mad every moment.

Well, well! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and by, quiet enough,

and Jip was lying in her lap, winking peacefully at me. It was off my

mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I were engaged.

I suppose we had some notion that this was to end in marriage. We must

have had some, because Dora stipulated that we were never to be married

without her papa’s consent. But, in our youthful ecstasy, I don’t think

that we really looked before us or behind us; or had any aspiration

beyond the ignorant present. We were to keep our secret from Mr.

Spenlow; but I am sure the idea never entered my head, then, that there

was anything dishonourable in that.

Miss Mills was more than usually pensive when Dora, going to find her,

brought her back;--I apprehend, because there was a tendency in what had

passed to awaken the slumbering echoes in the caverns of Memory. But she

gave us her blessing, and the assurance of her lasting friendship, and

spoke to us, generally, as became a Voice from the Cloister.

What an idle time it was! What an insubstantial, happy, foolish time it

was!

When I measured Dora’s finger for a ring that was to be made of

Forget-me-nots, and when the jeweller, to whom I took the measure, found

me out, and laughed over his order-book, and charged me anything he

liked for the pretty little toy, with its blue stones--so associated

in my remembrance with Dora’s hand, that yesterday, when I saw such

another, by chance, on the finger of my own daughter, there was a

momentary stirring in my heart, like pain!

When I walked about, exalted with my secret, and full of my own

interest, and felt the dignity of loving Dora, and of being beloved, so

much, that if I had walked the air, I could not have been more above the

people not so situated, who were creeping on the earth!

When we had those meetings in the garden of the square, and sat within

the dingy summer-house, so happy, that I love the London sparrows to

this hour, for nothing else, and see the plumage of the tropics in their

smoky feathers! When we had our first great quarrel (within a week

of our betrothal), and when Dora sent me back the ring, enclosed in a

despairing cocked-hat note, wherein she used the terrible expression

that ‘our love had begun in folly, and ended in madness!’ which dreadful

words occasioned me to tear my hair, and cry that all was over!

When, under cover of the night, I flew to Miss Mills, whom I saw by

stealth in a back kitchen where there was a mangle, and implored Miss

Mills to interpose between us and avert insanity. When Miss Mills

undertook the office and returned with Dora, exhorting us, from the

pulpit of her own bitter youth, to mutual concession, and the avoidance

of the Desert of Sahara!

When we cried, and made it up, and were so blest again, that the back

kitchen, mangle and all, changed to Love’s own temple, where we arranged

a plan of correspondence through Miss Mills, always to comprehend at

least one letter on each side every day!

What an idle time! What an insubstantial, happy, foolish time! Of all

the times of mine that Time has in his grip, there is none that in one

retrospect I can smile at half so much, and think of half so tenderly.