CHAPTER 35. DEPRESSION

As soon as I could recover my presence of mind, which quite deserted me

in the first overpowering shock of my aunt’s intelligence, I proposed

to Mr. Dick to come round to the chandler’s shop, and take possession of

the bed which Mr. Peggotty had lately vacated. The chandler’s shop being

in Hungerford Market, and Hungerford Market being a very different place

in those days, there was a low wooden colonnade before the door (not

very unlike that before the house where the little man and woman used

to live, in the old weather-glass), which pleased Mr. Dick mightily. The

glory of lodging over this structure would have compensated him, I dare

say, for many inconveniences; but, as there were really few to bear,

beyond the compound of flavours I have already mentioned, and perhaps

the want of a little more elbow-room, he was perfectly charmed with his

accommodation. Mrs. Crupp had indignantly assured him that there wasn’t

room to swing a cat there; but, as Mr. Dick justly observed to me,

sitting down on the foot of the bed, nursing his leg, ‘You know,

Trotwood, I don’t want to swing a cat. I never do swing a cat.

Therefore, what does that signify to ME!’

I tried to ascertain whether Mr. Dick had any understanding of the

causes of this sudden and great change in my aunt’s affairs. As I might

have expected, he had none at all. The only account he could give of it

was, that my aunt had said to him, the day before yesterday, ‘Now, Dick,

are you really and truly the philosopher I take you for?’ That then

he had said, Yes, he hoped so. That then my aunt had said, ‘Dick, I

am ruined.’ That then he had said, ‘Oh, indeed!’ That then my aunt had

praised him highly, which he was glad of. And that then they had come to

me, and had had bottled porter and sandwiches on the road.

Mr. Dick was so very complacent, sitting on the foot of the bed, nursing

his leg, and telling me this, with his eyes wide open and a surprised

smile, that I am sorry to say I was provoked into explaining to him

that ruin meant distress, want, and starvation; but I was soon bitterly

reproved for this harshness, by seeing his face turn pale, and tears

course down his lengthened cheeks, while he fixed upon me a look of such

unutterable woe, that it might have softened a far harder heart than

mine. I took infinitely greater pains to cheer him up again than I had

taken to depress him; and I soon understood (as I ought to have known at

first) that he had been so confident, merely because of his faith in

the wisest and most wonderful of women, and his unbounded reliance on my

intellectual resources. The latter, I believe, he considered a match for

any kind of disaster not absolutely mortal.

‘What can we do, Trotwood?’ said Mr. Dick. ‘There’s the Memorial-’

‘To be sure there is,’ said I. ‘But all we can do just now, Mr. Dick,

is to keep a cheerful countenance, and not let my aunt see that we are

thinking about it.’

He assented to this in the most earnest manner; and implored me, if I

should see him wandering an inch out of the right course, to recall him

by some of those superior methods which were always at my command. But I

regret to state that the fright I had given him proved too much for his

best attempts at concealment. All the evening his eyes wandered to my

aunt’s face, with an expression of the most dismal apprehension, as if

he saw her growing thin on the spot. He was conscious of this, and put

a constraint upon his head; but his keeping that immovable, and sitting

rolling his eyes like a piece of machinery, did not mend the matter at

all. I saw him look at the loaf at supper (which happened to be a small

one), as if nothing else stood between us and famine; and when my aunt

insisted on his making his customary repast, I detected him in the act

of pocketing fragments of his bread and cheese; I have no doubt for the

purpose of reviving us with those savings, when we should have reached

an advanced stage of attenuation.

My aunt, on the other hand, was in a composed frame of mind, which was

a lesson to all of us--to me, I am sure. She was extremely gracious

to Peggotty, except when I inadvertently called her by that name; and,

strange as I knew she felt in London, appeared quite at home. She was

to have my bed, and I was to lie in the sitting-room, to keep guard over

her. She made a great point of being so near the river, in case of a

conflagration; and I suppose really did find some satisfaction in that

circumstance.

‘Trot, my dear,’ said my aunt, when she saw me making preparations for

compounding her usual night-draught, ‘No!’

‘Nothing, aunt?’

‘Not wine, my dear. Ale.’

‘But there is wine here, aunt. And you always have it made of wine.’

‘Keep that, in case of sickness,’ said my aunt. ‘We mustn’t use it

carelessly, Trot. Ale for me. Half a pint.’

I thought Mr. Dick would have fallen, insensible. My aunt being

resolute, I went out and got the ale myself. As it was growing late,

Peggotty and Mr. Dick took that opportunity of repairing to the

chandler’s shop together. I parted from him, poor fellow, at the corner

of the street, with his great kite at his back, a very monument of human

misery.

My aunt was walking up and down the room when I returned, crimping the

borders of her nightcap with her fingers. I warmed the ale and made the

toast on the usual infallible principles. When it was ready for her, she

was ready for it, with her nightcap on, and the skirt of her gown turned

back on her knees.

‘My dear,’ said my aunt, after taking a spoonful of it; ‘it’s a great

deal better than wine. Not half so bilious.’

I suppose I looked doubtful, for she added:

‘Tut, tut, child. If nothing worse than Ale happens to us, we are well

off.’

‘I should think so myself, aunt, I am sure,’ said I.

‘Well, then, why DON’T you think so?’ said my aunt.

‘Because you and I are very different people,’ I returned.

‘Stuff and nonsense, Trot!’ replied my aunt.

My aunt went on with a quiet enjoyment, in which there was very little

affectation, if any; drinking the warm ale with a tea-spoon, and soaking

her strips of toast in it.

‘Trot,’ said she, ‘I don’t care for strange faces in general, but I

rather like that Barkis of yours, do you know!’

‘It’s better than a hundred pounds to hear you say so!’ said I.

‘It’s a most extraordinary world,’ observed my aunt, rubbing her nose;

‘how that woman ever got into it with that name, is unaccountable to me.

It would be much more easy to be born a Jackson, or something of that

sort, one would think.’

‘Perhaps she thinks so, too; it’s not her fault,’ said I.

‘I suppose not,’ returned my aunt, rather grudging the admission; ‘but

it’s very aggravating. However, she’s Barkis now. That’s some comfort.

Barkis is uncommonly fond of you, Trot.’

‘There is nothing she would leave undone to prove it,’ said I.

‘Nothing, I believe,’ returned my aunt. ‘Here, the poor fool has been

begging and praying about handing over some of her money--because she

has got too much of it. A simpleton!’

My aunt’s tears of pleasure were positively trickling down into the warm

ale.

‘She’s the most ridiculous creature that ever was born,’ said my aunt.

‘I knew, from the first moment when I saw her with that poor dear

blessed baby of a mother of yours, that she was the most ridiculous of

mortals. But there are good points in Barkis!’

Affecting to laugh, she got an opportunity of putting her hand to

her eyes. Having availed herself of it, she resumed her toast and her

discourse together.

‘Ah! Mercy upon us!’ sighed my aunt. ‘I know all about it, Trot! Barkis

and myself had quite a gossip while you were out with Dick. I know all

about it. I don’t know where these wretched girls expect to go to, for

my part. I wonder they don’t knock out their brains against--against

mantelpieces,’ said my aunt; an idea which was probably suggested to her

by her contemplation of mine.

‘Poor Emily!’ said I.

‘Oh, don’t talk to me about poor,’ returned my aunt. ‘She should have

thought of that, before she caused so much misery! Give me a kiss, Trot.

I am sorry for your early experience.’

As I bent forward, she put her tumbler on my knee to detain me, and

said:

‘Oh, Trot, Trot! And so you fancy yourself in love! Do you?’

‘Fancy, aunt!’ I exclaimed, as red as I could be. ‘I adore her with my

whole soul!’

‘Dora, indeed!’ returned my aunt. ‘And you mean to say the little thing

is very fascinating, I suppose?’

‘My dear aunt,’ I replied, ‘no one can form the least idea what she is!’

‘Ah! And not silly?’ said my aunt.

‘Silly, aunt!’

I seriously believe it had never once entered my head for a single

moment, to consider whether she was or not. I resented the idea, of

course; but I was in a manner struck by it, as a new one altogether.

‘Not light-headed?’ said my aunt.

‘Light-headed, aunt!’ I could only repeat this daring speculation

with the same kind of feeling with which I had repeated the preceding

question.

‘Well, well!’ said my aunt. ‘I only ask. I don’t depreciate her. Poor

little couple! And so you think you were formed for one another, and are

to go through a party-supper-table kind of life, like two pretty pieces

of confectionery, do you, Trot?’

She asked me this so kindly, and with such a gentle air, half playful

and half sorrowful, that I was quite touched.

‘We are young and inexperienced, aunt, I know,’ I replied; ‘and I dare

say we say and think a good deal that is rather foolish. But we love

one another truly, I am sure. If I thought Dora could ever love anybody

else, or cease to love me; or that I could ever love anybody else, or

cease to love her; I don’t know what I should do--go out of my mind, I

think!’

‘Ah, Trot!’ said my aunt, shaking her head, and smiling gravely; ‘blind,

blind, blind!’

‘Someone that I know, Trot,’ my aunt pursued, after a pause, ‘though of

a very pliant disposition, has an earnestness of affection in him that

reminds me of poor Baby. Earnestness is what that Somebody must look

for, to sustain him and improve him, Trot. Deep, downright, faithful

earnestness.’

‘If you only knew the earnestness of Dora, aunt!’ I cried.

‘Oh, Trot!’ she said again; ‘blind, blind!’ and without knowing why,

I felt a vague unhappy loss or want of something overshadow me like a

cloud.

‘However,’ said my aunt, ‘I don’t want to put two young creatures out

of conceit with themselves, or to make them unhappy; so, though it is a

girl and boy attachment, and girl and boy attachments very often--mind!

I don’t say always!--come to nothing, still we’ll be serious about it,

and hope for a prosperous issue one of these days. There’s time enough

for it to come to anything!’

This was not upon the whole very comforting to a rapturous lover; but

I was glad to have my aunt in my confidence, and I was mindful of

her being fatigued. So I thanked her ardently for this mark of her

affection, and for all her other kindnesses towards me; and after a

tender good night, she took her nightcap into my bedroom.

How miserable I was, when I lay down! How I thought and thought about my

being poor, in Mr. Spenlow’s eyes; about my not being what I thought I

was, when I proposed to Dora; about the chivalrous necessity of

telling Dora what my worldly condition was, and releasing her from her

engagement if she thought fit; about how I should contrive to live,

during the long term of my articles, when I was earning nothing; about

doing something to assist my aunt, and seeing no way of doing anything;

about coming down to have no money in my pocket, and to wear a shabby

coat, and to be able to carry Dora no little presents, and to ride no

gallant greys, and to show myself in no agreeable light! Sordid and

selfish as I knew it was, and as I tortured myself by knowing that it

was, to let my mind run on my own distress so much, I was so devoted

to Dora that I could not help it. I knew that it was base in me not to

think more of my aunt, and less of myself; but, so far, selfishness

was inseparable from Dora, and I could not put Dora on one side for any

mortal creature. How exceedingly miserable I was, that night!

As to sleep, I had dreams of poverty in all sorts of shapes, but I

seemed to dream without the previous ceremony of going to sleep. Now I

was ragged, wanting to sell Dora matches, six bundles for a halfpenny;

now I was at the office in a nightgown and boots, remonstrated with by

Mr. Spenlow on appearing before the clients in that airy attire; now

I was hungrily picking up the crumbs that fell from old Tiffey’s

daily biscuit, regularly eaten when St. Paul’s struck one; now I was

hopelessly endeavouring to get a licence to marry Dora, having nothing

but one of Uriah Heep’s gloves to offer in exchange, which the whole

Commons rejected; and still, more or less conscious of my own room, I

was always tossing about like a distressed ship in a sea of bed-clothes.

My aunt was restless, too, for I frequently heard her walking to and

fro. Two or three times in the course of the night, attired in a long

flannel wrapper in which she looked seven feet high, she appeared, like

a disturbed ghost, in my room, and came to the side of the sofa on which

I lay. On the first occasion I started up in alarm, to learn that she

inferred from a particular light in the sky, that Westminster Abbey

was on fire; and to be consulted in reference to the probability of its

igniting Buckingham Street, in case the wind changed. Lying still, after

that, I found that she sat down near me, whispering to herself ‘Poor

boy!’ And then it made me twenty times more wretched, to know how

unselfishly mindful she was of me, and how selfishly mindful I was of

myself.

It was difficult to believe that a night so long to me, could be short

to anybody else. This consideration set me thinking and thinking of an

imaginary party where people were dancing the hours away, until that

became a dream too, and I heard the music incessantly playing one tune,

and saw Dora incessantly dancing one dance, without taking the least

notice of me. The man who had been playing the harp all night, was

trying in vain to cover it with an ordinary-sized nightcap, when I

awoke; or I should rather say, when I left off trying to go to sleep,

and saw the sun shining in through the window at last.

There was an old Roman bath in those days at the bottom of one of the

streets out of the Strand--it may be there still--in which I have had

many a cold plunge. Dressing myself as quietly as I could, and leaving

Peggotty to look after my aunt, I tumbled head foremost into it,

and then went for a walk to Hampstead. I had a hope that this brisk

treatment might freshen my wits a little; and I think it did them good,

for I soon came to the conclusion that the first step I ought to take

was, to try if my articles could be cancelled and the premium recovered.

I got some breakfast on the Heath, and walked back to Doctors’ Commons,

along the watered roads and through a pleasant smell of summer flowers,

growing in gardens and carried into town on hucksters’ heads, intent on

this first effort to meet our altered circumstances.

I arrived at the office so soon, after all, that I had half an hour’s

loitering about the Commons, before old Tiffey, who was always first,

appeared with his key. Then I sat down in my shady corner, looking up

at the sunlight on the opposite chimney-pots, and thinking about Dora;

until Mr. Spenlow came in, crisp and curly.

‘How are you, Copperfield?’ said he. ‘Fine morning!’

‘Beautiful morning, sir,’ said I. ‘Could I say a word to you before you

go into Court?’

‘By all means,’ said he. ‘Come into my room.’

I followed him into his room, and he began putting on his gown, and

touching himself up before a little glass he had, hanging inside a

closet door.

‘I am sorry to say,’ said I, ‘that I have some rather disheartening

intelligence from my aunt.’

‘No!’ said he. ‘Dear me! Not paralysis, I hope?’

‘It has no reference to her health, sir,’ I replied. ‘She has met with

some large losses. In fact, she has very little left, indeed.’

‘You as-tound me, Copperfield!’ cried Mr. Spenlow.

I shook my head. ‘Indeed, sir,’ said I, ‘her affairs are so changed,

that I wished to ask you whether it would be possible--at a sacrifice on

our part of some portion of the premium, of course,’ I put in this, on

the spur of the moment, warned by the blank expression of his face--‘to

cancel my articles?’

What it cost me to make this proposal, nobody knows. It was like asking,

as a favour, to be sentenced to transportation from Dora.

‘To cancel your articles, Copperfield? Cancel?’

I explained with tolerable firmness, that I really did not know where

my means of subsistence were to come from, unless I could earn them for

myself. I had no fear for the future, I said--and I laid great emphasis

on that, as if to imply that I should still be decidedly eligible for a

son-in-law one of these days--but, for the present, I was thrown upon

my own resources. ‘I am extremely sorry to hear this, Copperfield,’ said

Mr. Spenlow. ‘Extremely sorry. It is not usual to cancel articles for

any such reason. It is not a professional course of proceeding. It is

not a convenient precedent at all. Far from it. At the same time--’

‘You are very good, sir,’ I murmured, anticipating a concession.

‘Not at all. Don’t mention it,’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘At the same time, I

was going to say, if it had been my lot to have my hands unfettered--if

I had not a partner--Mr. Jorkins--’

My hopes were dashed in a moment, but I made another effort.

‘Do you think, sir,’ said I, ‘if I were to mention it to Mr. Jorkins--’

Mr. Spenlow shook his head discouragingly. ‘Heaven forbid, Copperfield,’

he replied, ‘that I should do any man an injustice: still less, Mr.

Jorkins. But I know my partner, Copperfield. Mr. Jorkins is not a man

to respond to a proposition of this peculiar nature. Mr. Jorkins is very

difficult to move from the beaten track. You know what he is!’

I am sure I knew nothing about him, except that he had originally been

alone in the business, and now lived by himself in a house near Montagu

Square, which was fearfully in want of painting; that he came very

late of a day, and went away very early; that he never appeared to be

consulted about anything; and that he had a dingy little black-hole of

his own upstairs, where no business was ever done, and where there was

a yellow old cartridge-paper pad upon his desk, unsoiled by ink, and

reported to be twenty years of age.

‘Would you object to my mentioning it to him, sir?’ I asked.

‘By no means,’ said Mr. Spenlow. ‘But I have some experience of Mr.

Jorkins, Copperfield. I wish it were otherwise, for I should be happy

to meet your views in any respect. I cannot have the objection to your

mentioning it to Mr. Jorkins, Copperfield, if you think it worth while.’

Availing myself of this permission, which was given with a warm shake

of the hand, I sat thinking about Dora, and looking at the sunlight

stealing from the chimney-pots down the wall of the opposite house,

until Mr. Jorkins came. I then went up to Mr. Jorkins’s room, and

evidently astonished Mr. Jorkins very much by making my appearance

there.

‘Come in, Mr. Copperfield,’ said Mr. Jorkins. ‘Come in!’

I went in, and sat down; and stated my case to Mr. Jorkins pretty much

as I had stated it to Mr. Spenlow. Mr. Jorkins was not by any means the

awful creature one might have expected, but a large, mild, smooth-faced

man of sixty, who took so much snuff that there was a tradition in the

Commons that he lived principally on that stimulant, having little room

in his system for any other article of diet.

‘You have mentioned this to Mr. Spenlow, I suppose?’ said Mr. Jorkins;

when he had heard me, very restlessly, to an end.

I answered Yes, and told him that Mr. Spenlow had introduced his name.

‘He said I should object?’ asked Mr. Jorkins.

I was obliged to admit that Mr. Spenlow had considered it probable.

‘I am sorry to say, Mr. Copperfield, I can’t advance your object,’ said

Mr. Jorkins, nervously. ‘The fact is--but I have an appointment at the

Bank, if you’ll have the goodness to excuse me.’

With that he rose in a great hurry, and was going out of the room, when

I made bold to say that I feared, then, there was no way of arranging

the matter?

‘No!’ said Mr. Jorkins, stopping at the door to shake his head. ‘Oh, no!

I object, you know,’ which he said very rapidly, and went out. ‘You must

be aware, Mr. Copperfield,’ he added, looking restlessly in at the door

again, ‘if Mr. Spenlow objects--’

‘Personally, he does not object, sir,’ said I.

‘Oh! Personally!’ repeated Mr. Jorkins, in an impatient manner. ‘I

assure you there’s an objection, Mr. Copperfield. Hopeless! What you

wish to be done, can’t be done. I--I really have got an appointment

at the Bank.’ With that he fairly ran away; and to the best of my

knowledge, it was three days before he showed himself in the Commons

again.

Being very anxious to leave no stone unturned, I waited until Mr.

Spenlow came in, and then described what had passed; giving him to

understand that I was not hopeless of his being able to soften the

adamantine Jorkins, if he would undertake the task.

‘Copperfield,’ returned Mr. Spenlow, with a gracious smile, ‘you have

not known my partner, Mr. Jorkins, as long as I have. Nothing is

farther from my thoughts than to attribute any degree of artifice to Mr.

Jorkins. But Mr. Jorkins has a way of stating his objections which often

deceives people. No, Copperfield!’ shaking his head. ‘Mr. Jorkins is not

to be moved, believe me!’

I was completely bewildered between Mr. Spenlow and Mr. Jorkins, as

to which of them really was the objecting partner; but I saw with

sufficient clearness that there was obduracy somewhere in the firm, and

that the recovery of my aunt’s thousand pounds was out of the

question. In a state of despondency, which I remember with anything

but satisfaction, for I know it still had too much reference to myself

(though always in connexion with Dora), I left the office, and went

homeward.

I was trying to familiarize my mind with the worst, and to present to

myself the arrangements we should have to make for the future in their

sternest aspect, when a hackney-chariot coming after me, and stopping at

my very feet, occasioned me to look up. A fair hand was stretched forth

to me from the window; and the face I had never seen without a feeling

of serenity and happiness, from the moment when it first turned back

on the old oak staircase with the great broad balustrade, and when I

associated its softened beauty with the stained-glass window in the

church, was smiling on me.

‘Agnes!’ I joyfully exclaimed. ‘Oh, my dear Agnes, of all people in the

world, what a pleasure to see you!’

‘Is it, indeed?’ she said, in her cordial voice.

‘I want to talk to you so much!’ said I. ‘It’s such a lightening of my

heart, only to look at you! If I had had a conjuror’s cap, there is no

one I should have wished for but you!’

‘What?’ returned Agnes.

‘Well! perhaps Dora first,’ I admitted, with a blush.

‘Certainly, Dora first, I hope,’ said Agnes, laughing.

‘But you next!’ said I. ‘Where are you going?’

She was going to my rooms to see my aunt. The day being very fine, she

was glad to come out of the chariot, which smelt (I had my head in it

all this time) like a stable put under a cucumber-frame. I dismissed the

coachman, and she took my arm, and we walked on together. She was like

Hope embodied, to me. How different I felt in one short minute, having

Agnes at my side!

My aunt had written her one of the odd, abrupt notes--very little longer

than a Bank note--to which her epistolary efforts were usually limited.

She had stated therein that she had fallen into adversity, and was

leaving Dover for good, but had quite made up her mind to it, and was

so well that nobody need be uncomfortable about her. Agnes had come to

London to see my aunt, between whom and herself there had been a mutual

liking these many years: indeed, it dated from the time of my taking up

my residence in Mr. Wickfield’s house. She was not alone, she said. Her

papa was with her--and Uriah Heep.

‘And now they are partners,’ said I. ‘Confound him!’

‘Yes,’ said Agnes. ‘They have some business here; and I took advantage

of their coming, to come too. You must not think my visit all friendly

and disinterested, Trotwood, for--I am afraid I may be cruelly

prejudiced--I do not like to let papa go away alone, with him.’ ‘Does he

exercise the same influence over Mr. Wickfield still, Agnes?’

Agnes shook her head. ‘There is such a change at home,’ said she, ‘that

you would scarcely know the dear old house. They live with us now.’

‘They?’ said I.

‘Mr. Heep and his mother. He sleeps in your old room,’ said Agnes,

looking up into my face.

‘I wish I had the ordering of his dreams,’ said I. ‘He wouldn’t sleep

there long.’

‘I keep my own little room,’ said Agnes, ‘where I used to learn my

lessons. How the time goes! You remember? The little panelled room that

opens from the drawing-room?’

‘Remember, Agnes? When I saw you, for the first time, coming out at the

door, with your quaint little basket of keys hanging at your side?’

‘It is just the same,’ said Agnes, smiling. ‘I am glad you think of it

so pleasantly. We were very happy.’

‘We were, indeed,’ said I.

‘I keep that room to myself still; but I cannot always desert Mrs. Heep,

you know. And so,’ said Agnes, quietly, ‘I feel obliged to bear her

company, when I might prefer to be alone. But I have no other reason to

complain of her. If she tires me, sometimes, by her praises of her son,

it is only natural in a mother. He is a very good son to her.’

I looked at Agnes when she said these words, without detecting in her

any consciousness of Uriah’s design. Her mild but earnest eyes met

mine with their own beautiful frankness, and there was no change in her

gentle face.

‘The chief evil of their presence in the house,’ said Agnes, ‘is that I

cannot be as near papa as I could wish--Uriah Heep being so much between

us--and cannot watch over him, if that is not too bold a thing to say,

as closely as I would. But if any fraud or treachery is practising

against him, I hope that simple love and truth will be strong in the

end. I hope that real love and truth are stronger in the end than any

evil or misfortune in the world.’

A certain bright smile, which I never saw on any other face, died away,

even while I thought how good it was, and how familiar it had once been

to me; and she asked me, with a quick change of expression (we were

drawing very near my street), if I knew how the reverse in my aunt’s

circumstances had been brought about. On my replying no, she had not

told me yet, Agnes became thoughtful, and I fancied I felt her arm

tremble in mine.

We found my aunt alone, in a state of some excitement. A difference

of opinion had arisen between herself and Mrs. Crupp, on an abstract

question (the propriety of chambers being inhabited by the gentler sex);

and my aunt, utterly indifferent to spasms on the part of Mrs. Crupp,

had cut the dispute short, by informing that lady that she smelt of

my brandy, and that she would trouble her to walk out. Both of these

expressions Mrs. Crupp considered actionable, and had expressed her

intention of bringing before a ‘British Judy’--meaning, it was supposed,

the bulwark of our national liberties.

My aunt, however, having had time to cool, while Peggotty was out

showing Mr. Dick the soldiers at the Horse Guards--and being, besides,

greatly pleased to see Agnes--rather plumed herself on the affair than

otherwise, and received us with unimpaired good humour. When Agnes laid

her bonnet on the table, and sat down beside her, I could not but think,

looking on her mild eyes and her radiant forehead, how natural it

seemed to have her there; how trustfully, although she was so young and

inexperienced, my aunt confided in her; how strong she was, indeed, in

simple love and truth.

We began to talk about my aunt’s losses, and I told them what I had

tried to do that morning.

‘Which was injudicious, Trot,’ said my aunt, ‘but well meant. You are

a generous boy--I suppose I must say, young man, now--and I am proud of

you, my dear. So far, so good. Now, Trot and Agnes, let us look the case

of Betsey Trotwood in the face, and see how it stands.’

I observed Agnes turn pale, as she looked very attentively at my aunt.

My aunt, patting her cat, looked very attentively at Agnes.

‘Betsey Trotwood,’ said my aunt, who had always kept her money matters

to herself. ‘--I don’t mean your sister, Trot, my dear, but myself--had

a certain property. It don’t matter how much; enough to live on. More;

for she had saved a little, and added to it. Betsey funded her property

for some time, and then, by the advice of her man of business, laid

it out on landed security. That did very well, and returned very good

interest, till Betsey was paid off. I am talking of Betsey as if she

was a man-of-war. Well! Then, Betsey had to look about her, for a new

investment. She thought she was wiser, now, than her man of business,

who was not such a good man of business by this time, as he used to

be--I am alluding to your father, Agnes--and she took it into her head

to lay it out for herself. So she took her pigs,’ said my aunt, ‘to a

foreign market; and a very bad market it turned out to be. First, she

lost in the mining way, and then she lost in the diving way--fishing up

treasure, or some such Tom Tiddler nonsense,’ explained my aunt, rubbing

her nose; ‘and then she lost in the mining way again, and, last of all,

to set the thing entirely to rights, she lost in the banking way. I

don’t know what the Bank shares were worth for a little while,’ said my

aunt; ‘cent per cent was the lowest of it, I believe; but the Bank was

at the other end of the world, and tumbled into space, for what I know;

anyhow, it fell to pieces, and never will and never can pay sixpence;

and Betsey’s sixpences were all there, and there’s an end of them. Least

said, soonest mended!’

My aunt concluded this philosophical summary, by fixing her eyes with a

kind of triumph on Agnes, whose colour was gradually returning.

‘Dear Miss Trotwood, is that all the history?’ said Agnes.

‘I hope it’s enough, child,’ said my aunt. ‘If there had been more

money to lose, it wouldn’t have been all, I dare say. Betsey would have

contrived to throw that after the rest, and make another chapter, I have

little doubt. But there was no more money, and there’s no more story.’

Agnes had listened at first with suspended breath. Her colour still came

and went, but she breathed more freely. I thought I knew why. I thought

she had had some fear that her unhappy father might be in some way to

blame for what had happened. My aunt took her hand in hers, and laughed.

‘Is that all?’ repeated my aunt. ‘Why, yes, that’s all, except, “And she

lived happy ever afterwards.” Perhaps I may add that of Betsey yet, one

of these days. Now, Agnes, you have a wise head. So have you, Trot, in

some things, though I can’t compliment you always’; and here my aunt

shook her own at me, with an energy peculiar to herself. ‘What’s to be

done? Here’s the cottage, taking one time with another, will produce

say seventy pounds a year. I think we may safely put it down at

that. Well!--That’s all we’ve got,’ said my aunt; with whom it was an

idiosyncrasy, as it is with some horses, to stop very short when she

appeared to be in a fair way of going on for a long while.

‘Then,’ said my aunt, after a rest, ‘there’s Dick. He’s good for a

hundred a-year, but of course that must be expended on himself. I would

sooner send him away, though I know I am the only person who appreciates

him, than have him, and not spend his money on himself. How can Trot and

I do best, upon our means? What do you say, Agnes?’

‘I say, aunt,’ I interposed, ‘that I must do something!’

‘Go for a soldier, do you mean?’ returned my aunt, alarmed; ‘or go to

sea? I won’t hear of it. You are to be a proctor. We’re not going to

have any knockings on the head in THIS family, if you please, sir.’

I was about to explain that I was not desirous of introducing that mode

of provision into the family, when Agnes inquired if my rooms were held

for any long term?

‘You come to the point, my dear,’ said my aunt. ‘They are not to be got

rid of, for six months at least, unless they could be underlet, and that

I don’t believe. The last man died here. Five people out of six would

die--of course--of that woman in nankeen with the flannel petticoat. I

have a little ready money; and I agree with you, the best thing we can

do, is, to live the term out here, and get a bedroom hard by.’

I thought it my duty to hint at the discomfort my aunt would sustain,

from living in a continual state of guerilla warfare with Mrs. Crupp;

but she disposed of that objection summarily by declaring that, on the

first demonstration of hostilities, she was prepared to astonish Mrs.

Crupp for the whole remainder of her natural life.

‘I have been thinking, Trotwood,’ said Agnes, diffidently, ‘that if you

had time--’

‘I have a good deal of time, Agnes. I am always disengaged after four

or five o’clock, and I have time early in the morning. In one way and

another,’ said I, conscious of reddening a little as I thought of the

hours and hours I had devoted to fagging about town, and to and fro upon

the Norwood Road, ‘I have abundance of time.’

‘I know you would not mind,’ said Agnes, coming to me, and speaking in

a low voice, so full of sweet and hopeful consideration that I hear it

now, ‘the duties of a secretary.’

‘Mind, my dear Agnes?’

‘Because,’ continued Agnes, ‘Doctor Strong has acted on his intention of

retiring, and has come to live in London; and he asked papa, I know,

if he could recommend him one. Don’t you think he would rather have his

favourite old pupil near him, than anybody else?’

‘Dear Agnes!’ said I. ‘What should I do without you! You are always my

good angel. I told you so. I never think of you in any other light.’

Agnes answered with her pleasant laugh, that one good Angel (meaning

Dora) was enough; and went on to remind me that the Doctor had been

used to occupy himself in his study, early in the morning, and in the

evening--and that probably my leisure would suit his requirements very

well. I was scarcely more delighted with the prospect of earning my own

bread, than with the hope of earning it under my old master; in short,

acting on the advice of Agnes, I sat down and wrote a letter to the

Doctor, stating my object, and appointing to call on him next day at

ten in the forenoon. This I addressed to Highgate--for in that place, so

memorable to me, he lived--and went and posted, myself, without losing a

minute.

Wherever Agnes was, some agreeable token of her noiseless presence

seemed inseparable from the place. When I came back, I found my aunt’s

birds hanging, just as they had hung so long in the parlour window of

the cottage; and my easy-chair imitating my aunt’s much easier chair in

its position at the open window; and even the round green fan, which my

aunt had brought away with her, screwed on to the window-sill. I knew

who had done all this, by its seeming to have quietly done itself; and I

should have known in a moment who had arranged my neglected books in the

old order of my school days, even if I had supposed Agnes to be miles

away, instead of seeing her busy with them, and smiling at the disorder

into which they had fallen.

My aunt was quite gracious on the subject of the Thames (it really did

look very well with the sun upon it, though not like the sea before the

cottage), but she could not relent towards the London smoke, which, she

said, ‘peppered everything’. A complete revolution, in which Peggotty

bore a prominent part, was being effected in every corner of my rooms,

in regard of this pepper; and I was looking on, thinking how little even

Peggotty seemed to do with a good deal of bustle, and how much Agnes did

without any bustle at all, when a knock came at the door.

‘I think,’ said Agnes, turning pale, ‘it’s papa. He promised me that he

would come.’

I opened the door, and admitted, not only Mr. Wickfield, but Uriah Heep.

I had not seen Mr. Wickfield for some time. I was prepared for a great

change in him, after what I had heard from Agnes, but his appearance

shocked me.

It was not that he looked many years older, though still dressed

with the old scrupulous cleanliness; or that there was an unwholesome

ruddiness upon his face; or that his eyes were full and bloodshot; or

that there was a nervous trembling in his hand, the cause of which I

knew, and had for some years seen at work. It was not that he had lost

his good looks, or his old bearing of a gentleman--for that he had

not--but the thing that struck me most, was, that with the evidences of

his native superiority still upon him, he should submit himself to that

crawling impersonation of meanness, Uriah Heep. The reversal of the

two natures, in their relative positions, Uriah’s of power and Mr.

Wickfield’s of dependence, was a sight more painful to me than I can

express. If I had seen an Ape taking command of a Man, I should hardly

have thought it a more degrading spectacle.

He appeared to be only too conscious of it himself. When he came in, he

stood still; and with his head bowed, as if he felt it. This was

only for a moment; for Agnes softly said to him, ‘Papa! Here is Miss

Trotwood--and Trotwood, whom you have not seen for a long while!’ and

then he approached, and constrainedly gave my aunt his hand, and shook

hands more cordially with me. In the moment’s pause I speak of, I saw

Uriah’s countenance form itself into a most ill-favoured smile. Agnes

saw it too, I think, for she shrank from him.

What my aunt saw, or did not see, I defy the science of physiognomy

to have made out, without her own consent. I believe there never was

anybody with such an imperturbable countenance when she chose. Her face

might have been a dead-wall on the occasion in question, for any light

it threw upon her thoughts; until she broke silence with her usual

abruptness.

‘Well, Wickfield!’ said my aunt; and he looked up at her for the first

time. ‘I have been telling your daughter how well I have been disposing

of my money for myself, because I couldn’t trust it to you, as you were

growing rusty in business matters. We have been taking counsel together,

and getting on very well, all things considered. Agnes is worth the

whole firm, in my opinion.’

‘If I may umbly make the remark,’ said Uriah Heep, with a writhe, ‘I

fully agree with Miss Betsey Trotwood, and should be only too appy if

Miss Agnes was a partner.’

‘You’re a partner yourself, you know,’ returned my aunt, ‘and that’s

about enough for you, I expect. How do you find yourself, sir?’

In acknowledgement of this question, addressed to him with extraordinary

curtness, Mr. Heep, uncomfortably clutching the blue bag he carried,

replied that he was pretty well, he thanked my aunt, and hoped she was

the same.

‘And you, Master--I should say, Mister Copperfield,’ pursued Uriah. ‘I

hope I see you well! I am rejoiced to see you, Mister Copperfield, even

under present circumstances.’ I believed that; for he seemed to relish

them very much. ‘Present circumstances is not what your friends would

wish for you, Mister Copperfield, but it isn’t money makes the man:

it’s--I am really unequal with my umble powers to express what it is,’

said Uriah, with a fawning jerk, ‘but it isn’t money!’

Here he shook hands with me: not in the common way, but standing at

a good distance from me, and lifting my hand up and down like a pump

handle, that he was a little afraid of.

‘And how do you think we are looking, Master Copperfield,--I should

say, Mister?’ fawned Uriah. ‘Don’t you find Mr. Wickfield blooming, sir?

Years don’t tell much in our firm, Master Copperfield, except in raising

up the umble, namely, mother and self--and in developing,’ he added, as

an afterthought, ‘the beautiful, namely, Miss Agnes.’

He jerked himself about, after this compliment, in such an intolerable

manner, that my aunt, who had sat looking straight at him, lost all

patience.

‘Deuce take the man!’ said my aunt, sternly, ‘what’s he about? Don’t be

galvanic, sir!’

‘I ask your pardon, Miss Trotwood,’ returned Uriah; ‘I’m aware you’re

nervous.’

‘Go along with you, sir!’ said my aunt, anything but appeased. ‘Don’t

presume to say so! I am nothing of the sort. If you’re an eel, sir,

conduct yourself like one. If you’re a man, control your limbs, sir!

Good God!’ said my aunt, with great indignation, ‘I am not going to be

serpentined and corkscrewed out of my senses!’

Mr. Heep was rather abashed, as most people might have been, by this

explosion; which derived great additional force from the indignant

manner in which my aunt afterwards moved in her chair, and shook her

head as if she were making snaps or bounces at him. But he said to me

aside in a meek voice:

‘I am well aware, Master Copperfield, that Miss Trotwood, though an

excellent lady, has a quick temper (indeed I think I had the pleasure

of knowing her, when I was a numble clerk, before you did, Master

Copperfield), and it’s only natural, I am sure, that it should be made

quicker by present circumstances. The wonder is, that it isn’t much

worse! I only called to say that if there was anything we could do, in

present circumstances, mother or self, or Wickfield and Heep,--we should

be really glad. I may go so far?’ said Uriah, with a sickly smile at his

partner.

‘Uriah Heep,’ said Mr. Wickfield, in a monotonous forced way, ‘is active

in the business, Trotwood. What he says, I quite concur in. You know

I had an old interest in you. Apart from that, what Uriah says I quite

concur in!’

‘Oh, what a reward it is,’ said Uriah, drawing up one leg, at the risk

of bringing down upon himself another visitation from my aunt, ‘to be so

trusted in! But I hope I am able to do something to relieve him from the

fatigues of business, Master Copperfield!’

‘Uriah Heep is a great relief to me,’ said Mr. Wickfield, in the same

dull voice. ‘It’s a load off my mind, Trotwood, to have such a partner.’

The red fox made him say all this, I knew, to exhibit him to me in the

light he had indicated on the night when he poisoned my rest. I saw the

same ill-favoured smile upon his face again, and saw how he watched me.

‘You are not going, papa?’ said Agnes, anxiously. ‘Will you not walk

back with Trotwood and me?’

He would have looked to Uriah, I believe, before replying, if that

worthy had not anticipated him.

‘I am bespoke myself,’ said Uriah, ‘on business; otherwise I should

have been appy to have kept with my friends. But I leave my partner to

represent the firm. Miss Agnes, ever yours! I wish you good-day, Master

Copperfield, and leave my umble respects for Miss Betsey Trotwood.’

With those words, he retired, kissing his great hand, and leering at us

like a mask.

We sat there, talking about our pleasant old Canterbury days, an hour

or two. Mr. Wickfield, left to Agnes, soon became more like his former

self; though there was a settled depression upon him, which he never

shook off. For all that, he brightened; and had an evident pleasure in

hearing us recall the little incidents of our old life, many of which he

remembered very well. He said it was like those times, to be alone with

Agnes and me again; and he wished to Heaven they had never changed. I am

sure there was an influence in the placid face of Agnes, and in the very

touch of her hand upon his arm, that did wonders for him.

My aunt (who was busy nearly all this while with Peggotty, in the inner

room) would not accompany us to the place where they were staying, but

insisted on my going; and I went. We dined together. After dinner, Agnes

sat beside him, as of old, and poured out his wine. He took what she

gave him, and no more--like a child--and we all three sat together at a

window as the evening gathered in. When it was almost dark, he lay down

on a sofa, Agnes pillowing his head and bending over him a little while;

and when she came back to the window, it was not so dark but I could see

tears glittering in her eyes.

I pray Heaven that I never may forget the dear girl in her love and

truth, at that time of my life; for if I should, I must be drawing near

the end, and then I would desire to remember her best! She filled my

heart with such good resolutions, strengthened my weakness so, by her

example, so directed--I know not how, she was too modest and gentle

to advise me in many words--the wandering ardour and unsettled purpose

within me, that all the little good I have done, and all the harm I have

forborne, I solemnly believe I may refer to her.

And how she spoke to me of Dora, sitting at the window in the dark;

listened to my praises of her; praised again; and round the little

fairy-figure shed some glimpses of her own pure light, that made it yet

more precious and more innocent to me! Oh, Agnes, sister of my boyhood,

if I had known then, what I knew long afterwards--!

There was a beggar in the street, when I went down; and as I turned my

head towards the window, thinking of her calm seraphic eyes, he made me

start by muttering, as if he were an echo of the morning: ‘Blind! Blind!

Blind!’